Chapter 8
A long silence. Minutes tick by. A lifetime. A lifetime unlived.
John feels sofa cushions beneath his tired limbs. He hears the noises of Baker Street below him: the traffic washing by, footsteps, the floating sound of voices. And he sees the ghost of memories, crowding into the room around him: You're not dead. It was necessary. You didn't believe me when I kissed you. Took you long enough. Memories of a dream.
John looks up at the hairline crack in the corner of the ceiling. Huffs out a long sigh. Drops his hands to his sides.
And then his fingers touch something.
Something alien. Beneath his fingers. Pushed down between the sofa cushions.
Propping his head back up he looks down at it. Pinched there, between finger and thumb.
A red scarf.
John looks at it in disbelief.
His thoughts are sluggish. Uncomprehending.
At exactly the same moment there's a noise downstairs. Key in the lock, front door swinging open. Feet on the hallway floor. Quick. Taking the steps two at a time.
"John,"
And Sherlock bursts through the door.
He is talking.
"John, Mrs Hudson is home."
Sherlock.
All coat and cheekbones and collar. And no scarf.
John still can't believe.
"John," Sherlock says again, "John, Mrs Hudson is home. I should speak with her."
John stares.
"I managed to get by her this time…" Sherlock continues, oblivious "But she's going to realise… I'll need your help." He stops suddenly, looking around "You made tea?"
In one swift motion John is on his feet. Crossing the room and grabbing at that figure in the doorway. The way he should have last night. The way he couldn't. The way he wished he had.
He's desperate and he's gripping, stilling the words on Sherlock's lips. Clutching at that coat and those cheekbones and this collar. Pulling Sherlock's face close to his: a silent desperate portrayal of everything he feels and thinks and thought he knew and wished he didn't and wonders if he must.
Sherlock.
He doesn't resist, momentarily stilled to wordless understanding of John's frantic action, he allows himself to be touched. To be held.
John is drowning in the feeling of holding him. He pulls him down with him, desperate and clinging, so that they both end up on the floor, on their knees amid the mess. John can feel the warmth of that marble face. The blood rushing beneath the surface. Can hold Sherlock's thoughts in his hands and the taste the shape of the words he has said.
But the position John has pulled them into can't be comfortable for Sherlock. He shifts beneath John's touch, that marble moving, limbs finding a more natural position on the floor.
The moment is broken.
John reels back.
And hits him.
There's a sickening noise as knuckles collide with cheekbone.
"What the hell Sherlock!?" And John's shout: the most sickening noise of all.
Sherlock has been knocked off balance, sprawling on his backside on Mrs Hudson's nice wood floor. His long fingers automatically reaching to the juncture of impact.
"What?! What the hell were you…?!" The level of John's anger renders it almost impossible for him to form coherent accusations. "Were you even thinking?!"
Sherlock's mouth moves, whether testing out responses or the effect that the punch has had on his face John can't tell, doesn't care, continues at a shout:
"I've been… I've been half out of my mind. I thought…."
"You thought?"
"I didn't know what to think! You came back from the dead!"
"We know this." Sherlock's voice is calm.
"I didn't know that! I woke up. You weren't here…"
"I was out."
"I know that now! But I couldn't, couldn't find…"
"What John?"
"You weren't here!" John is feeling too much again, his words are choked, breath panting. Desperation and panic and relief and fear, fear he was losing a grip on that thin fibre of reality: "No note. Your note! And the café, downstairs, no message. The phone. And Mrs Hudson came home, and she said. She said… And the plates,"
"The plates?"
John hasn't heard him: "The bed, the duvet. Your scarf and…"
"You spoke to Mrs Hudson?" Sherlock seems to be existing outside the nonsense commentary John's mouth is automatically releasing.
"Yes downstairs, she…"
"What did you say?"
"What?!" John's anger is still palpable, not yet drowned in the sea of his confusion "I… Nothing. She. She said I was dreaming."
"Did you think you were dreaming?"
"Yes! Yes, God. What was I supposed to think?"
"That I came back?"
"That you just came back?! Hopped up off the pavement and came back and told me all those things? After I'd imagined it? After I'd wanted it to happen? That you just let yourself back into the flat and we… And we… And then you just… went out?!" John's voice is still a yell.
"Yes."
"But…" John's mouth hangs opens for a second. "You're an idiot Sherlock! You have no idea!"
"I..."
"You just don't. Don't think! Don't know. Don't think or do anything except for yourself!"
"I cleared up the plates."
"What?!" John rages.
"You asked me to. Last night."
"I did?" Disbelief in John's words,
"Yes. After they cut... You told me to clear them up"
A pause.
John closes his eyes. Remembers.
Remembers lying a tangled heap on the sofa, sated. Sherlock suddenly beginning to writhe, attempting to contort his naked body half trapped beneath John and peer at the sole of his own foot.
"I think I cut myself." Sherlock's voice.
"Hm," John is full of smooth sleep, not words.
"On the crockery,"
"Hm?"
"You broke the plates." Sherlock accuses.
"I remember."
"They're a health hazard."
"Yes." John sighs "You should clear them up." He barely registers what he's saying, too lost in the glow. The feel of a lithe body still stretched out beneath him: the touch and the smell and the taste.
"You broke them." Sherlock accuses again.
"You made me…" John says on the exhale.
"I didn't."
"I was surprised."
"Which is directly proportional to the destruction of our tableware?"
"Yes." It's a testament to the lethargy in John's body that he is unable to summon enough enthusiasm to question Sherlock's train of thought.
"Hm." Sherlock's quiet affirmation.
"We should go to bed." John suggests, the thought of stretching this beautiful figure out in a more comfortable location suddenly appealing to him.
"Yes." Sherlock's quick to agree, he must really be uncomfortable.
There's a pause as they contemplate each other before John shifts, pushing himself to his feet carefully and reaching out to help Sherlock up.
"Can you make it across the room without doing any more damage?" John asks with a smile, he's rewarded with the narrowing of steel blue eyes:
"You do realise that my bedroom is infinitely closer John?"
John comes back to the present. Sherlock staring at him. He realises that his anger has ebbed with the memory.
"You cleared up the plates." John says in disbelief. His words at a normal volume now.
"Yes."
"You chose this moment to decide to do housework?"
"It seems so."
"I thought..."
"You thought what?"
"I thought…" John starts again.
Then:
"John!" Mrs Hudson's voice from the stairs. They stare at each other in surprise.
"John!" She repeats. That motherly concern at a desperate pitch "John, I heard shouting! Are you? Are you alright?"
She bursts through the door.
And stops.
Two figures blink up at her from the floor. Surrounded by books and papers and notes: the debris of untold weeks of hermit living and the scattered chaos of a night locked in dissections and explanations and confusions and connections.
For a long moment all three simply stare.
Before Mrs Hudson lets out a small whimper, leaning back against the doorframe behind her, her hand at her mouth as if to catch it.
"Oh boys," She says, her voice shaking, eyes casting about finally: "The mess you've made."
So that's it. I hope you don't hate me too much for chapters 6 & 7, or 8 for that matter, but they were questions I really enjoyed creating.
Thank you so much for all the support!
Please let me know what you think: if you liked it, or hated it or feel you must shout at me for anything I've included or not included. Would anyone be interested in me continuing? If so, what would you like to see?
As usual, if you're interested in keeping up to date with other bits and pieces I'll be uploading, including a possible new idea I have at the drawing board stage, I keep everything updated on my tumblr blog, find me under Qalets. Love! x