So. What have we learned? John gets alarmed quite easily and needless to say Sherlock does not take rejection well.
How are you all doing? I'm gonna be honest, this chapter was absolute agony to write. I was petrified about anyone slipping out of character, especially John and Sherlock, ESPECIALLY John's massive speech I've given him later in this chapter. I totally suck at romantic scenes so please forgive me! * cowers *
...
Sherlock viciously kicked an empty glass bottle across the deserted street. It shattered into little green shards, nearly shredding a nearby cat but he was too incensed to notice.
It had all gone wrong. That was not how it was supposed to go. To be perfectly honest, he wasn't sure what he had wanted to happen, but having John panic and reject him wasn't exactly part of the plan. The reaction was totally understandable of course, it was perfectly logical that John would be alarmed and confused at this new revelation. Logical, but it didn't make Sherlock feel any better about it. Why didn't these emotions come with some sort of handbook or something? It'd make it so much easier to discern what was going on in people's heads, to understand empathy, or sympathy, or both.
Kicking something wasn't enough, so Sherlock lobbed a handful of batteries (he'd needed them for a case and just hadn't got round to throwing them out) at a wall. They created a rather satisfying metallic shower, rolling across the pavement.
He should apologise, it wasn't John's fault. He'd reacted quite childishly he knew, but storming out felt good at the time. Now he felt slightly queasy around the stomach region, his intestines squirming uncomfortably. Although, to be fair, he wasn't completely to blame either. John had no right to assume he was just some depraved fiend that just wanted him because he was there. He could be flexible, he could change for John, why was John too blind to see that?
A buzzing emerged from his pocket. It was from Mycroft and simply read:
Give him time. Welcome to the world of human emotions, but tread carefully. As you've witnessed, it's a bit fragile-MH.
'Oh piss off.' Sherlock snarled, shoving his phone back into the folds of his coat. What did that stuffed up peacock know? Why did everyone seem to want him to not have feelings after years of asking him to feel? It just didn't make any sense. Stupid people.
Sherlock spied a pub around the street corner. Fuck it, he was going to drink himself stupid, maybe even get himself thrown out. It wasn't exactly a foolproof plan, but he couldn't quite bring himself to care.
...
It had been just over 48 hours since Sherlock stormed off, John couldn't recall ever feeling so shitty. He was officially well enough to go back to Baker Street, but now with a cane until his leg got better. The gauze patch over his eye was now a nondescript, unassuming brown cotton eyepatch. The next person to make a pirate related quip was going to get a whallop in the nose, he was in that sort of mood.
Everything was stuffed back into the holdall, all his clothes, books and other crap Sherlock had brought for him. Only one item remained behind.
The tiny plastic soldier still stood watch on the bedsit, having not moved since Sherlock positioned him all those weeks ago. John had found himself getting quite attached to it, it had calmed him when the bad dreams merged with waking, an almost primitive belief that it was actually a good luck charm. Not even the fact it had come from Anderson could get him to not feel sentimental about it. Whilst picking it up John briefly wrapped his hand tightly around the spiky plastic, then gently pocketed it.
Dr Hardwicke fixed him with an appointment to discuss 'options' about his eye and scars he'd gained during his time with Sculptor. John didn't want to undergo any corrective surgery on the scars, he didn't want to spend even one more second in the hospital than was entirely necessary. He flirted with the notion of a glass eye, but eventually decided that it would just be too much hassle in the long run. Besides, the patch kind of suited him.
Hobbling with the cane to the exit took longer than John had anticipated, the last time he'd got to grips with it rather easily...John forcibly reminded himself that last time hadn't even been a real injury, let alone real pain.
A few nurses bade him farewell as he edged past, giving him hugs and a young orderly even gave him a swift peck on the cheek causing him to blush. He'd expected that after the fiasco with Sherlock he'd have to find his own way back to Baker Street; it was a surprise, then, to find Mycroft standing imperiously outside the hospital's main doors, a sleek silver car just behind him.
'Mycroft? Thought you'd be too busy running the country for this sort of thing.'
The elder Holmes brother waved his hand airily; 'The country can cope without me for an hour or so.' His shrewd gaze locked onto John's face. 'You are eager to get home I'd wager.'
'You've no idea,' John replied. In a brave attempt at nonchalance, he cast a glance around the immediate vicinity. 'Is, er, is Sherlock, um...around?' He said, trying to make it out as a throwaway question of no real importance. The ghost of a smirk on Mycroft's face told him he'd failed spectacularly.
'He's back at Baker Street, recovering from the mother of all hangovers. He got himself thrown out of about five pubs in total. One of my people found him almost catatonic the other side of London.'
'Jesus Christ, how'd he get in that state?'
Mycroft cast him a meaningful glance, which made him flush and concentrate greatly on his hands. 'Oh, I see. Um...I'd better talk to him then when I see him.'
'Yes perhaps you should.' Mycroft answered in his usual enigmatic manner. 'I do hope your little fights aren't any worse than the disagreement at the hospital, I don't think liver failure is one of my brother's deepest wishes.'
John got into the car and waited for it to pull onto the main road before answering, but not before many clearings of the throat.
'So..you know about that then?'
'Oh please John, give a man some credit, I told you before, I worry about him, constantly.'
'I don't blame you.'
There was a silence, in which Mycroft twirled that goddam umbrella serenly. He cleared his throat, making John jump.
'We've caught many of the people involved in your attack, Markin still eludes me, but John, I have to ask, was there anyone else?'
John swallowed hard, he hadn't told anyone about Sculptor. He was certain that Sherlock had his suspicions, but he'd ket quiet. What if Sculptor found them? What if he cornered Sherlock? He had promised John, whispering to him in the dark, that he'd see him again. Could he subject those he loved to that?
'No.' He lied. 'There wasn't anyone else.'
...
John barely had time to react when, seconds after he opened the door at Baker Street, he was viciously ambushed by a tearful and worried Mrs Hudson. It took nearly a full five minutes to calm her down enough to have a proper conversation. She hadn't visited when he was in hospital as she'd been visiting her sister; and John could only smile as she fussed about him, clucking about his eye and various scars. After half an hour she let him go back to his flat in peace, all the while muttering about 'her boys getting hurt one day'.
Sherlock was, as usual, spread out along the sofa, the angular lines of his face softened in repose. His eyes flew open at John's approach, fastening onto the patch.
'You've-'
'Make a pirate joke and I'll never buy milk again.'
Sherlock's mouth curled up into a smile but his features quickly settled into one of awkward confusion.
'John-'
'Can I go first?' John interrupted quickly. Jesus, the man's eyes were so expressive, how could he have never noticed?
Sherlock nodded, swivelling into a sitting posistion, watching John intently. To John's intense embarassment, the sheer force of the gaze made him flush.
'Well,' he began awkwardly, 'Listen mate, I'm sorry for-for what I said. I-I wasn't completely thinking straight. And I'll admit, what you said, it made me think, really think, about this 'thing'. It probably won't surprise you that I have actually been feeling...stuff. Stuff for you mainly. I tried to be normal, but I just can't, because you're the most un-normal person ever. And I-'
A high pitched ringtone burst through John's less-than-graceful speech, Sherlock pawed for his phone and stared at the message with a strange expression on his face. John shifted his weight uncomfortably, red in the face.
'Something wrong?' he asked.
'Only Mycroft.' Sherlock said, stuffing the phone away. 'Ignore him. Sorry, you were saying?'
John drew a deep breath, Sherlock's eyes seemed huge in the pale face.
'Um, yeah. As I said, I know what you said. I don't know if you really meant it or..well. But, the truth is mate, lately I've been thinking about you more than I'm sure is healthy. I'm- I'm scared to death about this because you can see,' He gestured at his face and injured body in general 'I'm not okay Sherlock. I probably won't be okay for a while. What happened during with Markin...it's not just gonna go away, do you understand that?'
'I do.' Sherlock replied softly, lips trembling slightly. 'John-'
'I'm not finished. Sorry.' John coughed again and avoided Sherlock's eyes for the first time. This was hard enough as it is without Sherlock's massive quicksilver orbs staring up at him.
'But, if you were willing to wait for me- that is- if you still want to...I'd be more than happy. I just need you to be here, not getting yourself stinking drunk I might add. Sherlock I, I feel like you do. Okay? Just so you know.'
What followed next was the most torturous silence John had ever encountered. Sherlock had barely moved and was just staring at him with an unplaceable look on his face. Ever the enigma, he said nothing. John felt extremely hot, his cheeks prickling enough to be painful. He couldn't bear the crushing silence, it was just too much.
'Well, that was eloquent.' He said at length, then proceeded to ramble at top speed. 'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said, I way out of line. Um...you don't have to, obviously. No it's fine.' He turned away and began walking off, wondering dying of embarassment was classed as suicide or murder, 'I'll just go and...flush myself down the loo or something-'
He was interrupted by a pale hand with tapered fingers grasping his shoulder gently. Well fucking hell, Sherlock now had the ability to cross a room noiselessly. John allowed his flatmate to wheel him around and found himself face to face with the world's only consulting detective.
There was no grand spectacle, no swelling crescendo from some invisible orchestra, just Sherlock Holmes closing a few inches gap and placing his lips on John Watson's.
Sherlock could have sworn everything became clearer in those too-short seconds he spent kissing John. It was a simple, chaste kiss, nothing too intense to scare John away, but just passionate enough to speak volumes of silent confessions. When they broke apart, John remained scarlet, and Sherlock couldn't help but notice the dark hue of his best friends remaining eye. God, that eye patch made him look more rugged, more world weary, more sexy.
'C-Christ Sherlock.' John stammered, Sherlock smirked.
'Do you intend on talking all the way through?' He grinned, hands still on John's shoulders. John's lips quirked up into a shy smile which Sherlock readily took as an invitation and kissed him for a second time. John was more prepared now and eagerly responded, placing his own hands either side of Sherlock's face. Once Sherlock was sure of John's comfort with the situation, he happily deepened the kiss, delighted with the fact that John didn't pull away. It wasn't long before John's hands were fisted in his hair and his own hands trailing down to the veteran soldier's hips.
John had a fleeting memory of bleeding in the dark, Sculptor's cold hands on his skin. It was quick and distant but enough for him to stiffen and his breathing hitched.
Sherlock instantly picked up on it and he broke away. John refused to look at him.
'What's wrong.'
'Nothing. It doesn't matter.'
Sherlock was not convinced. Using his thumb and forefinger he pulled John's chin to make John face him. There was something haunted lurking in the depths of John's eye, echoes of war, his trials with Moriarty and whatever the hell he had endured at the hands of Markin.
'What happened?'
'Not now, of all times, not now.' John murmered, closing his eye. Sherlock opened his outh to argue but was interrupted with the sensation of John's fingers trailing the length of the back of his neck. The touch caused a shiver to course through Sherlock's entire being. This time, it was John who hungrily began to kiss him again, all the thoughts troubling him concerning John's memories vanished in one happy, red-hot moment.
In years to come Sherlock would still never quite remember the exact moment they collapsed onto the sofa, or when his shirt came off...
Or when he pulled up John's jumper to reveal the chilling scar scribbled onto his chest:
WORTHLESS.
He paused. John's mind caught up with him and he hurriedly yanked his clothes back down and turned away. Both men were breathing as heavily as they would if they'd run the length of London.
Softly, Sherlock snaked his hands up John's jumper (despite the man's efforts to twist away) until his fingertips found the scarred flesh. He then began to stroke them lightly, and could feel his friend's (were they friends? It seemed so much more now) heartbeat quicken beneath the skin.
'Do you believe it?' He purred lowly, watching John for signs of distress. There were none.
'I did for a while.' John admitted heavily, 'They were quite convincing.'
Sherlock frowned, but continued his exploration of John's scars, now wrapping his hand to feel the pitted flesh on his back.
'And now?'
'Now?' John answered, pulling off his jumper fully to expose his torso: bullet wound, scars, well toned muscle and all. 'Now I really couldn't care less what I'm worth.'
Right now John H Watson, you are worth the entire world.
...
ONLY THE EPILOGUE TO GO!
Thank you so much for sticking this out, and I hope you enjoyed it. This was so much fun and I appreciate you for being with me :)
Right ok, there's still an epilogue for this story. But I do have two stories for Sherlock lined up. I'm leaving it up to you lovely people to choose which one I write first :)
'Make your move': The sequel to this story. Six months after the events of 'An eye for an eye' Sherlock is once more drawn into Moriarty's sinister game. But can John- and his sanity- survive?
'So tell me Johnny Boy, are you willing to lose?'
'London's War': A slightly AU, dystopian fantasy. 'Unbeknownst to the entire world, Britain has crumbled from within. What you see is a lie. Britain has fallen, and the only man I can turn to has not been around for a long, long time.'
Please tell me :) Both will be written, I just don't know which one to publish first ^^
Epilogue: Sherlock meets Markin. John and Sherlock have a moment of joy.
See ya soon ^^ x