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Chapter 11: Floundering

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John was walking briskly up and down the streets of London rather aimlessly, only wishing to calm his nerves down a bit. He knew he had no right to be feeling so hurt and vexed about Sherlock's attitude: no right to be mad at him. Sherlock hadn't led him on to drop him, he'd been completely honest in everything he'd done and said. And so the doctor was mad at himself for being so petty about this, and for feeling discarded over a case.

No, he thought, the case isn't the problem here. What had truly been too much was Sherlock acting as if he'd been doing him a favour. Like fondling a pet because it is something that needs to be done, nothing more, nothing less. "If it's not good enough for you, I just won't bother." John winced. That had been clear enough, and it had been a slap in the face. Did Sherlock merely consider himself indebted, and feel like he owed him regular physical tokens of affection? It made John's stomach lurch, and he couldn't help remembering the revulsion and horror he'd felt when he'd entered the room before his lap dance – when Sherlock had been waiting for him and had lain back, spreading his legs, expressionless.

John shivered. Presently he became aware that he had no idea what was going on in that crazy little head; how Sherlock's brilliant yet sometimes completely clueless mind apprehended this whole situation. He'd been broken, but to what extent was he now back on track? John hadn't even had time to ask him about the five orange pips case... He stopped walking abruptly, realization hitting him. Sherlock hadn't used him as a distraction to ease his boredom and suddenly dropped him for the Work. He'd used that case as a way to apologise to Lestrade because John had told him it wasn't good and he didn't have to be so rude all the time. He had snapped at Sherlock and had left him alone in the flat. He had made him feel guilt and perhaps even panic that he would leave if Sherlock wasn't good enough – which was preposterous, but trauma usually triggered insecurity. So Sherlock had gone on the case to fix things, and when he'd come back, John hasn't been there. He must've been terrified because he thought Moriarty had kidnapped him again, but then he'd seen that all of his things were gone, and he had believed John had left him for good.

John groaned.

"Damn..."

He'd been such an idiot. Whatever was going on in Sherlock's mind, he had to stop snapping at him all the time. Fighting was nothing unusual for them, and they always made up within a day or so, because in the end John couldn't stay away from Sherlock for too long, and Sherlock felt like an abandoned puppy when John wasn't around. OK, so maybe not like an abandoned puppy, but he wanted him around nonetheless.

Considering recent events, however, he shouldn't take things for granted. Sherlock wouldn't just be fine every time he snapped, knowing for certain that he'd come back and everything would return to normal, because he'd lost that certainty. What had happened to him in the Basement and what ensued were things he could never have imagined, things he never even thought of. It had turned his life upside down and made him lose all his bearings. Then John had snapped at him because with Lestrade coming and Sherlock being a prick, everything seemed back to normal, and so it hadn't felt unusual to chide him. Except that it would never be 'back to normal' – if that held any sense for them anyway. Even if Sherlock appeared to be his usual self, which was a very good sign, the harm had been done. Then stupid Mycroft just had to kidnap John and Sherlock had to go through yet another trauma – the apparent evidence of being suddenly abandoned by his only friend.

John bit his lip and was already turning to go home when his phone vibrated. It was a call. Surprised, he picked up.

"Hello?"

"Hello, John? This is Lestrade."

"Greg? What's up?"

"Listen, I... are you with Sherlock right now?"

John felt his blood turn cold.

"No, I'm out. Why?"

Lestrade sighed, sounding relieved somehow.

"Listen, I... I just received a video..."

Oh God, I am going to kill Mycroft, John thought as he started to run towards the main road to get a cab.

"A video of what happened in the basement."

John froze, transfixed with horror.

"You–"

"I got a note, too... I'm guessing this is from..."

"Jim Moriarty," John finished, his tone icy. His hatred for the man was boundless. If he ever saw him again, he would slaughter him, even if it was the last thing he did.

"Did anyone else see it?"

"No, of course not!"

"Good. Destroy it."

"What? But John, it's evidence and–"

"Destroy it. Now. This isn't just any rape case, Greg. 'Evidence' will be useless. You'll never get to him. I bet you can't even see his face on the video."

"No, but–"

"Please, I'm begging you. Just destroy it. If anyone were to see it... if Mycroft were to see it–"

"All right! Calm down. I'll destroy it."

"Thank you."

He hailed a cab.

"Look, John, if I can do anything–"

"Don't say a word to Sherlock about this for now. Never would be great, actually. But I bet Moriarty knows we'd agree that. He must've informed him in some way alrea..."

John stopped in mid-sentence. He had, hadn't he? Informed him.

"Oh God..."

"John? What's going on?"

"Nothing, just... I'll call you back."

"John!"

But he'd hung up already.

"221B Baker Street!" he shouted to the cabbie, praying silently that he wouldn't arrive to a dark, empty flat.

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xXx

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221B Baker Street was quiet tonight. A figure was standing at the window, holding a violin and a bow in each hand, but not playing. He was looking out on the street, and the cameras couldn't see his face.

That man had been standing there for an hour, holding his instrument but not playing. Listening to the silence.

When steps were heard down in the entrance and rushing up the stairs, before someone burst into the living-room, the figure didn't move. He remained standing still at the window, and the cold from the night seeping through the thin glasspane was creeping up his face already.

"Sherlock."

There was relief and dread in the voice, such a peculiar combination. But Sherlock remained silent.

John wondered if he'd been wrong – this scene felt rather familiar too: Sherlock, thinking about a case, and ignoring him, his violin in hand. Something was off, though. The quietness in the flat was almost surreal. Yet John couldn't bring himself to mention Lestrade's call, for he wasn't sure whether he'd been wrong or not: if Sherlock didn't know about Moriarty's little present to the D.I., then he certainly didn't want to tell him. He tried to sound relaxed as he asked:

"Have you eaten yet?"

He was greeted only by the silence and started to feel awkward. He went to the kitchen and checked the fridge – empty, of course. They hadn't had time to go grocery shopping these past few days. John looked at his watch and asked again:

"Are you up for Chinese? I can try and see if they still deliver at this hour, or if I can go for a take-away."

Sherlock still didn't answer. Half-annoyed, half-worried, John walked up to him and put a hand on his arm, forcing him to turn towards him gently.

"Sherlock?"

The lifeless face stupefied him on the spot. Sherlock was definitely not merely pondering the case and ignoring him because his comments about food weren't relevant.

Their eyes locked, and something flickered on Sherlock's face as he met John's gaze and drowned in it. He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out. John blinked, taken aback. Panic flashed in Sherlock's pupils and he suddenly turned to hide from him, but John had seen it and made him turn slowly back again, holding him by the elbows.

"Sherlock. Look at me." His voice was gentle and his tone self-possessed. Sherlock was hanging his head, but hearing that voice compelled him to comply.

"Here, look at me... Good. Can you speak, Sherlock?"

Sherlock drew in a sharp breath and opened his mouth again, frowning angrily, probably about to snap that of course he could talk: but the words died in his throat, choking him. He looked so lost and frustrated that John stepped closer and embraced him tightly, feeling his pulse rocket in panic.

"Breathe, Sherlock. Slowly, and deeply. You're not suffocating, it's okay."

It's not okay. It feels like I'm drowning inside my own body!

He choked again, trying to force his voice out. John stepped back and looked him in the eye firmly, never letting go of his arms.

"Don't force it out, Sherlock. It's pointless. Just shake your head or nod, okay?"

Sherlock looked furious at what he considered to be a patronizing tone, and his gaze flared up. John's face became grave.

"Sherlock."

The detective took a deep breath, trying to calm the fury bubbling in his chest, the outrage he felt for being so weak, for being like anyone else, every common person, and even worse than everyone else because this whole bloody affair was getting under his skin so much and it shouldn't have, it shouldn't...

"Sherlock."

He looked up and gulped. Angering John was the last thing he wished to do. He nodded.

"What did you see on that piece of paper with the dancing smileys?"

Sherlock swallowed with difficulty, but brought John to his laptop and refreshed the image. The message he'd got on his website reappeared, and John read it, appalled.

"That's what you were looking at when I... Oh God, Sherlock, I'm so sorry."

Sherlock shrugged, putting his violin back into its case. Not your fault. There's nothing you could do about it. It's no use. I'm no use. He turned and went back to the window, looking out again. He felt less exposed that way. He knew no camera could see his face in this position, and no one out in the street would stop and stare at his ghastly figure behind the window pane.

John came up to his side again, closing the distance between their two bodies and hugging him from behind, his arms around his waist, his face buried in his shoulder blade. His body was much smaller than Sherlock's, but it was so warm and his heart was beating so regularly, surely, against his back that Sherlock felt surrounded, engulfed by the contact and his presence.

But all he could think was: It's no use. I'm worthless. Now even Lestrade knows. I won't be able to get cases from him anymore. If Moriarty makes this video public, I won't have any client, the Work will be finished... I will be finished...

"I'm here," cut in John's voice,shrouded in warmth. "Don't slip away. I'm here, Sherlock."

I know you are. You're always here. Is it because you hope you can fix me? Because I can't be fixed, John. I'm not broken, just twisted, so twisted and crooked... It's not even Moriarty, it's me. Just me.

"I wish I could hear you," John whispered, and he slipped his hand under Sherlock's shirt to rest it on his abdomen. Sherlock tensed abruptly, reminded of his nemesis's touch, but John's hand drew soothing circles on his belly. His skin was rough, not smooth at all, and yet the caress was so soft it almost made Sherlock cry.

Why was he so stupid? There was no reason this should get to him so much. It was completely illogical.
So what if Mycroft had surveillance cameras in the flat? He'd always meddled. This was nothing new.
What if Lestrade knew? If Sherlock were strong and firm and showed him this didn't affect him, the D.I. would still trust him with cases. He would find him reliable and there would be no problem. The only problem is me... I am the problem.

This time John glided up in front of him instead of making him turn, and cupped his face with one hand, the other resting low on his back, his arm still circling his waist. Clear blue eyes plunged into the darker ones.

"What you feel is shame, Sherlock. It's... common among rape victims."

Sherlock didn't flinch at the words, and John knew he'd been right to be straightforward. No word should become taboo. Nothing should become taboo.

"But you've got to understand that you have nothing to be ashamed of. Moriarty used what you considered mere transport to show you it wasn't. He humiliated you. But if you accept it, if you come to terms with it... no, look at me Sherlock, don't avert your eyes. You're beautiful. You're amazing. You're brilliant and brave and so full of energy. I'm drawn to you like a moth to a flame, but a flame that animates as much as it burns. You must go beyond that shame, Sherlock. Reclaim your body and just be your dazzling self. Because whatever you think you are, twisted and crooked as it may be, you are admirable."

Sherlock blinked, befuddled. That was something he'd found very surprising – and pleasant – about John from day two. That was amazing. Fantastic! That's brilliant. Remarkable. He truly had expressed the thought in every possible variant available to the English language. And it had intrigued Sherlock to no end. John was the very first person to praise him. Before he knew it, Sherlock was leaning in and hugging John back, not as if his life depended on it, but in a spontaneous movement of gratefulness. He didn't mind that he couldn't speak for this, for he wouldn't have known what to say anyway.

Taken off guard, John blinked. Then a smile graced his lips and he nuzzled up against his partner's neck, relishing his scent. He felt so privileged to be able to be so close to Sherlock. But it was never close enough.

"You were holding your violin," he murmured against the soft pale skin, "but you weren't playing. Won't you play for me, Sherlock?"

The embrace slackened and Sherlock stepped back with a distressed look. He shook his head. John took his hand and kissed it reverently.

"All right. It's fine. How do you feel about Chinese?"

Sherlock shook his head again, distraught that he had to keep on refusing John. But he really didn't feel like eating at all.

"OK, then, put your coat on. We're going to Tesco."

At this, Sherlock blinked, twice. Tesco? What did that have to do with anything? But John was already walking towards the door.

"It's open all night today, remember? What am I saying... You never go grocery shopping, so why would you remember that."

Sherlock finally moved, picking up his coat and following John out. It all felt so surreal. Him, not speaking, and doing something as dull as grocery shopping.

"It's not dull if you go this late at night. Not many people do it."

Sherlock shrugged, before realizing John had perfectly guessed his thoughts. He stared, and John smirked.

"For once, you were being obvious."

Sherlock pouted. This was stupid. And so the two of them went to Tesco and spent an hour and a half there because Sherlock kept shaking his head at everything John showed him. He thought his friend would snap at one point and just give it up, picking whatever he wanted to eat and not bother about him, but he didn't.

"Listen, we're not going home until you've chosen at least three things you're going to eat. I'm serious, we've got all night."

In the end, it was Sherlock who gave in, and picked at random eggs, bacon, and a lemon.

"A lemon? What the... oh, fine, whatever. But you're eating it, I'm warning you."

Sherlock nodded and John shrugged, muttering something about crazy geniuses and how in the world they survived if they were all as picky as this particular one. Sherlock followed him meekly with an innocent air, wondering how John's skin would taste with lemon juice spread over it.

It took another hour once they were back home to have Sherlock eat one egg, a slice of bacon and a piece of toast. His body was tense and his stomach felt tight, but he didn't want to disappoint John in any way. He'd do enough of that without knowing it, for sure.

"You'll have to tell me about that case you worked on – the five orange pips, was it? It still makes no sense to me."

Sherlock opened his mouth, and closed it, despair filling his face. John leant in and kissed his brow fondly.

"You don't have to tell me now, there's no rush. I just want to write about it."

That was something else, thought Sherlock. John recorded things about him, and not like Mycroft, for the purpose of surveillance and spying on him. He did it because he found it worth telling the world – because he found Sherlock and his cases fascinating, like something one could find in a novel. More than that, he wanted to portray him, not only write about his job: People want to know you're human. Why? he'd asked. Why? He still felt like John was putting things in too romantic a way, not focusing enough on the logic, but he guessed that's what "people" were more interested in.

John had felt the tension in the brow he'd kissed. Sherlock seemed on edge. We've got to do something about that. He stepped back and looked his partner in the eye, a smile on his lips.

"Sherlock. Feel like experimenting?"

oOo

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tbc :)