Change is Needed - Chapter Eight

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I can't believe I completely forgot to add the beginning of this chapter when I first posted it! (I copied and pasted but forgot a part, but now it's fixed!)

"Sherlock, dear, there's a letter here for you," Mrs. Hudson called.

Sherlock hopped down the stairs to retrieve a heavy envelope with his name in calligraphy on the front. He inspected it carefully before opening it, pulling out a piece of parchment with familiar scrawl. It simply said, "I thought you might like these. They're nice. Here's some copies."

He rushed upstairs with the letter and shook it out above his desk, not surprised but still startled when the photographs spilled out. They were dark, but the people were still recognizable.

In the first photo, Sherlock was leaning forward with a hand delicately placed on John's jawline and their lips just barely brushing against each other. The second one showed John looking confused, his face lit up by the bar lights. It was undeniably John. Anyone could see that. The third photo showed the two

with their lips locked, Sherlock grabbing John closer as John's hand ran through Sherlock's curls while the other rested on Sherlock's thigh.

Fuck. He had been too intoxicated, too caught up in the kiss, to notice the way John's entire body had been thrown into the passion of the kiss. Sherlock touched the back of his head, aching with the knowledge that John's hand had been there only hours before as he grabbed at the curls and steadied himself with a hand on Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock collapsed in his chair with the photos in his hand, stunned.

But he didn't have time to be stunned. Moriarty had sent him these pictures. Moriarty had kept copies for himself. What did that mean? Probably that John Watson was in danger. And Sherlock couldn't have that. But what was he to do?

Oh, fuck, he thought as an idea blazed through his mind. Fuck.

John came home from taking a crawling Lucy to the park to find boxes stacked inside 221 Baker Street. "What's with the boxes?" John asked as he saw Sherlock quickly bustle about, looking into a few and taping others. Caught up in his work, it appeared as though he didn't hear, so John asked louder: "Sherlock? What are the boxes for?"

"I'm packing," Sherlock replied, not looking up and continuing to move about.

"Packing for what?"

"To move."

"What are you talking about? Move where?"

"Away."

"Where, Sherlock?"

He stopped moving about and let out a deep sigh. "Away. Out of London. I need to get away."

"What are you talking about? Why didn't you tell me? When are we going?"

"John, we're not going anywhere. I'm going. Spur of the moment decision."

"What do you mean, we're not going anywhere. We go everywhere together. That's what we do. Sherlock and John. We're a team."

"John, I'm going. I need a break. Away from London, away from Baker Street. Away from you."

John stood still for a moment, looking at the ground and clenching his left fist. "This... this doesn't have anything to do with last night, does it?" he whispered, his voice shaky.

"Last night? What was last night?" Sherlock feigned, cocking his head and raising his eyebrows. "Do you mean the afternoon with Harry and Irene? No, it has nothing to do with that."

John opened his mouth as if he were going to say something, then closed it. "Well. This was really unexpected. Are you sure there's not a motive behind this that you just don't want to tell me about?"

"I'm going to the countryside. I need peace. To think. There's just so much to think about, between Lestrade and Moriarty. And drugs are frowned upon. So I thought this would be the more conventional way of finding time to calm down."

"Moriarty isn't making you do this, is he?"

"Of course not. John Watson, when have you ever known me to take orders from anyone?"

John cracked a slight smile. The two stood in awkward silence until John decided to speak up. "Need help with anything?" he asked.

A faint grin crept onto Sherlock's face. "I still need my beakers packed. If you break one, I'll kill you."

"Christ, I believe that," John replied, and followed Sherlock upstairs to help pack boxes.

Mycroft came later in the day with a moving truck and his own dark sedan. "Mycroft's here," he called out to John, who was changing a diaper.

"Wait a moment!" John shouted from another room.

But Sherlock had bounded down the stairs, kissed Mrs. Hudson goodbye, and climbed into his brother's car. The moment the door shut, the car sped off. By the time John clamored to the window, Sherlock had been whisked away.

"You will keep him safe, right?" Sherlock asked Mycroft as they veered out of sight.

"Of course. Are you going to tell me what this is about now?"

"That depends. Do I have to?"

Mycroft sighed. "I don't understand why you always have to be difficult. But yes, then, I'll be difficult too. You have to tell me, or I'll order you back to London right away."

Sherlock scoffed. "You can't order me."

"I could send you on that plane again, remember that? Now, brother dear, just tell me."

Sherlock sighed. "It's just... I can't stay there anymore. I need to get away. I need to get Moriarty away. He's too close for comfort."

"As the saying goes, keep your friends close and your enemies closer."

"Well that'd be grand if my enemies and my friends didn't interact."

"Do you think you'll draw him out? Do you think he'll follow you?"

"He's doing all this for me, Mycroft."

"The question is, Sherlock, will he follow you out or will he do something drastic to bring you back?"

"Oh, fuck," Sherlock moaned as a million possibilities swarmed through his mind. "I have to lure him out. I have to keep them safe."

"Well you better have a plan, little brother, or he's going to call checkmate."

John ran out the door in a desperate attempt to see the car leave so he could at least give an unseen wave goodbye. But it was long gone by the time he reached the empty street, pausing to catch his breath and looking forlornly at the road ahead. "Fuck," he panted, bent over after racing out and jumping down the last few steps. Sherlock was gone, so suddenly. He ran a hand through his hair as a million thoughts cascaded through his mind.

John went back inside, closing the door behind him before leaning back against it for support as he felt his knees give out. Was it actually his fault Sherlock was gone? He ran through the foggy memories of the night before, trying to recall what exactly happened. Despite his uncertainty, he was pretty certain of one thing. He touched his lips at the faint memory. If he thought hard enough, he could barely remember the taste of Sherlock's whiskey on his tongue.

John slumped to the floor in front of the door. Had he been the one to initiate the kiss? Did he scare Sherlock away? Did Sherlock remember anything? The pain in his chest was suffocating as he compared the feeling of Sherlock's lips to that of Mary's without meaning to. That was it, he told himself. He was lonely, so lonely after his wife's death. It had torn him apart, and Sherlock had been the one to help build him up.

But there were still so many cracks in John Watson. And it ached to wake up in the night without a warm body pressed against his side, or to hear a soft voice soothing his nightmares when he needed it. And now there were so many more nightmares. Once upon a time it had been just flashbacks of the war, of bullets whizzing and corpses stinking and grenades flashing. Then he started seeing himself strapped to a bomb jacket with the red dot of a sniper on Sherlock's forehead as Moriarty cackled in the background. Visions of Sherlock jumping off the rooftop, smashing with a sickening thud to the ground that resounded through his mind. There were the nightmares of burning alive, the flames licking at his skin as he cried out in fear, seeing Sherlock's hand reaching for him, reaching, but so far away, would it reach him?

And now there were nightmares of Mary being poisoned as a blackened substance swam through an IV into her arm, killing her and nearly killing their daughter. And there were nightmares of watching Sherlock die on a bed in a dark, abandoned warehouse as he sat helplessly, tied to a chair bolted to the floor. Nightmares, yes, but tinged with memory, making the pain and the visions feel so much more real.

Sherlock had always been there for him. Always. Since the moment he met him. There was an immediate connection between the two that John could not deny. Instantaneous best friends. Ready to face the world together. They were addicts, both of them. Addicted to the thrill of mysteries, murders, challenges. And now there was John, alone, out of nowhere. Sherlock wasn't there to pick him up, because Sherlock was the one who had just left him in pieces.

But Mary. Was that why he kissed Sherlock? As a desperate, drunken grasp for physical attention that had been absent from his life since her death? Sherlock was always the one picking up the pieces. Had John subconsciously reached out to him because he was simply convenient? The one who was always there? The one who was supposed to make everything better?

How selfish he had been, to throw himself at his best friend in a moment of desperation for any, all, physical contact. Sherlock had simply been there, within reach, and John had seized the opportunity. At the same time, it appeared, he had driven away his friend. This had to be his fault. He couldn't think of any other explanation.

Mrs. Hudson finally returned home, opening the door with some difficulty, to find John curled in front, quietly sobbing to himself.

Mycroft offered to help Sherlock pack, but desperate to get rid of his brother's company, Sherlock made a snide comment about his weight and Mycroft was off in a huff. Sherlock stood outside the small country cottage with packed boxes, wondering what to do next. He was lost, away from London, away from 221B Baker Street, away from John. It felt so wrong.

But he tried to remind himself that it was necessary. He stepped inside, leaving the boxes cluttered in front, and took in the bland little house. It wasn't home. He shut the door and slumped against it, leaning his head back and aching to hear the coos of Lucy or John telling him to shut up or Mrs. Hudson reminding him that she was just his landlady. Sentiment was getting the best of him.

Before he could properly wallow in his thoughts, he pulled out his cell phone to send a quick text.

Tea at sixteen. - SH

Then he sunk to the floor as the weight of his fears collapsed on top of him.

John stared at his phone, willing it to ring, loathing its silence. He reached out for it, hesitantly, before withdrawing his hand as if he had touched a hot stove. He repeated this action several more times over the course of half an hour before finally holding it in his hands, where he proceeded to stare blankly at it for another thirty minutes.

Eventually he caved, flipping it open and typing quickly.

1:12
Lucy misses you. She's crying for you and I can't soothe her.

He hit send quickly before he spent another hour questioning himself and set the phone back in the middle of the table. He stared at it patiently, waiting, before growing anxious after ten minutes.

13:23
You left before we could say goodbye.

13:24
People typically don't leave without a goodbye.

13:30
You always say goodbye.

13:34
I fucked up, didn't I? Is that why you left without a goodbye?

13:40
Dammit Sherlock, at least give me an answer!

13:45
Sorry. I'm sorry. If I did anything, anything at all, I really truly am sorry.

13:55
Please just say you forgive me. Or please, give me a goodbye.

14:34
Goodbye, Sherlock. Come back to visit soon, okay?

John fell asleep that night with his phone in his hand, desperately clutching the hope of a response.

"Nice place you've got here," he said as he entered.

Sherlock turned away from his boxes to look at the visitor.

"I really didn't peg you for a country boy, though. The city seemed to suit you more."

"I wanted a change of pace."

"Change from what, may I ask?"

"Everything."

"Did he not like the kiss? He seemed quite into it."

Sherlock's face reddened against his will, and he stood still, refusing to answer.

"Well I guess he didn't. Was that your first kiss, Sherlock? Were you nervous? Did you ruin it?"

Sherlock smoothed his shirt, still trying to ignore the personal questions.

"I bet it was. Well I'll let you in on a secret. This," and he leaned in suddenly, grabbing Sherlock's face and passionately pressing his open lips against the taller man's, "is how you kiss." He pulled away for the last remark, leaving Sherlock stunned. "I gave you my number, didn't I? You should've called. We could have had such fun."

"I wasn't interested, Moriarty," Sherlock said flatly.

"Oh but honey, I know I fascinate you."

"Not like that."

"But John Watson does? Tell me what's so special about him, Sherlock. He's just so... average."

"Shut up."

"I'd like to see you make me," Moriarty smirked. "Now, where's the tea you promised?"