Characters: Sherlock, John
POV: Sherlock
Prompt: John discovers that Sherlock was tortured at the beginning of TEH.
Submitted by: ScribeOfRED
PART 2
Three days pass after the delicate conversation at the surgery, and even though John and Sherlock see each other for a few hours on each of those days, the subject is not brought up again. Sherlock finds this disconcerting, because his limited understand of human nature and his rather extensive understanding of John Watson had led him to believe that it would be a subject of the utmost importance upon their return to Baker Street that very same day. However, they pass the time in companionable quiet and chitchat before John goes home to Mary, and Sherlock is left bewildered and alone. The next day, Mary accompanies John to visit him, so there, that's why he doesn't bring it up then. But the next day and the day after that, John comes alone - yet still the subject is never broached. Why?
Sherlock examines John on the third day, scrutinizing him while he helps with the tedium of cross-referencing files on a case he's working on. John doesn't notice, John never does, and Sherlock watches him openly. He watches the way he types (quick but methodical, fingers coming down hard on the keys, left pinky splayed each time the 's' key is pressed), sees the lines between his brows (stress; wedding preparations), reads the set of his posture (ramrod straight, he's had a good night's sleep), notices the jaunty tone of his voice (sex, obviously). It takes some doing, but Sherlock finally lands on the Thing. The Thing that tells him John is upset with him. (He stares at me when he thinks I'm not looking, stares hard, not fondly. Frowns. Fidgets. Sighs. Angry, irritated. Not generalised; specific. Me. His avoidance of the topic of Serbia indicates that his anger has to do with that - makes sense, I'm his friend and I've been hurt, sentiment - but the anger is clearly directed at me and not for me, which begs the question of why.)
At this point, he knows he has two choices: he can ask John what is wrong, or he can wait it out. If he waits, it will either go away on its own or it'll bubble over. Recently, John isn't known for his ability to keep his temper in check. Sherlock's aching ribs remember a certain night on which John tackled him in a restaurant. On the other hand, if he asks outright, John's anger will definitely be triggered, and thus the odds are like this: ask and stand a 99% chance of fighting with John; or wait and stand a 50% chance of the whole thing just blowing over. (Obvious.) He decides to wait it out.
He doesn't have to wait long.
Four days after the conversation at the surgery, John is checking Sherlock's stitches in the sitting room at Baker Street. The set of his jaw says he's in a foul mood, and his clinical touch is colder than normal, brisker. He doesn't speak, so Sherlock fills the silence on his own.
"...And it's been said that bee populations are indicative of a biome's overall health, but I've not had a chance to research that yet. There is some amount of logic to the idea, but as you can imagine, credible sources of information on the subject are limited and I've no personal experience as yet with bees."
John grunts, preoccupied, his fingers exploring the bruised flesh of Sherlock's side.
"I wonder if Mrs. Hudson would object to an apiary on the roof…"
"Dammit, Sherlock!" John straightens abruptly, stepping back, and crosses his arms.
"John?" Sherlock braces himself. John's pot has boiled over, as he predicted. He grinds his teeth and tries to push down the regret of not having asked John outright days ago.
"Why didn't you tell me?" John demands, his voice harsh and low. He walks away toward the fireplace, then circles back and stares at the detective over the coffee table. "Why. Didn't. You. Tell me?"
Sherlock can't help himself. "About the bees? I only just learned about it last night - "
"Forget the bloody bees!" John's outburst seems to rattle the walls, but Sherlock knows that's absurd. "I'm not talking about the damn bees, Sherlock. I'm talking about Serbia."
"I did tell you - "
"Four days ago! Four bloody days ago you told me about Serbia, and only because you had a piece of shrapnel coming out of your skin!"
Oh. Oh! That's why John is upset about Serbia - he didn't tell him sooner. Is that all? Sighing, Sherlock sits up on the sofa, smoothes his shirt back down over his stomach, and shrugs his dressing gown on. "It didn't come up…" He swallows hard. "...organically."
John opens his mouth and closes it again, like a fish. He seems lost for words. "Organically?"
Sherlock feels panic welling up in his chest, but his outward appearance is calm approaching to apathy. He reaches for the catalogues in his brain, shuffling through conversation after conversation with John over the past month. Yes, he's absolutely certain that there was no point at which he could have just thrown in, "Oh, by the way, some Serbians stuck hot pokers into my back for a few days, what do you think about that?" How could he have been expected to bring up such a topic? And what was the point, anyway? What's done is done - isn't it? What does it matter, what relevance does it have to here and now?
"You've been back a month," John continues. "Why didn't you tell me?"
A quick scan of John's face - (Tight-lipped, tense, eyes narrowed - he's furious) - tells Sherlock he needs to tread carefully. "I... didn't know how to approach you about it," he tries.
John is silent.
Sherlock continues, "Please understand that I wasn't specifically avoiding telling you." He steels himself for a tirade.
"Are we friends?"
He's taken aback by the question, but doesn't let John see him falter. "Of course," he says confidently. "I've always valued your - "
"Then you should have told me a month ago. This is the sort of thing friends tell each other, Sherlock. By the way, I was tortured in Serbia, I'm not okay!"
The pieces are starting to come together. John isn't angry; he's hurt. "I am okay. I was going to tell you." This is only a half-truth. Sherlock had been considering it, but hadn't decided whether or not it was worth the conversation. He tilts his head and watches John's face carefully. "I am telling you now."
"What else haven't you told me?" asks John.
Sherlock chooses to answer honestly. "A lot."
John's face falls.
"It was two years. You know my methods; you know what I was doing while I was away."
For a few moments, John says nothing. He takes a few deep breaths, runs his fingers back through his hair, and shakes his head. Then he rounds the coffee table and sits down beside Sherlock, his eyes on the opposite wall. "The scars. Are they all from Serbia?"
"No."
John's face goes through at least three changes, too fast for Sherlock to keep track of what emotions are attached.
Sherlock holds his breath for a few moments and thinks. John wants to know, so Sherlock will tell him. He just hopes they don't both regret it afterwards. Sucking in a breath, he slides his dressing gown off and pulls his t-shirt off over his head. He starts with the wound in his side that bears John's neat handiwork, indicating it with a careful finger. "Serbia, ice pick. You knew that one. Two broken ribs underneath." His hand travels upward, to the deep scar curving around his deltoid muscle. "Also Serbia. Broken bottle." Then to a tidy little scar on his collarbone. "Germany, fence post." Then to a ragged two-inch-long scar on his chest, just left of centre. "Sweden, fell out of a window." And on it goes, as John watches in silence: "China, careless accident with a rusty knife. America, grazed by a bullet. Canada, fell out of another window. Brazil - "
"Stop," John says through his teeth.
Sherlock stops and waits for instructions.
John is looking at him strangely. His face is tight and unmoving. "What happened in Serbia - did it happen other places too?"
After a moment, Sherlock understands that John is trying to be delicate, in his way. "No," he replies. "Serbia was unique. I needed to confirm that the last remnants of Moriarty's network had been destroyed. I broke into a secure operations base outside Ruma. I was discovered." He pauses, takes a deep breath. "I've slipped up before, but not like this. I'd underestimated them. It was a miscalculation, John, that's all."
"You could have been killed."
"No. Mycroft wormed his way in shortly after my capture. No doubt he'd been monitoring my movements. He wouldn't have allowed that to happen."
John stares down at the floor, then hands Sherlock his shirt, looking anywhere but at him. "This has to stop," he says firmly, grinding his teeth as he stares down at the floor. He drags his eyes up to Sherlock's at last. "It has to stop now."
As he pulls on his shirt, the detective frowns. "It has stopped. It stopped in Serbia, it's over, John. There's nothing left to - "
"No," John's harsh tone cuts through Sherlock's reply, his blue eyes piercing and intense. "No, I mean - this. I mean. You, doing things that can get you killed. You're careless and reckless and you don't give a second thought to the consequences of - of - falling out of windows or getting caught by Serbian black ops."
"I know my limits," Sherlock replies, feeling defensive suddenly. "I've told you before, it's - "
"Transport," the doctor finishes for him. "No, I know. And it has to stop. Sherlock… Maybe, to you, being captured and tortured and running around with broken ribs is fine. Maybe so. But… it's not, to other people around you. To… to me, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Greg… I don't care that you don't care. You're hurting other people, though, and… it has to stop."
What does he want, for me to stop working? Sherlock is starting to feel indignant now. "This coming from someone whose interest is only piqued by the word dangerous."
"That's not what I meant. I just meant that - if we're friends, Sherlock, and I like to think we are - if we're friends, then don't risk your life for the hell of it. If we're friends, then let me help - tell me things, like by the way I've two broken ribs, so please don't tackle me in a restaurant."
Surprising even himself, Sherlock laughs. Relief spreads through him now as John cracks a slight smile too. "You were angry, you deserved to have a go at me."
"Or four."
"Or four." A brief pause. "I wasn't sure how much to say to you. I didn't want to risk upsetting you, or getting in between you and Mary."
"She likes you. If you do something stupid and die and break her heart, I'll kill you."
Sherlock nods and pulls his dressing gown on. "Noted."
John has relaxed now, that stony look gone from his face. He looks at his friend, studies him in a way that makes Sherlock squirm a little inside. "Listen, though, Sherlock, are you… are you really okay, though? I mean, honestly. Are you?"
Something dark moves through the detective. Thinking back to it, he can feel the bone-deep weariness, the heaviness of the manacles on his wrists, the heat of the infection spreading through the wound in his shoulder. His torturer's voice echoes in his mind. Remember sleep?
Sighing, stretching, Sherlock stands, casts about the flat for a distraction. "Let's play Cluedo," he says. "It's been an age."