Woo, this chapter was actually extremely easy to pull together. xD And I have no idea why, because usually feels get me all weird and I can't write half of what I want to write. xD Anyway, I have to admit I do love how I ended this chapter – and yes, if you are wondering, I will make a chapter where John does watch the 'video.'
Hope you like! R & R, please!
Dear John
Chapter Five: Revelations
~oOo~
Third Person POV: With John & Mycroft
"He was utterly horrid, you know." Mycroft muttered into the silence, his quiet voice drifting through the room like poison. It infected John and got under his skin, causing him to shiver at the tired, haunted voice. He had made Mycroft suffer, as well, then. "I don't think I've ever seen him lose control. Not when Father had deserted him as a father when he found out we were gay, not when I betrayed him, nothing would phase his emotional side. He was still Sherlock, yes?"
John nodded, turning his head down to look below him. His hand still grasped at the sheets. "Yes, of course."
"In the beginning, he was just crashed. I tried to keep my distance for a short bit of time – I thought he would snap out of it – but he refused to eat anything on his own and instead of drinking tea, the only think he could do was look at it. He had something that you may familiarize yourself with. PTSD." John inhaled a quick bit of air. "Up until about three months ago, his breath was almost constantly shallow and irregular, his hands shook all the time, his nightmares wouldn't stop and whoever reminded him of you, he avoided them like the plague. I've never….I've never seen anything like it."
"You were scared." John realized momentarily, interrupting Mycroft from continuing. The British Gov't gave him a look of slight distain.
He paused for a moment. Mycroft, ever so slowly, nodded. "Yes, yes. I….do believe I was." Mycroft took a deep breath. He continued. "I spent the night in that haughty flat of yours sometimes on the couch, listening to Sherlock's moans and cries and whimpers like they were contagious."
"I-I'm sorry." John answered to what he was hearing, his heart dropping at a million times per second. Right now, he couldn't envision Sherlock in that type of situation, but when he thought about it, John almost wanted to cry himself. Cry for Sherlock and Mycroft and anyone else he had upset, because he was gone for so long and had made a chain reaction of effects unravel for almost all of his friend. "I'm terribly sorry."
Mycroft didn't reply for a few moments again. The beep of the machine next to John was the only think that filled the white room, and John could feel a heavy amount of pain unravel on Mycroft's shoulders and get placed on his. Mycroft probably didn't see this – he was devoid to most emotion when it came to deductions – but John almost stopped breathing. He was surrounded again. Surrounded with people he had let down, surrounded with people he couldn't help, surrounded with people that were harmed because of him.
It was always a constant internal battle for John. He hated hurting people. That's why he chose a profession to save them. However, when there was someone who would flat-line during a surgery or when he had to pick up his gun and shoot the enemy, all he could think was they had a child at home, a wife at home. What have I done? That's one reason why John had picked Sherlock. Sherlock gives him purpose. But what if….What if he had lost his purpose? He's doing it again. Harming people. Just like he had in the war. It appeared to be a repeat performance, actually.
"There's nothing to be sorry for, John. What could have helped this situation?"
"I could have –."
"– Done nothing. Literally nothing. Sherlock may be too shaken to know where you had been, but he knows your injuries. And if I were you, I would tell him exactly what happened when he asks. It would be too painful for both you and him to lie, even if it does…stir up and swelter in that PTSD." Mycroft finished before John could say anything else. John wasn't surprised in the least. He nodded, yet stayed silent, wishing to hear more but not wishing to hear more.
Mycroft continued anyway. "He would get in fits of anger, sometimes. Throw cups at a wall furiously, scratch at his forearms until they were bloody and ripped, yell at me for hours telling me how much I'm hurting him not letting him die….He would punch the corners of tables on purpose or trip because he felt like falling, things like that. I couldn't even stop some –."
John didn't know what was happening until he felt the first tear fall. The wetness slid down his cheek, as silent as he was, and Mycroft stopped speaking for the moment. John felt ashamed for a moment, being so weak, but then he continued to think of Sherlock and what he had gone through. No matter what physical pain or mental pain he was in, all he could think of was Sherlock. Sherlock, who had physically destructed himself because of John's absence…who had had to live with thinking that John was gone for seven months – even if John remembered his time with thinking Sherlock was dead, he wasn't like Sherlock. He knew how to deal with emotions better than Sherlock. Sherlock. Oh, Sherlock. What have I done?
He had dealt with emotion all of his life. Sherlock, however, was new to the whole ordeal and couldn't handle overwhelming sentiments – and that led him to become completely and utterly suicidal. John promised Sherlock he would never leave him – but wasn't that what he did? Didn't he leave Sherlock alone? What kind of lover was he? What kind of friend was he?
What kind of….What kind of person was he?
"Why is John crying?" The same voice the blonde had always taken comfort in called angrily from the entrance of the room. John snapped his head forth and looked at Sherlock, but the man was staring at Mycroft with a murderous gaze. "What did you do? Mycroft, what did you do?!" Sherlock shouted as he stepped further into the room.
Mycroft stiffened slightly and tilted his head, his brow furrowed in confusion. "I…I don't kn –."
"Mycroft. I swear to bloody hell –."
"Sherlock! Sherlock, no, he didn't do anything, I swear! He just –."
"You're crying, John! What did he do?" Sherlock seethed between his teeth, and John could see the evidence of the man's hand shaking uncontrollably. John knew what that was like. Unable to tame your thoughts, your feelings, your pain and agony and remembering what it was like afterwards.
John calmed his own breath and shook his head frantically, ignoring the painful tug each and every turn. "He did nothing, Sherlock. It's – he was – he just – I mean, I'm sorry." John got out after a moment, not really knowing what else to say. "I'm so sorry that I couldn't get to you sooner. I'm so sorry that you had to go through –."
"– Mycroft, leave us, please." Sherlock cut off his lover then, giving his brother a pointed stare. Mycroft merely nodded and stood from Sherlock's previous seat, umbrella in hand. As he stepped out of the room, Sherlock took his place next to John, eyes piercing and so solid that it made John freeze in place. "John, do not be sorry. Never be sorry. Please, don't." Sherlock murmured quietly as he took ahold of John's hand once more, leaving John to only let go of the sheets. "What would you have to be sorry about?"
John's answer was immediate. "I abandoned you." He said, his jaw set as he forced his tears back. Sherlock noted the tension almost instantly.
"John, you couldn't possibly have known." Sherlock muttered, trying to calm his lover. John dipped his head down and broke eye contact with the man he hadn't seen in what felt like forever. No matter what Sherlock had to say, he still felt so responsible for what happened – for how Sherlock felt, for how he hurt Sherlock, for how he left him. How could John do that to his lover?
"I knew. Every damned day I was in there, I….I knew. Sometimes I thought you were dead again, and then I thought about all the time I had not seen you and how you felt because I went back – god, Sherlock, I thought about my promises, my constant promises, to never leave you. I broke them all." John rambled out of his mouth as he forced himself to look into the eyes of the sole man he had lived for, now only wishing that he could die. God, how he wished he could die.
"And you were held against your will. You didn't leave me willingly, John. That's the difference." Sherlock replied instantly, not a hint of faltering in his tone. This made John pause and take a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He was scaring Sherlock crying like this. Scaring – or hurting. And he shouldn't do either.
Doing his best, the blonde took a few deep breaths to will the tears back. Thankfully it worked, and soon enough the silence was no longer penetrated by helpless sniffles. Sherlock waited patiently by his side as he regained his composure. After a few more moments of silence, John's voice was strong enough to reply. "I missed you." He uttered again.
Sherlock's lips twitched sadly. "As have I." He stated as he re-wound his fingers alongside John's right hand, offering his protection. At that instant, John felt extremely safe and comfortable; more comfortable than he had been in the past three, almost four years. He was happy for that. The familiar sensation of warmth in his heart powered by his brain was causing some of the previous pain he was in to subside, and as John closed his eyes to simply relish in having the two of them together, he felt Sherlock's thumb begin to stroke his fingers once more. Another smile twitched onto his features.
"Y'know, Mycroft cares a lot. A lot more than I thought he would. About you. And me. And, just, us." John said offhandedly, his eyes still closed. He pretended like he didn't notice that Sherlock didn't stiffen at Mycroft's name anymore. That was extreme progress.
"Yes, I'm aware. It seems as if he does care to an amount. It kind of reminds me when we were young, actually."
At this, John peeked one eye open questioningly. "Young?"
Sherlock grinned. "Oh, yes. Even the great Sherlock Holmes and the British Government were children once, John." The man in the hospital bed rolled his eyes as Sherlock's goofiness, and the two couldn't help but share a chuckle together after. It was odd again, after so long of being away from each other, to just relax in their presence. It was, albeit a little scary, nice.
"What was it like?" John asked as he shifted down a little bit, his head tilted permanently to stare at his lover.
Sherlock glanced up at the ceiling just then, and John recognized that face as that of his deep-thinking one. After a quick bout of silence, the dark-haired man's lips inclined upwards, and he too closed his eyes. John, however, kept his gaze locked on the thin mans. "Silly. I was a strange child, as you're assuming already. I got picked on a lot during school – one of the reasons I detest such things – and Mycroft always managed to stick up for me before they beat me to death. He was always there, I guess. I fall off my horse on my first lessons – he would fix my ankle. I trip on pavement, and he would patch me up."
"So you were a clumsy child?"
"Yes. I wasn't coordinated, what with a large frame in my pubescent stage. Often I would be slow on physical actions – I couldn't fight for myself and I certainly couldn't ride a horse. We used to have to walk home from school when our father forgot about us – mother was always trying to provide money for the family so she wasn't home during school hours – and it was a long walk. Hence my falling."
John giggled as he pictured a small Sherlock running along the side of the road, giggling himself, calling after his older brother to follow him. In elementary school years, his lover must have been quite awkward. Not that he would ever have his lover in any other way, of course. Then Sherlock just wouldn't be Sherlock.
Yet, he also felt a pang of remorse at the fact that Sherlock was bullied so badly. Not that he didn't expect it – Sherlock never got along with the human race – but hearing it so blatantly John remembered just how bad that could be. Outside, John sighed, deciding to keep that little thought as a figment of the past. Sherlock was different now, of course. Stronger.
"During dinners on the holidays he would never leave me alone, either. At the time I hated it, but now I realize that he was watching over me. Even in my family I am an outcast, although welcomed, I was never quite the same. My father and some of my cousin's never did fancy me, so I was always in Mycroft's sights."
"That's so sweet." John smiled softly, causing Sherlock to open his eyes and stare down at his injured partner. "What? Don't look at me like that." John giggled as Sherlock's face cocked to the side, almost challenging him.
"Sherlock always was a royal pain in my arse." Mycroft stated from the door.
Sherlock jumped at the voice, for once taken by surprise, yet John simply sighed and rolled his head back forward. "You know, you guys really need to stop popping up out of nowhere. Not good for my health." John teased, leaving Mycroft to let out a small, timid smile of acknowledgment. Out of the corner of his eye, the blonde watched as Sherlock's brother leaned against the doorframe, staring at the back of his brother's head affectionately.
John chuckled happily as Mycroft replied. "I would assume you were used to it by now due to your lack of response." He teased back.
Sherlock rolled his eyes exasperatedly as John merely nodded. "One would think so." The blonde said back. "Say, Mycroft. Do you have any embarrassing childhood stories about Sherlock that I would love to hear?"
"John, I don't think that My –."
" – Croft would absolutely love to embarrass his brother? Oh dear, it seems that you are losing your touch, Sherlock. I would never pass on this chance." Sherlock pouted as John and Mycroft laughed. "Now, which story shall I pick from? There was that one summer, and then my ex-boyfriend, and then the pool fiasco –."
" – Mycroft."
"My, actually. Isn't that what you used to call me when you were little? Come along, My! We have a new dead rabbit to examine! The wolves seem to have gotten to it! Oh, My, can you read me another bedtime story? My, can you sing me Hush Little Baby again? My, can you take a shower with –."
"OKAY. We get it, Mycroft. Memories. Sentiment. You've proven your point."
"Oh no, Mycroft. Please do tell. And Sherlock, be quiet. I'll even tell you some of my embarrassing stories."
Sherlock didn't respond. John took this as a yes, as did Mycroft, who was absentmindedly twiddling his umbrella in his hands. The paler man was adorning an extremely red, extremely adorable blush, which John couldn't help but find absolutely endearing.
"Alright, the pool fiasco then." Sherlock groaned in response and removed his hand from John's to cover his face. John didn't mind the lost contact at all for once because it was one of those rare actions that John tucked away in the back of his mind – just so he knew that Sherlock could be embarrassed by such little things and not….Other things.
"Go ahead." John prompted Mycroft fondly.
The shorter brother nodded. "Ah, yes. I do believe it was August thirteenth, 1994. Yes?" Mycroft asked, although received no answer. This only made the two even more prompted to taunt. "Sherlock was twelve and I was seventeen. I had taken him to the beach to teach him how to swim – a private one owned by us, of course, because Sherlock would never go anywhere else. My boyfriend at the time had come along, and he was a terrible prankster. Loved to torture Sherlock."
"Sherlock was an easy, quick learner – because when he was little, he actually listened to what I had to say – and soon enough he had gotten the hang of it and went into deep waters. Of course he was fine, I made sure of that, but my boyfriend thought it was nice to sneak up under him while as he was floating."
"You let him." Sherlock grumbled as he interrupted.
Mycroft grinned at the back of Sherlock's head. "I did no such thing." He scoffed, although they all knew it was in a funny manner. Ah, civil rivalry. I do know how that is. John thought absently. "Anyway, Luke, his name was, snuck up under Sherlock as he was staring at the clouds, and had managed to catch him by surprise and steal his swimming trunks."
"That wasn't even the embarrassing part." Sherlock uttered then, looking peeved as he turned around to glare at his brother. "You managed to catch me running after him on camera!"
"Camera?" John popped up into the conversation. "Do tell me you still have a copy of this video."
"Well…."
"Mycroft, no."
"I happen to –."
"– Mycroft!"
"– have about forty-three copies strewn in a few miscellaneous places where Sherlock will never reach. I could show you if you like."
Sherlock was fuming by now – face light up and splashed with a bright red colour. John smiled inwardly but outwardly laughed at the face; Sherlock looked so peeved – but he at least looked happy. Well, mad, but….Less tense, actually. That was good in his books.
That….And he really wanted to see this video.
Bad.
"I thought you rid of them all! I-I threatened you!" Sherlock sputtered, still in his seat.
Mycroft gave his brother an incredulous stare. "You and I both know that I am the better one at threatening. And besides, I'm one of the few that can lie to you and get away with it."
"MYCROFT!"
"Don't worry, John will be the only other soul in the world still alive to see this."
"That's the point!"
"Oh, do hush Sherlock, you'll bother the other patrons."
"Shut up, John."
"You should really take some of your own advice sometimes."
"John…."
"Yes?"
"I think I may just kill you instead."
"Awe, now Mycroft wouldn't let that happen, would you Mycroft?"
"Of course not. Where would any of the Holmes's be without their blogger?"
"Exactly. See, Sherlock? You should listen to your brother once in a while. He isn't a bad bloke."
"You guys are utterly terrible. I will not let you see that video. Never."
"Ah-huh. That's what you think."
"That's what I know."
"Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
"Mycroft works in mysterious ways."
"I do."
"Yes."
"Why are you taking his side, anyway? You're my lover!"
"….I want to see the video."
"Mycroft?"
"Yes, dearest brother?"
"Go to hell."
