It's time to thank my wonderful writing coach, Squatchlock. Thank you my smart and funny friend!
Chapter five
John woke late the next morning. In the kitchen, he found a note propped against the vacuum flask of hot tea informing him that Sherlock had gone out but would return by mid-morning. The initials SH were a dark swirl, as dramatic and bold as the man himself thought John with a smile.
Still feeling tired, he selected a book from the bookshelf and carried his tea to the sofa. He sat with the book unopened on his lap however, thinking back to the night and wondering at the extraordinary compassion Sherlock had shown him in the wake of his nightmare. His thoughts were wistful. What an amazing man his host was! He had never met an Alpha like Sherlock. How fortunate the Omega that Sherlock finally chose as a mate would be…John had no doubt he or she would be fiercely protected and loved with a tender passion. He only hoped that Sherlock would be loved equally in return; he might be commanding and every inch a fearless Alpha but he had vulnerabilities too; John had seen them and he suddenly wished very much for Sherlock to be nurtured and protected by a caring mate in return. Sherlock deserved that above all else. John knew his own chances for love were over but he very much wished lasting happiness and fulfillment for Sherlock.
The object of John's thoughts, finding himself in the midst of a morning filled with the surprising and the unexpected, was at that moment hastily departing a crime scene at which he had only just arrived. He had taken one look at the victim and, ignoring Lestrade's exclamation of consternation, had hailed a cab, climbed in and sped away without a word of explanation.
Sherlock was going home to Baker Street. Once there he mounted the stairs two at a time and when he reached the landing he flung open the door of the flat. God, if anything had happened to John…he was truly frightened. But John was there, sitting on the sofa with his book. How attractive he is in the brown check shirt and the blue cardigan−the same deep-blue as his eyes−like autumn woods and quiet streams, thought Sherlock, momentarily distracted, I knew those were the right colours...
John, startled out of his reverie, jumped in fright as Sherlock banged through the door. Fear was never far from the surface, Sherlock knew. Admonishing himself for frightening him, he halted where he was to give John the opportunity to settle before he approached him.
"John. Is everything alright?"
John stood. "Yes, but why?"
"John, I don't know how to say this…" Sherlock's voice was tight, betraying his anxiety.
John looked afraid. "What?"
"Harvey has been killed. I thought something like this might happen. You are in danger John, I'm certain of it now. We must be very care−"
"No! Sherlock, no!" John's face crumpled. He stared at Sherlock, his expression shocked and his arm reaching for the back of a chair for support.
Sherlock was surprised at his reaction, although he supposed upon reflection that he shouldn't have been. No matter what his character, Harvey had been John's husband and John was an impossibly loving man… "John, I'm sorry. I didn't think. Of course you're upset. He was your husband…"
John wasn't listening. He was quietly weeping, one hand over his eyes. He swallowed, "Now I'll never know what happened to Geoffrey…to Geoffrey's body. I tried to get Harvey to tell me before he left the hospital where Geoffrey was, if he took him or not, but he wouldn't tell me. I was still hoping that one day he would. With Harvey dead, now I'll never what happened to my son's body."
"But that's not so John, in fact −" Sherlock paused but before he could begin again, John interrupted.
"Wait, you said…what did you think Sherlock?" An accusatory note crept into his voice and he looked at Sherlock in disbelief. "That I'm upset over Harvey's death?! You think I would grieve for Harvey?"
John's expression held incredulity, a sense of betrayal even. "How could you believe that after how he treated me? You were there, Sherlock, you saw him and heard him! You think I miss that? That I'd grieve for that?"
"No John−"
"That is what you think isn't it, Sherlock?! That's what everyone thinks about abusive relationships?! Why doesn't he just leave? I know if I was him I'd leave. He must be getting something out of it. Staying is just asking for it. No Sherlock! I was trapped; I had nowhere to go and no one to ask for help! I have almost no rights or legal protection; the few laws there are, Sherlock, are not enforced. There is nowhere to go!"
Let loose, John's anger was spilling over, "There is no safe place, Sherlock! I would still be trapped in that hell if Harvey hadn't decided to discard me himself! Can you understand that? I suffered every day and night I was with that man, Sherlock! I did not love him or respect him. He was my tormentor and I do not miss him at all!"
Sherlock was stunned into silence by John's outburst. He hadn't thought that, not really, but it was true that his understanding of situations such as John's was limited…
He blurted out what was uppermost in his mind. "Baker Street is a safe place for you, John."
His anger spent, John's eyes were filling with treacherous tears and he turned and bolted up the stairs to his room. Sherlock stared after him but did not move to follow. John had stubborn pride. He might be regretting his outburst, not that he should do, for he was right and it was useful for Sherlock to hear what he had said. Nevertheless, it was clear that John would rather be alone for a while.
Sherlock sat down at the table and opened his lap-top. John must be protected and there was work to do.
John emerged from his room some time later. He came quietly down the stairs, glanced tentatively at Sherlock − who smiled reassuringly at him − and went to the kitchen. He appeared to be making tea. That was good thought Sherlock, feeling relieved; making tea was always a good sign.
The tea steeped and ready, John poured a cup; fixed it the way he knew Sherlock liked it and carried it to the table where he placed it in front of Sherlock.
He spoke, "My marriage was arranged, Sherlock, by my father. He was in the army and Harvey was the son of his commanding officer. I would have liked to fall in love and choose my own husband but I had to accept my father's choice. Even so I was looking forward to having a mate and children..." his voice shook and Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John continued determinedly. "I wanted to be happy Sherlock; I wanted to love Harvey but…"
He drew a breath and said, "Anyway, I'm sorry I shouted at you. It wasn't fair of me. You couldn't have known. And perhaps a mate who had loved him would grieve for Harvey regardless of his past actions. I know you were just being understanding and kind." His voice wobbled slightly on the last word.
Sherlock sat back in his chair and fixed John with a steady gaze. "Please don't apologize, John. I'm the one who is sorry. It is inexcusable that in my line of work I failed to observe and understand what you have just been forced to tell me." His expression was sober.
He then said softly, "But thank you for the tea, John. You make an excellent cup of tea, which is welcome at any time." He smiled tenderly at John who blushed and nodded his head.