Author's Note:
Emotional turmoil. Enjoy it anyway? Thanks to everyone who is reviewing!
Sherlock was about to answer but what John did next let him numb and breathless. When his fiancé left the room, he sank to his knees in defeat. He clung to the ring tightly, the metal digging into his skin so hard that blood began to seep through his fingers. He couldn't move, think, or do anything. His world had just flipped upside down and torn asunder. How could John…after everything… He found himself incapable of breathing as he fought off a panic attack. Before John, Sherlock wouldn't be having this problem. All these stupid emotions that lately all they seemed to do is hurt him. There was a part of him that wanted to go back to those days, where emotions didn't exist. But John had taught him so much; could he just walk away from that? Apparently the army doctor could. He had been thinking so furiously, he had forgotten to breathe and found himself automatically doing it in pained and desperate breaths, his chest constricted and aching from the lack of oxygen.
Shit. Did he just give his wedding band back to Sherlock? He fell back against the door and slid to the floor, burying his head between his knees with a shaky breath. At the time it had seemed logical. The tension was slowly driving him mad and without Sherlock voicing the actual problem that had started everything he had no idea what to do. Effectively ending their future probably wasn't the best idea, in hindsight. The lack of movement in the room beside him made him shift slightly against the door. What should he do now? He couldn't just saunter into the room to get his things. He couldn't face Sherlock.
This was worse. So much worse than catching John with Sarah. Sherlock didn't think that was possible. He continued to cling tightly to the ring, ignoring the pain and the blood. He drew his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. The last time he had sat like this was when he was child, after a particularly brutal beating from his father after an experiment had gone wrong and he had almost blown up the house. His forehead came to rest on his knees and he was aware of tears streaming down his face. When had he started crying? He wasn't sure. Maybe this was all just a bad dream and he would wake up any second now. It was just too horrifying to be real. This couldn't be happening. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. John was home, they should be happy and laughing and making love in every single room in the flat. Hamish must have been on the bed because he began to feel the cat licking his ear. He wanted to swat it away angrily but he didn't have the energy.
Deep breaths. His chest contracted painfully and he sucked in a loud breath as he managed to stand. He stumbled forward slightly and caught himself on the sink, the towel falling from his hips. He couldn't just stay in the bathroom without clothes and wait for Sherlock to leave. On some level that was immature. If he never left then facing Sherlock would only get harder. He took a deep breath, braced himself, and opened the door into the bedroom. His head stayed low. No eye contact. He moved across the room and rummaged through the dresser where he assumed his clothes would be. Wonderful. "Have you," he cleared his throat and kept his back to the other man. "My clothes, uh, are they down here or still upstairs?"
After what had just happened, John was worried about his clothes? Didn't the army doctor care at all anymore? Was it really so easy for the other man to walk away? Too much. It was just too much. He finally opened his hand; the ring fell to the floor. There was no point of holding onto it anymore. Not now. He had nothing left. He couldn't stay here anymore. With effort he forced himself to his feet. Blinded by tears he made his way out of the room and then down the stairs. It wasn't until he was outside did he realize he wasn't wearing any shoes, as the cool concrete came in contact with his bare skin. He searched around for his cell phone to send a text but in his haste to leave, he had forgotten it as well. Suddenly, he began running. He wasn't sure where he was running to but anywhere was better than 221B Baker Street.
John's initial reaction was to run after Sherlock but his feet stayed glued to the floor of the bedroom. Their bedroom. He pulled on a pair of his boxers that he finally managed to find, followed by a pair of jeans and a red button up shirt. He left the room without even looking at the ring, if he did he was sure his knees would give out. He glanced at the cat as he dragged his feet to the couch, falling on to it as he curled his legs up against his chest. The blanket beneath him smelled like Sherlock and, Christ, there were the tears. Hot and silent and streaming down his cheeks with abandon.
Running, it was all Sherlock could do. The pavement was rough in some areas and tore at his feet. The blood and pain now in his feet weren't what stopped him from running; he had become physically incapable of continuing anymore. He stopped and slid down the side of a random building, ramming his head against it with as much force as he could muster. His head cracked so hard, he actually dazed himself for a moment and saw black spots. At this point, feeling physical pain was a blessing compared to the emotional turmoil inside. His breathing was hot and heavy. At some point he had managed to stop crying or maybe he had just run the ducts dry. With a shaky breath, Sherlock stood up. To his surprise, he was standing in front of the private clinic Jackson worked at. Oh God. Why had he come here? Disgusted with himself he began running once more, ignoring the chest pains and heavy legs from the vicious pace he had set for himself.
It didn't take long for Mycroft's black car to pull alongside the consulting detective. It never did. The entire incident probably shouldn't have been overheard but the apartment was still bugged, for Sherlock's sake he reminded himself. His younger brother was a mess. Bloody, running in a not-so-straight line, barefoot, and looking like quite the drug user that he used to be. The car stopped and Mycroft got out as smoothly as he could, using the end of his umbrella to nab one of Sherlock's arms. "Car. Now," he growled with a yank to the umbrella. John and Sherlock were, quite possibly, the most stubborn and idiotic men he had ever met. God help him, Mycroft was going to fix this.
Sherlock's dead sprint was suddenly halted and if it hadn't been for the umbrella hook holding him in place, he would have stumbled right onto his face. He spun to face his older brother, eyes narrowed and breathing heavily. It was amazing he was able to form words, given his heaving chest and the pain it caused. "Piss off. I don't have time for you and your stupid advice. John doesn't want to get married. That should make Dad happy. It's over. He and I are through! I just want to be alone right now." He had started off shouting but it died down to a mutter by the time his tirade was through. He removed the umbrella from his arm and when he went to walk away, he stumbled and had to use a nearby building for support. His legs were sore and didn't want to cooperate.
The state of the youngest Holmes was, simply put, horrid. Sherlock had never dealt with emotions before. Now, on the level of quite the catastrophic marriage rejection, he didn't know what to do with himself. "No advice, Sherlock." Mycroft moved forward with his younger brother, grabbing an arm and wrapping it around his shoulders. "Just me being a brother and making sure you don't make any decisions you will regret in the future." Ideas of what Sherlock could do, ranging from drug use to murder, had prompted him to jump into action in the first place. "And I can promise you that you and John aren't done, Sherlock." He gave the man's body a gentle tug toward the car. "You never will be."
"Still spying then." It was a statement, not a question. Sherlock turned to face his older brother. "He took the ring off Mycroft…" His voice trailed off, the dejection he was feeling clear. How could his brother sound so sure about him and John? Lost and confused were not feelings he was used to but now they overwhelmed his senses. "Please, just leave me alone." He didn't want to be around anyone right now.
Mycroft didn't acknowledge Sherlock's first statement and merely tugged at Sherlock again. "I know, Sherlock, and he shouldn't of, alright? I'm taking you back to my house. I can give you a room to yourself but I don't think you need to be out here right now." He closed his eyes for a long moment and took a deep breath. It was horrible to look at his brother, a strong and confident man, reduced to this after one man decided he couldn't handle a petty fight. Honestly, it wasn't fair to Sherlock. "Please, for John. Sherlock, he still loves you."
Sherlock wasn't sure who was the more stubborn between the two, him or Mycroft. He was too tired to continue arguing though; physically, emotionally and even mentally. He sighed, shrugged away from his older brother and finally moved toward the waiting car. He got in without saying a word, slamming the door shut behind him. Sitting down was a wonderful relief to his body, thankful for the respite after he had pushed it so hard. His muscles would be sore tomorrow, of that much he was certain.
Mycroft opened the door on the other side with a sigh, giving Sherlock a pointed look before sliding into the seat next to him and shutting the door. "It's for the best, coming home with me." He studied his brother with a frown. This wasn't the situation he wanted Sherlock to be in. At this point John returning the ring, on top of some illegitimate child, made Mycroft want to throttle the soldier within an inch of his life. Hurting his younger brother wasn't part of the package deal. "Just to keep you safe."
A roll of his eyes was the only response Sherlock gave to Mycroft. He decided staring out the window was much more interesting than anything involving his older brother. Just because he had relented and got in the car did not mean he had to make conversation. He had absolutely no inclination to talk about anything, especially not John and the fight that had just happened. After a moment he got bored with watching the scenery go by and with a sigh, he rested his head against the window and closed his eyes.
It had been a tough plan and without his minor position in the British government, Mycroft was fairly sure he wouldn't have been able to move John at all. Some minor drugs had cleared that issue up almost instantly. Sherlock didn't need to know that a rather unconscious John Watson was on the bed in his designated room. Sherlock also didn't need to know that the soldier would probably be unconscious for quite a while and that the door would be locked the moment Sherlock entered. It was a loving gesture, surely, aimed at knocking sense into the most stubborn men in London. "You know which room, dear brother. Left hallway, second door on the right," Mycroft droned as the car stopped and he exited. "See you for breakfast tomorrow."
Sherlock still refused to converse with his older brother, and merely got out of the car and into Mycroft's flat mutely. He eyed the couch as he passed, it was much closer to him than the room mentioned. However, a bed would be much comfortable. Despite the weariness, he walked to the bedroom. He wasn't really paying attention when he entered, instead staring at the ground in thought. He closed the door behind him automatically. Just as he was about to climb into bed, John's unconscious form finally registered. His eyes narrowed at the ploy his older brother had just used. No, he wasn't ready for this yet. He moved back to the door to leave, only to discover it was locked. He pounded on the door. "Mycroft!" He didn't have the strength for a long temper tantrum, so gave up on it after a few seconds. Sherlock slid down the door, his head leaning against the door. Tired. So very tired. His eyes closed and he welcomed the slumber readily.
Jesus. Had he gone out to a bar? The pounding in his head and his dry mouth were slowly leading him to that conclusion. He lifted his left hand and ran it across his face. Oh. That was different. No ring. He frowned and groaned, burying his face into the blanket below him when he realized that this wasn't his bed. Or Sherlock's, for that matter. "Shit." He sat up slowly and glanced around the room before freezing. That was Sherlock resting against the door, near comatose really. And looking worse for wear. His gaze swept the room and landed on a first-aid kit. Of course, Mycroft was always prepared. John moved from the bed slowly, grabbing the first-aid kit and situating himself in front of Sherlock as quietly as he could. He reached out and gently took Sherlock's hand, reaching into the first-aid kit and grabbing his cleaning supplies. After glancing at Sherlock's face he slowly started to clean the wounds.
A groan escaped Sherlock's lips and he shifted slightly in his sleep. His body was in desperate need of sleep, so he didn't wake up. He had cuts and abrasions all over his knuckles from punching the wall, a circular indent on the palm of his hand from death grip on the engagement ring and his feet were all tore up from running violently for long periods of time in bare feet. His physical state wasn't the only thing hurting. The emotional and mental damage clearly showed on his slumped body, even in a state sleep.
John bandaged Sherlock's knuckles with ease before moving to care for the man's feet. The only thing he could really do was clean them and place gauze across the bottom, which is exactly what he did. He finished with a sigh before letting himself study Sherlock. Exhausted. Hurt. It was too much and he reached under Sherlock's arms to pull him up and against his own chest, laying Sherlock in the bed with a small grunt and pulling the blankets around his body. The drugs still running through his system suddenly convinced him that laying with Sherlock, pressing his chest against the warm body, was a good idea. He stumbled into the bed and draped an arm over Sherlock's waist before falling asleep again.
Several hours went by before Sherlock stirred again and finally woke up. His body was sore from the previous day's gauntlet run. When had he gotten in bed? Someone was curled against him? John? His eyes fluttered open and he shifted to look at the army doctor. He inspected the bandages on his hands and he couldn't help but glance at John's hand. Still no wedding band. He sighed, wiggled out of the grasp, and laid on his side as close to the edge of the bed as he could get. He had his back to John, one hand under the pillow and the other on top of it and gripping both sides tightly.
Movement on the bed and the sudden cold air where warmth had previously been made John groan and shift slightly on the bed. The drugs had mostly worn off and as he opened his eyes he froze. He had been cuddling with his fian- with Sherlock. Not his fiancé. He had lost the privilege to call Sherlock that the moment he took his ring off. He sat up slowly, cradling his head in his hands, tilting his head fractionally to glance at the other man in the bed. Awake. His body wasn't relaxed enough to be asleep. Should he say something? Knowing Sherlock the words would be ignored. "Are your hands feeling better?" He asked feebly.
No movement or sound came from Sherlock to indicate he had heard John. He had heard the words but he didn't feel like talking to the other man right now. He had gone from wanting to fix things between him and the army doctor, to being a stubborn pouting child. Mycroft might have locked them in them in the same room but that didn't mean he had to cooperate and be an adult about things. He was tired of making adult decisions. Life had been simpler when he had a blatant disregard for others and only cared about himself and right now it was tempting to go back to that life.
Right. Turns out he was dealing with a child. John moved off the bed slowly, his legs shaking slightly as he wobbled toward the nearest wall. "Christ," he whispered as he pressed his forehead against the wall. The room was spinning and suddenly the contents of his stomach were churning. He swallowed hard before stumbling to the small trashcan near the door, vomiting with a small whimper. He was going to kill Mycroft. After a small gag he fell back to rest his back against the bed breathing hard and trying to calm himself down.
Hearing John vomit made Sherlock frown. No. He wouldn't care. If the army doctor didn't care anymore, then why should he? Why should he be the one to put in all the effort? He was tired of trying to fix things. If John really cared then let him try to make things right for once. It was stupid and childish, he knew that. Frustrated with himself, he threw the pillow at the wall with a growl.
John lazily lifted his head in time to watch the pillow hit the wall, his eyes narrowing in frustration. This was ridiculous. They were both acting childish, to be honest, but at least in his drug-induced haze he had bandaged Sherlock and snuggled against him. "I asked you how your hands were doing," John rasped as he craned his neck to look at Sherlock.
"What do you care?" Sherlock grumbled, still refusing to look at John. His hands hurt a little but what really ached were his calf muscles and his feet. It was all the army doctor's fault. If the other man hadn't taken off the ring, they wouldn't be in this position. He sat up finally, his back still to John. He set his feet gingerly on the floor, eyes narrowed in thought.
"Because I'm a doctor, mostly," John snapped as he pushed himself up, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. "Don't walk on your feet just yet. You did quite a number on them." He tossed his button up shirt into the corner of the room, yanking his white undershirt over his head before moving to kneel in front of Sherlock. He tensed his arms and smoothly ripped his undershirt in half, lifting one of Sherlock's feet and removing the bandages, quickly placing his shirt against the bottom of his foot. "I cleaned the wounds but I'm a bit worried since it's the bottom of your foot. High traffic area."
Of course that would the only reason John would care. "I'll do whatever I want. You lost the right to tell me what to do when…" His voice constricted, he couldn't finish the sentence. Even though John was now in front, he still refused to look at the army doctor. Like a fool, he stood up and almost immediately regretted it. He bit his bottom lip to prevent vocalizing the pain. He toughed it out, stubbornly standing, eyes closing tightly the only indication he was showing that his feet felt like they were on fire.
John looked up and read the pain that was clear just by Sherlock closing his eyes. "I know that, but I'm also a doctor," he growled as he stood up. "Sit. Back. Down. Now." He placed his hands gently on Sherlock's chest and moved him back to sit on the bed. "Please, it is going to help." He dropped back to his knees and removed the other bandage, placing the other half of his shirt on the open wounds. "I need to clean these again so stop moving."
"Stop telling me what to do! And quit touching me! Just get away!" Sherlock moved to brush past John, and that was even bigger mistake than standing. God, it hurt so much. He stumbled into the army doctor, unable to stand the searing pain of his feet. Grumbling, he tried to crawl away from the other man on his hands and knees.
John wrapped his arms around Sherlock instantly, tightening his embrace as he tried to crawl away. "Please listen to me," he whispered, closing his eyes for a long moment. "If only because I'm a doctor. You just need some medical care right now, Sherlock, and it's my job to give it to you." The urge to turn his head and place a kiss on Sherlock's temple, his typical manner of soothing the consulting detective, was overwhelming and he had to dig his fingernails into Sherlock to stop himself.
"Let me go! I don't care if it's your damn job. Just leave me the hell alone!" Sherlock yelled, struggling to get out of John's grasp. Shit, fingernails in his skin. He tried to prevent himself from being aroused. With effort he restrained himself from squirming into the man below him. Everything just kept getting worse, no thanks to himself. John wasn't trying either, so why should he?
"No. I am not letting you go. I love you, Sherlock, and I can't just let you walk around on your feet after you tore them apart, you git." John took a deep breath and pushed Sherlock back to rest against the side of the bed, moving swiftly to sit on Sherlock's shins with his back to the other man. "Don't move," he growled over his shoulder before yanking the first-aid kit near him and slowly starting to clean his wounds again.
Those words. Sherlock wanted to believe that what John had said was true, but if they were how could he have removed the ring? Thinking about that moment all over again, sucked the fight out of him. His head hung in defeat, as he still refused to look at the army doctor. After a moment of sulking, he finally raised his head to look John in the face. His voice was a hoarse whisper when he spoke, "Do you really love me?"
John lifted his head for a moment and nodded. "Of course I love you, Sherlock, I took off the ring but that doesn't mean I decided to stop loving you." He moved on to the second foot with a shrug. "It just means that I need some time to think about our future, about what you deserve." He paused and started bandaging the bottom of Sherlock's feet with practiced ease. "Which, right now, is somebody who is better than me." The admission made his body tense with pain, anger. Sherlock deserved so much better, not some soldier with a daughter on the way.
"Isn't what I 'deserve' my decision?" Sherlock hesitated a moment, but finally his hand reached out to gently caress John's chin. After a few strokes he let his hand drop back down. He really didn't know what to say or do now. The simple act of the army doctor removing the ring had been a crushing blow to Sherlock. What if his dad had talked John into this? The thought was irrational and suddenly he was angry all over again.
The hands on Sherlock's feet stilled instantly and he held the other man's gaze. How in the world had he been able to hurt him? What had been going through his mind? "In a way, yes." He licked his lips. "But when people are in love they tend to think irrationally. You can love me until the day you die, Sherlock, but that doesn't mean I'm ever going to be good enough for you." His throat constricted and he dropped his head.
"That's what my dad thinks. Did he put you up to this?" Sherlock managed to keep his tone even, despite the rage that had washed over him. Once more he lifted his head to look at John, his light eyes intense, as he stared searchingly into the army doctor's. He wasn't sure what he wanted the answer to be. Would it be easier or harder if this had all been his dad's idea?
The conversation had been private and held in the airport as John had landed. He had easily brushed it off, declaring he loved Sherlock and that if Sherlock didn't want him than it was his decision, not his father's. But the fight... it had knocked everything into perspective. "Yes," his gaze lifted to the consulting detective much like a child being reprimanded by his parents. "He said he didn't want you with a soldier, especially one as irresponsible as me."
"I'll kill him! I'll fucking kill him!" Sherlock struggled against John to get up. It didn't matter if the door was locked. He would kick it off its hinges and track the bastard down. He didn't care if his feet had endured enough abuse already, he would keep going until he was able to strangle the life out of the Colonel.
John jumped slightly before moving to straddle Sherlock's thighs, pinning the man down with a bit of force. "Calm down, Sherlock." He placed his hands on either side of Sherlock's face and pressed their forehead together. "Stop. He just put the idea there. Our fight... our first fight, it just made me think, alright? I thought you might deserve better after I upset you. It wasn't just him." His eyes closed and his head dropped to Sherlock's shoulder, his arms wrapping around the other man tightly.
Sherlock returned the hug fiercely. "Please don't leave me. I don't think I could make it if you did." It was true. He had been on his way to the seedy hotel to go back to using drugs. While he didn't think he would do something as drastic or stupid as kill himself, it was entirely possible that he would retreat so far into drugs that he could accidentally overdosed. "Please don't leave me," he repeated, not caring how desperate and scared he sounded. "I need you. I love you."
If John hadn't just emptied the contents of his stomach he would have kissed Sherlock but instead he just nodded, agreeing to everything Sherlock was saying. "No. Never." He pressed his nose against the hallow of Sherlock's neck. "I love you. I could never leave you." Despite this step forward, John knew this was far from over. They had so much to talk about, to figure out, that there was no way that they would be able to just drop this. "I'm sorry. Forgive me. Please, forgive me."
"I do. I'm sorry too." Sherlock continued to hold onto John tightly, refusing to let go for the moment. Well, that was something. Now what? Did they keep talking? Just snuggle for a bit? This was their first huge fight they had since being together. He wasn't sure what to do next, so he just continued to hug John quietly.