They got through four days of almost perfect silence before Mrs. Hudson commented that they were both previously in need of a wash. John couldn't guess what had kept Sherlock from it, but he didn't ask. He ended the waiting conversation by getting up from the couch on his own and painfully making his way into the bathroom to strip and deposit himself in the tub on his own. Sherlock came in less than a minute later, his jaw tightly set, and wet down a hand towel in the sink without a word.
What followed was the most clinical and tense bath John had ever witnessed, even within a hospital and a warzone. When his hair was shampooed and rinsed, Sherlock disappeared, evidently determining that John could get up on his own. John stumbled his way to Sherlock's bedroom and collapsed into bed to rest before he tackled getting dressed.
John struggled awake, throwing the restraining blankets off himself by his feet and pulling at his slings as he gasped for breath. That was it. He wasn't sleeping with the slings on anymore. Pain be damned. He could deal with pain.
Sherlock was getting dressed, absorbed in the laptop balanced on top of the dresser, like a man thrashing in his sleep was entirely beneath his notice. He'd needed to shower too, John remembered. And sleep, presumably.
"Side table," Sherlock murmured without looking up from his buttons. John picked up the toast the man had left for him. Cold, now - Sherlock had estimated wrong.
"Bought a new laptop?" John asked, glancing at the unfamiliar model. He decided not to ask what he was working on.
"Mmm.. Only fair. Myroft destroyed mine," Sherlock complained, snapping the lid down. "Useless," he growled, stepping away from the dresser and folding his collar sharply. John pulled his towel over himself, only to wonder why he bothered. He had no secrets to keep from Sherlock now. Resentment churned in his stomach at the thought.
What time is it? John wondered, glancing back at the dark windows. He couldn't hear any traffic outside, nor the shouts of drunkards headed home. Before six AM, after two, then. Was Sherlock never going to sleep?
He'd taken over Sherlock's bed, John realized, sitting up.
"I'm sorry - you need to sleep. Here, I'll stay on the couch," he offered hurriedly.
"Why? I took your room," Sherlock replied, frowning at him.
John paused, uncomfortable. He'd forgotten. He'd left his bed when he'd gone to the bedsit. He tried to imagine Sherlock upstairs, sleeping on a bed without sheets, surrounded by the packed up boxes John had never gotten around to moving. Cruel, just cruel.
"I'm sorry-" John started, vowing to sleep in the couch that night but Sherlock shrugged, unmoved.
Sherlock already knew they were ruined, John realized, staring at the silent man. Of course Sherlock could sleep surrounded by the rubble he'd left behind; it was no new data. He could face John's burns just as easily. Nothing but repeated data.
John sighed, looking at the toast and pills Sherlock had left for him. Did Sherlock even care? He regretted jumping without him; they'd established that. But that was a year ago; why would he still care?
John sighed, pushing his hands over his bare legs. By rights, that should be good news - if he wanted nothing from Sherlock surely he'd want Sherlock to need nothing from him. But he didn't want that. He wanted Sherlock to think about all that had broken and be miserable.
This isn't fair, John thought, watching Sherlock wander around the room looking for something to do. By rights he should leave the poor man alone. He'd healed from a bullet wound in a bedsit before. He would heal from this.
He could wash himself, if he ignored his hair. Painfully, and slowly, but he could do it. And he could afford the bedsit on his pension. But he couldn't afford it and food. Not without working.
The hell with paperwork and the hell with his hair, John decided, shifting in his seat. He'd get his head shaved. He'd ask for his job back and accept more of Sarah's pity. That was better than this.
"What was that?" Sherlock asked, spinning around from where he was looking at the periodic table.
"Pardon?" John asked, befuddled.
"Just then. You nodded to yourself, your shoulders straightened, you stopped rubbing at your legs - a sudden drop in anxiety. You've made a decision. What is it?" Sherlock demanded, stepping forward toward him.
"You're leaving today," Sherlock concluded aloud, his eyes wide. John closed his eyes. This was going badly. He'd been prepared to be the coward, to leave before he saw it hurt.
"It's not you, Sherlock," he started, pushing himself up from the bed through he didn't know where to go. He'd only just woken up, he didn't need to sleep again and certainly didn't want to; not with the senstation of Mike's fingers still sliding down his neck. Sherlock snorted and left the room. John followed.
Sherlock tossed his laptop onto the desk in the living room like it was entirely replaceable. Mycroft bought it, John remembered; of course Sherlock didn't treat it with any care. Irrelevant.
This looks like a break up. He'd never been good at those. John met Sherlock's eyes and recognized the pained amusement there - Sherlock had seen the same thing.
"It's not living with you. It's not the noise, the mess, the danger," John clarified. Sherlock turned away, apparently instantly busy with a pile of paper on the desk. The only pile of paper. John blinked, looking around the room. The mantle was clear, the bookcase organized and dusted, the floor free of its usual debris. Could it be, all of the shuffling about Sherlock had been doing was actual cleaning? The noise, the mess, the danger - they'd had none of that. They'd had casseroles and violin music and paper-free coffeetables.
"It's the .." John started, trying to regather his thoughts. Why was he leaving?
Sherlock moved into the kitchen, apparently not caring why. John followed him, still unsure what he was going to say. What the fuck did he want?
"I'm a miserable man, Sherlock," John confessed, lifting his arms as high as they could go before his shoulder joints screamed. He couldn't even surrender properly, John thought, huffing out a breath. He dropped his arms, disgusted with himself. "All I want from you is for you to be miserable, to regret your stupid plan leaving me behind to mourn you, and to regret so thoroughly lying to me."
Sherlock turned around from his place near the sink, his eyes burning.
"You've gotten all you want from me. You might as well stay to watch it. Leaving most certainly won't make it any worse," he snarled. John crossed his aching arms, ignoring the pain.
"You haven't said a single word of regret," he replied.
"I told you I'd lost everything!" Sherlock hissed, slamming his hand down on the countertop behind him. "Everything but my brain," he clarified, running his fingers through his hair. John opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't remember Sherlock saying anything of the sort. Sherlock curled his lip, looking disgusted. "I did not lose my brain with everything else when I jumped," he quoted himself, sneering. John swallowed. He'd missed that sentence. He'd replied with something about his ill-timed erection.
John let the silence settle around him, gathering his thoughts. Sherlock regretted it. That was good. Admitted it, that was better. Then why was he leaving?
"I don't want to make you miserable," John said, feeling his shoulders fall with the revelation. Sherlock frowned, visibly baffled.
"You just said you want me to be miserable," Sherlock said, his pale eyes darting around the kitchen like there would be some explanation written there. John shrugged, not caring about the pain it sent ripping through his shoulder into his back. He wanted to be in pain and he didn't want to think too hard about why.
"I don't want to be the one doing it," he said. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.
"You just don't want to watch," he replied.
Coward. The word hung between them. John swallowed. He could leave. He wanted to leave. He owed nothing to Sherlock Holmes.
"Goodbye, Sherlock," he replied and Sherlock's shoulders fell.
~~/~~
John packed a bag of clothes before he west to the therapist's office. He brought clothes, toiletries, and his gun, all still packed in evidence bags Greg had lifted from Scotland Yard.
The paparazzi were waiting for him outside. John had barely gotten the door to 221 Baker Street cracked open before the cameras started flashing. John closed the door again, bracing himself, and pushed his way out. He walked in a massive swarm of shouted questions and flashing cameras, keeping his expression neutral, until the crowd was finally left behind to avoid running with him into traffic. Sherlock's return had finally reached the papers. That explained why Mrs. Hudson had never encouraged them to leave the flat.
He stumbled back to the temporary flats he'd wandered into his first day back from Afganistan, wondering if his life would always go in cycles of this misery, in and out of a rented unit on 72 Whitehall Lane, paying by the week and mourning what he'd had before.
John sat down in the chair across form Ella, wondering what he was mourning this time. Nothing that he himself hadn't thrown away.
Why had he returned to 221B? He could have collapsed back into this flat and lived; he'd have been unwashed and at risk of infection, but he could have managed. What had he hoped? That Sherlock would pamper him, wash his hair, and suddenly all his pain would disappear? Had Sherlock hoped the same?
Ella folded her hands on her lap, waiting for him to speak. John pretended to look out the window, feeling awkward. Why had he made this emergency appointment? He could see Ella in the corner of his eye, waiting for him to speak.
"So, Sherlock, not dead after all," she prompted, her gaze flickering down to his slings in unvoiced curiosity. John nodded, sucking on his teeth. "He lied to you," she tried again. John closed his eyes. Of course Ella didn't doubt that he'd mourned; she'd been there.
"Wow, he really was a bastard." Mike had said.
"Why'd he come back?" she asked. John turned from the window, startled, and she looked triumphant. John shifted in his seat, his shoulders aching.
"To save me," he answered finally, only more uncomfortable. Ella frowned, clearly concerned, and John backtracked. "Not- not suicide." He cleared his throat. She relaxed and glanced at his slings again. "I was caught, captured. Tortured," he explained. Her eyebrows rose sharply and she lifted her pen from her paper, shocked. "I killed the man and escaped, before Sherlock -" John stopped, watching her face whiten. Perhaps Sherlock was correct and she was the wrong therapist for him. But he was familiar with her now.
"Why haven't I heard about this?" she asked, like something had gone wrong.
"Scotland Yard kept it from the press. Knew it'd be a firestorm fueled with the news of Sherlock's return," John explained. Ella nodded.
"I didn't think they could keep secrets like that from the press," she replied. John snorted, remembering how many press disasters Lestrade had faced. The fiasco that was Kitty Riley. Ella put her notebook aside and faced him again, her eyes sharp.
"But that's not why you're here?" she asked, sounding flabbergasted.
"No, I -" John hesitated, looking down at his slings. His surgeon had recommended therapy, the nurses even more so. He'd nodded and thanked them and never thought about it.
"You've not had nightmares? Anxiety? Flashbacks?" Ella asked, sounding disbelieving.
"All of that, but -" John paused, seeing his therapists eyebrows rise even further, threatening to disappear into her hairline.
"But that's not why you're here," she repeated. John sighed, frustrated. No, the anxiety, the nightmares? He'd survive. He'd done that before. Ella leaned back in her chair. "Let's start over. Why are you here?" she asked. John swallowed and looked out the window, feeling like she was reverting to that same tired exercise, making him say aloud what she already knew.
"I left him," he said. She picked up her notepad again and wrote something down. John felt anger start to build in his chest. He should never have come here. The last thing he wanted was to peel off more of himself at someone's questioning. Hadn't he learned enough of himself, by now?
"I shat my pants" John barked, turning to glare at her. Ella paused, her pen pressing deeply into the paper. She looked up at him and John groaned and tipped his head against the back of his chair. She still had water damage in the corner of the ceiling. "I meant, I was tortured, I answered sexual questions about him, 'Did you like it when he touched you?' 'Did you ever want him to touch you more'," John growled. It was much easier to say this to the ceiling he decided.
"And he heard you?" she surmised. John closed his eyes, remembering his erection.
"Worse," he replied and did not extrapolate.
"What did he do?"
"Ignored it, he knew I was leaving," John answered honestly, wondering why the hell he was talking to a stranger about this.
"Was that why he ignored it?" she asked. John swallowed, realizing he didn't know. What if he'd been planning to stay? Would that bath have gone differently? Would Sherlock have talked to him, reached down to touch him, waited to proposition him later? Would Sherlock have rejected him again, explained that he was 'flattered' and 'married to his work'?
"I don't know," John croaked, and shook his head. "But it doesn't matter. That's not why I'm here."
Ella didn't answer. John stared at the ceiling, waiting for a prompt.
"I left him," he repeated.
"And you came here?" she asked quietly. John blinked, only then thinking to be embarrassed by the dichotomy. He'd shat his pants, been tortured, shot a man, suffered increased anxiety, panic attacks, and nightmares, and nothing got him into Ella's room before he said goodbye to Sherlock Holmes.
"I need to put a new life together," he admitted.
~~/~~
Sherlock looked up from the same single slide of Mrs. Hudson's casserole when the room had gotten dark and all of the dust had settled back down again from where John's movements had jostled it.
He'll never forgive you. Molly's words rang in his ears. Correct, evidently. John had left. He'd underestimated the man again. If two wireties, a chain, pneumonia, massive infection, lung damage, two dislocated shoulder joints and nine days of torture couldn't keep John Watson captive, the need for post-op care certainly wouldn't. He never should have thought he'd have the time to slowly woo him back with touch and the taste of adventure.
Sherlock slid the slide out of his microscope and clicked off its light. Something felt constricted in his lungs, some emotion Molly would no doubt have a name for. Irrelevant. He'd lost and he wasn't going to get John back, however many desperate useless texts he wanted to send.
:I loved you, you idiot: Sherlock swept his microscope and all its slides onto the floor in one great clatter of metal and breaking glass. Stupid. It was an exercise in tedium to imagine what could have been, if Moriarty had not interfered, if he'd handled it differently, had told John anything at all. Sherlock stared at the wreck, furious with himself. Now there'd be glass on the floor and he'd have to step over it to move John's chair. He wouldn't have it there, reminding him of his irrational need for the man, when this was a perfect time to dive into his next battle. John was nothing to him now, he'd made that perfectly clear. An aberration in his life of rational thinking. He'd be better off this way, undistracted, when he took on his next project. The best way to ensure perfect control over the sphere of Jim Moriarty, after all, was to capture control over Charles Augustus Magnussen.
~~/~~