Author's note: This chapter gave me more trouble than I thought it would and turned out completely different than I intended...it's interesting when a story starts dictating itself to me, really...
Anyway, sorry for the long wait, real life is being a needy, whiney brat at the moment.
Enjoy!
Chapter 6: Pieces of sliver
In the night, the pale moon perches like a betraying piece of silver against cold ink of the sky. John sits in a nest of white sheets in front of a tall window and watches as the silver sky-coin approaches, watches the Moon pass the glass barrier with nothing as much as halt in its progression, until it is large and luminous and right there in front of John, refusing to stay at bay, refusing to maintain the safe distance and the partition of glass between them. The room slowly loses its contours as the Moon floats in front of John, speckles of dust crumbling off it and onto the carpet and the sheet-nest that hosts John, bits of Earths faux-glowing, light-stealing satellite lodging themselves in the folds and valleys of white bed linens. John can feel the fingers of the Moon touching his skin in the most inappropriate ways, as if trying to read him, a breathing palimpsest of the obvious and the unsaid, of history and future. His somnolent mind registers the cold, mercury-coloured and bodiless caresses that feel new and old, familiar as of recent and foreign due to years of John staying out of its reach. Shadows draw borders, leaving John and the Moon floating suspended in a oblong patch of light that doesn't quite seem to reach John at all, apart from the prying moonbeams that never stop their ministrations over John's form, feeling him out. The touch isn't as much pressure as it is a feeling so visceral that John wonders if he is even feeling it with his skin at all. It is disconcerting, this examination of reflected sunbeams turned grey with age of a dead day, because it doesn't feel like just fingers prying with the softest of touches along the locked doors of John's pores – it feels like eyes peeking through holes and cracks in the very fabric of his being, voyeuristic escapades of a celestial body playing out all over his skin, all over his shield. Simultaneously prickly like the rasp of fine sanding paper and smooth like the polished plastic spheres of Christmas ornaments, the sensation is like being stripped naked, to the bone – to the marrow. It is painful, this soft worshiping of light on skin. It is painful, but the pain is liberating, in a way akin to that of frozen feet being submerged into a hot bath, and the touch is certainly not meant to do harm - it is the ache of an infected wound being re-opened and cleaned, given a second chance at proper healing. Crisp smell of refrigerated air surrounds John's solitary figure, the moon-fingers slipping the slightly acidic, fizzy taste of carbonated water into John's mouth.
Déjà vu coats John like varnish or molten sugar, a sense that he's been here before, in this place of second chances at new beginnings. He thinks he knows the Moon under another name, another face. Wondering if he could read it the way it reads him, John reaches out his hand, wanting to touch the moons featureless face, as if to unveil the one he thinks he knows is buried somewhere within. But just as his fingertips draw near, the Moon vanishes, leaving a dark space that is no longer a defined room. John can't even see his own hands. Can't feel his own skin. He has no bones and no breath to draw and expel. The Moon disappears and just like that, John simply ceases to be – in one moment he is several things at once, and in the next he simply isn't.
Just as the limits between him and the nothingness around start to blur and blend, the Moon reappears, shocking John's retinas into temporary blindness with its unfaltering brilliance. Only, this time, no moonbeams roam John's skin, no expeditions are taken into the depths of him. The Moon seems to know all it wants – know him. With one last touch, a single finger of metallic light lays a finger-kiss onto John's face, drawing his lids over his lustre-shocked eyes. Darkness that envelopes him this time is the diametrical opposite of the previous one. Instead of dissolving, John feels every bit of himself as acutely as ever. He can feel blood pumping to the very edges of himself, to the tips of his fingers, bouncing back up him hands off the crescents of his fingernails. It feels like beginning of a Realisation, an embryo of Acceptance. More than anything, it feels like finally falling asleep.
In the night, as pale moon perches like a betraying piece of silver against cold ink of the sky, John Watson sleeps. He sleeps in a swaddle of pale sheets mixed with pale arms, all white and fragile and strong at the same time, fabric that can bind or hold down or hoist up if needed, but that could so easily tear if ripped at in just the right way. A net woven out of cotton and limbs holds him anchored to the mattress, possessive in the face of reality. John's somnolent mind doesn't register the cold-tipped caresses of warm hands that were kept above the duvet for too long and have lost their heat. Sherlock's hands map out paths to various Nowheres over John's skin, and John just sleeps.
When Sherlock steals away from the bed in order to pay a late-night visit to his brother, John doesn't wake. He doesn't even stir. He is paralysed by his brain, his mind schooling his body as he dreams of vanishing Moons and revealing touches that seem to hurt. He only manages to flip himself over to his other side. When Sherlock returns, fumbling his way into the safety of the unsustainable ecosystem that they've built inside the room, John still doesn't wake. Instead, he dreams of re-appearing Moons and finger-kisses. And as long as the Moon glides its way over the dark denim sky, John doesn't stir.
It isn't until dawn that a breath of air crawls up John's spine, like tickling fingers of a naughty imp called Premonition. Sheets tangle around him like a Möbius strip, endlessly looping around in a possessive hug. Light strikes against his closed eyelids and explodes in an electric-pink-sulphur-yellow-twisting-melting ball of semi-consciousness coloured vividly by arrival of day. Burning its way into John's waking mind, the morning brightness conjures up images the way developer extracts photographs from blank, light-scarred paper. Shifts in meanings and an inevitability long in making play out like memories of a three-act stage-play which John's has both starred in and been an audience of. Languid and slightly surreal, the moment stretches like fudge, sweet and otherworldly, and John is too conscious to be asleep but no aware enough to be considered awake. He feels like some painting of Mark Chagall's, distorted and oddly coloured in way that makes reality seem like a vision of a world beyond a kaleidoscopic spy hole. And it's good...so good. It's the spoils for victors of a long-fought war, a moment where instinct overrides reason and pleasure is untainted by worry. In the incoherence of the moment, John thinks he could spend the rest of his life in the process of waking up, trapped between sleep and consciousness.
Alas, the shifts that never cease to take place push the Sun higher up the marble arch of the pale winter sky, efficient in their attempt to extract the last vestiges of slumber from nooks and crannies of rooms and minds. Sleep is banished into the recesses of John's organism as wakefulness barges in to claim him.
By the time John's eyes finally open, the room breaths like a steady giant, still and awash in new light. Sheets tangle around John as morning seems to be sending microburst of unwanted shivers through the air. Vastness dominates the space, somehow hollow despite the warm glow beyond the windows. Turning around, John catches air in order to speak, but as he turns breath is aborted, abandoned in favour of silence. The other side of the bed is empty. The morning light is all too bright.
Silver hits skin-pale beige and a loud crack resonates with the darkness of a whole being irreparably damaged. The delicate softness beneath starts to ooze out of the wound, still warm. Air blurs with a cloud of warmth being stolen away by colder air from a warmer source. The silver hits a hard surface with a dull 'thunk', gleaming in the light, cold in its perfectly polished impeccability.
Sherlock watches as Mycroft hits the perfectly smooth shell of his soft-boiled egg with a spoon and spreads the runny contents on a piece of toast. Cutlery clinks against the shiny surface of a large oak dining table, playing its annoying song like a cruel fiddler on the instrument of Sherlock's nerves. The rustle of Mycroft's morning paper joins in with its stiff-soft undertones. It's the usual breakfast symphony that sounds more like a cacophony to Sherlock as he works his way through his plate. His fork and knife barely touch the porcelain, minimising the probability of making a sound, as he strains to hear any noises coming from beyond the dining room door. Trying his best to ignore the impatient glances Mycroft casts his way between bites, Sherlock listens for the familiar footfalls that usually mark John's arrival.
Another six minutes go by before he hears the stairs creaking under John's steady tread. The door opens and some of the light pouring in through tall windows escapes into the dim corridor.
"Morning." John greets, voice only slightly gravelly.
"Good morning, John." Mycroft doesn't lift his gaze from the paper, his hand bringing a cup of tea to his lips in a perfectly measured fashion. Sherlock's chest stutters imperceptibly before he calls out a greeting as well.
"Good morning." His eyes scan over John rapidly, apparently satisfying Sherlock's thirst for information. "Breakfast?" he asks. The table is a long, wood-brown stretch of land between him and Mycroft, with a single chair posed half way between two ends. John isn't all too thrilled by having to sit as a buffer between two brothers if things escalate.
"Urm..yes, sure." He moves to sit and helps himself to some beans and toast. A cup of tea is already awaiting him, still steaming and to his taste. As he digs into his (much needed) breakfast, the only sounds filling the air are those of cutlery fencing with each other over the plates, silver and posh as the sport itself. John's had his share of uncomfortable meals, but as he mauls the food, he can't help but rank this one among the top five. Torn between the unabashed giddiness of "the morning after" and being completely at loss as to what constitutes as normal conversation over breakfast when it comes to the Holmeses, John does his best to look enthusiastically engrossed in his meal. He is just about to put the last bite of beans into his mouth when Mycroft suddenly feels the urge to address him.
"John, I believe you will be happy to hear that arrangements have been made which will allow you to be back at Baker Street no later than this afternoon." Mycroft's voice is the colour of his house – beige and impossible to place anywhere in the emotional spectrum. But then he lifts his eyes to John's and, while his voice may be as bland as watered-down tea, Mycroft's eyes are anything but. If Sherlock's gaze is penetrating, then Mycroft's is down-right corrosive.
"I hope you will recall upon your time here with fondness." The stress on the fifth word is minute, but John knows code when he hears one. While the exchange that took place in Mycroft's study the yesterday evening is definitely not the most memorable event of the last 24 hours, John knows it's exactly the sort of thing the older Holmes wants him to recall. The 'making-a-choice' conversation. Mycroft's reminder of their conversation the evening before is a clear indicator that John's recent actions (of which, John has no doubts, Mycroft is inappropriately well aware) have not satisfied the criteria of "choosing Sherlock".
"I'm sure I will. Thank you, Mycroft." John's voice is as strong as his stare. It's a battle of wills, but a funny one, because they seem to be fighting for the same cause, only not side-by-side, but somehow askew, not as proper allies, but as untrusting co-combatants ready to protect their own at any given moment.
Sherlock watches the whole exchange with narrowed eyes, but remains silent (which, by itself, should be an alarm bell, but John is too busy not backing down in the face of Mycroft's tactical games to notice). Light spills over the table, bouncing off polished fruit and casting oblong shadows behind bowls and pitchers, breaking in its travel through different media – air, glass, liquid.
After a few more tense moments, Mycroft gives a nod and stands up.
"Well, if you will excuse me, there is some urgent business I must tend to – "
"Isn't there always..." Sherlock chimes in, lazily and mockingly.
"Yes, Sherlock, there is." Mycroft's smile looks as if he is being pinched on the cheek by an ancient, annoying aunt. "In fact, I am already running late. The car will be here to take you to your flat in half an hour, unless you need more time to – "
"No, half an hour is plenty. We'll be ready to go." Sherlock's voice skips around like a school girl along a yard.
"Honestly, Sherlock, I don't expect a 'thank you', but do you maybe think you may grant me the civility of letting me finish a sentence?"
"What for? You are horribly predictable."
Mycroft's expression is so sour that John snorts out tea as he tries to hide his laughter. Sherlock all but preens at this, all petulant impertinence and lax stubbornness. Sighing as if he is going to a meeting with his executioner, Mycroft barely stops an eye-roll and leaves the room without another word. Smug like a sated cat, Sherlock shifts his gaze from where the tails of Mycroft's three-piece suit disappeared with a frill, to John, who is looking at him steadily. Sherlock's eyes look almost feverish in the lemon-yellow light of the room. John is pretty sure Sherlock is having a full-blown monologue on the inside, but it seems as if he's forgotten to actually say it aloud. His eyes flit over John like flam-licks, making John want to look for scorch marks. For a few moments, John considers breaking the tension with a joke, but something tells him it would be like trying to break bullet-proof glass with a bit of paint-ball ammunition, so he keeps quiet, waiting for Sherlock to speak.
Only, Sherlock doesn't. Moments after his eyes land on John, something in his gaze shifts and it can only be describe as "shutting off". As if he has just switched channels, look at John one moment and then not seeing him at all in the next. Usually, John would gasp in incredulity and indignation at this sort of thing, but something about Sherlock demeanour feels off. He seems...over-tasked. John can't explain how or why he comes to that conclusion, but for once, his gut tells him Sherlock isn't just being a rude git. Not knowing what to do with that, John picks his plate and carries it over to a trolley parked in the corner beside the door.
"Well, I guess we better start packing." he says. He doesn't really expect a reply, so it comes as even a bigger surprise when Sherlock apparently acknowledges John's words and stalks towards him. There is no good-morning kiss and no fumbling verbal recollections of last night, but as they make their way back to John's room, Sherlock's hand hovers just inches away from the small of John's back, not touching, but lingering, all the same.
The ride back to 221B is an odd mixture of old familiarity, new familiarity, and new awkwardness. Only, the awkwardness seems to be affecting only one half of the pair, as Sherlock seems completely unaware of it. Or of the world as such, really. John can almost feel the cogs turning behind the clock-face of his eyes. Sherlock is planning something and John decides there and then, fingers scraping nervously against the black leather of Mycroft's posh car's seat, that whatever plan it is, Sherlock's not getting away with keeping him out of the loop. Not this time. Not ever again.
Sherlock doesn't speak in the car. Nor when they step into the hallway. Nor when John grabs his wrist and forces him to stop before he manages to reach the stairs. He says nothing when John drops their luggage (which Sherlock's left all for him to carry, naturally) and it hits the floor with a thud that sounds like syncope of breath and time. Sherlock stays non-verbal as John pushes him against the wall, only point of contact still being his grip on Sherlock's writ, firm but gentle, never hurting. John moves into his space, obviously trying to raise a reaction out of the Detective, but Sherlock stays infuriatingly still. It's a quiet stand-still, as John's breath fans over Sherlock's lips, but there is something missing in the scene. An absence robs the moment of any heat it might have usually carried. John doesn't have Sherlock's brilliant ability of deducing someone into a stupor within seconds of laying eyes on them, but he nonetheless notices something in Sherlock and that something makes him move away. Because the pulse beating beneath his grip is calm and steady. Because it doesn't quicken. Because his reflection doesn't drown in the black whirlpools of Sherlock's dilating pupils. John steps away, suddenly feeling drenched in cold water, because even though Sherlock is standing with his back against the wall only a foot away from John's rapidly breathing figure, it's as if he isn't even there.
John wants to ask and demand and shout and make Sherlock say something. He wants to pull at his skin until he finds the crack through which the man seems to have leaked away. But he knows trying to get anything out of Sherlock in this state would be as effective as interrogating a strand of sea weed. Confusion seems to be John Watson's destiny, so with the last aborted question that never finds its voice, John picks up the abandoned luggage and moves up the stairs, all the way up to his room. When he comes back to the lounge, Sherlock's already on the couch, supine, with hands posed for prayer that isn't one. At least not to any deity but himself.
Sherlock doesn't come to John's bed that night and John doesn't go to fetch him. It could be insomnia from the residual withdrawal symptoms keeping Sherlock up, but no matter how hard he tries to convince himself of it, John finds it utterly unconvincing. There is a stale taste of apprehension coating the root of his tongue. Regret is nowhere near the emotions currently residing on John Watson's emotional repertoire, but who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes? John doesn't think he could handle being regret. Not after everything. Not after letting Sherlock see. This was always a one-way journey, with no option of going in reverse. Not after letting himself see.
The sky outside is an empty sheet the colour of a surgeon's blue scrubs, with no Moon anywhere in the vicinity. The incomplete scenery makes John remember his dream. He remembers the Moon that wouldn't stay away. He recalls wondering if it would take Sherlock's form if he just managed to touch it, but somehow knowing all the while that it wouldn't. It hits him them (expect that it's not as much a hit as it is a put-upon sigh of some inner structure long denied the light of day, tucked uncomfortably away in some damp corner of John's repression). It was never Sherlock. It was always John, all along. But not any John – John with Sherlock. John who has been not pushed but prompted, to face himself. John who no longer knows how to go back to being anything less than what he is, darkness and all.
Choices were made last night, but while John was aware that he was choosing Sherlock, actively and willingly, what he didn't realise was that by choosing Sherlock, in full and unreservedly, he was also choosing something more important. He was choosing himself. In full. Unreservedly. He chose the same John Sherlock decided to choose a long time ago.
Only, it seems to John that Sherlock might just be regretting his choice, after all.
Next chapter is already half-done, so hopefully it will be up in the next few days :)