Hey my lovelies!
Another chapter. This one was written about 6 months ago (when I was buried deep in workload; umm, story of my life, actually) , and while giving it a read over I wanted re-write the whole thing. I feel so frustrated. Please don't leave my boys if you don't like it. They'll do better, John promised. And also, I am uploading my first Crackfic ever (to compensate all the angst this fic is giving you)! Please give it a shot and let me know. Shameless self-promotion? Hell yeah!
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Chapter:5
"Did the darkness of their days
Make them let go of their light?
Will they want to find a way
To make it alright?"
- 'Little Broken Hearts' by Norah Jones
"Sherlock, where is my phone?"
"Do I look like your phone keeper?"
"Give me my phone back."
"I don't have it."
"Yes, you do, you great git."
"Isn't it against your work ethics to curse your fragile and innocent patients and accuse them with false allegations?"
"No, it is not. The rules are applicable for humans only, not Satan reincarnated."
"Your flair for dramatics is impressive. Wrong choice of career, I would say."
"Give. Me. My. Phone, dammit or I'll smack you on the head."
"I would like to see you try or I can always report you."
"Fuck me if I care."
"Not really my area."
"Berk. And why on earth do you need my mobile anyway? You are allowed to call from the landline in the hall, you know."
"I prefer to text."
"Riiiiiiiiiight. God, you...Sherlock, sweetheart, will you be a darling and tell me where the hell did you hide my phone, please?"
"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Natalie, but I do not expect someone like you to know that."
"MY PHONE, SHERLOCK?"
"Fine. It's in that old bat's fish bowl."
"Fish bo...what? WHAT? You mean you put my phone into Mrs. Mackenzie's fish bowl? In the water? With the fi-what the fuck, Sherlock?"
"Now, shoo shoo."
Before Sherlock could finish his shooing, Natalie dashed out of the room cursing loudly and missing the diabolical smirk on her patient's face.
~0~0~0~
Mycroft was video conferencing when he received two texts from...from Sherlock's nurse! He was quite surprised as he was certain that that nurse didn't have his personal number. Immediately worry engulfed him but the meeting was too important to dodge. Hence, for the rest of the meeting Mycroft Holmes kept a pace of a fighter jet.
At last when he got out of the conference room and entered his own office, he promptly opened the texts.
The first said:
"Bring John Watson at the earliest, if convenient. –SH"
And then:
"If inconvenient, bring him anyway. - SH"
Mycroft arched an eyebrow, a smug smile slowly began to appear on his face, but it disappeared the next instant.
How did Sherlock access his nurse's phone? Is she supplying him with anything else?
He would have to arrange a meeting with this nurse, it seemed. But that could wait for now as he had news to give to the good doctor.
His brother was back.
~0~0~0~
John didn't know what to feel, what he should feel. He knew he should be ecstatic because this was exactly why he wrote that letter to Sherlock. He wanted a second chance, but now that he was informed that Sherlock wanted to see him, all he could feel was fear and dread. Before he thought if only he could get a chance to meet Sherlock again he would probably run all the way to his rehab. But now, when his wish had come true he wanted to run from it. John realized that he was scared. Scared of rejection. Scared of the moment when he would know that there was no hope left. At least he had an illusion now, a hope that everything would be alright eventually but once Sherlock bid his farewell what would happen then? How would John go on knowing that he had completely blown up his chances to have a life again? A life where he could have been useful…
John sighed and got up from his bed. Not going was never an option; delaying the inevitable would only increase his dread. He still had a few hours before the meeting and he hoped that he could finish the things he wanted to do in between; something which would require him to roam around the city. John gave himself a mental nod and prepared to face his judgement day.
~0~0~0~
As soon as Mycroft received a text from Anthea, informing him that John Watson just went out of the nursing home, Mycroft called him. Yes, he was on the verge of being paranoid about this whole mess and no, he would never admit it to anyone.
"Hello, John, isn't it a bit early for the meeting?"
"What? What do you mean?"
"Going somewhere?"
"How did- nevermind, nevermind at all. Yes, I've some things to do before the meeting."
"What?"
"That's none of your business, dammit."
"If you are trying to avoid the meeting then it is my business."
"Trying to avoid? Avoid? You may not have realized it yet but I am invested in this more than you are, Mycroft. I know you still doubt my sincerity towards your brother, but for once in your life stop acting like a panicked, suspicious grandma."
"Take the car. The driver will take you wherever you want to go."
"No I won't. And if you think I will be able to escape dodging your hawks and hounds, then I must say you hold me in high regard."
"Ah, of course. Take the car if you do not want the car to follow you everywhere."
"I DON'T want that kidnap car anywhere near me, Mycroft!"
"Then be in it and end the fuss."
"Oh, piss off, you bloody bastard."
Mycroft pocketed his phone with a sigh. Among all the people why on earth Sherlock has to choose an equally bull headed….friend?
~0~0~0~
Sherlock couldn't stop pacing. Not because he was tense, no absolutely not, never in hell, no way, nope. He was pacing like Japanese bullet train because he was bored, and wanted to strengthen his calf muscles, and didn't know whether John would show up or not, and was at a loss as to what to say if John showed up at all and...oh, bloody hell, yes he was nervous, all right?
He didn't receive any response from Mycroft but he knew his brother would bring John anyhow. But would John come willingly? Yes, John had sent him the letter but what if John changed his mind meanwhile? And...and what if Sherlock couldn't work up the courage to face John, again? What if he again couldn't relate this John to his memories? Couldn't make the connection between John's letter and the person he was going to meet today? What if Sherlock could never find John, his John again?
His head was buzzing, spinning which had nothing to do with his fast pacing. He didn't know how to handle all these. Sherlock Holmes didn't do emotions. How was he supposed to act now? How?
Deduction.
Yes, that was the solution of his entire problem. He would deduce John. That was the only way he could find out his John. If he didn't like John (hah! Like that was even remotely possible) then he could always deduce the life out of him, and scare him away. And if he liked John, well, then John could be impressed and awed by his deductive skills if he wanted to, not that Sherlock would care, mind. But it was a perfect plan.
In between all the pacing and plotting Natalie came once, to yell at him. Apparently she had, at last, found her phone after hours of searching. No, it wasn't that much tough to find out; it was indeed in a fishbowl but without fish or water, tied to a tree branch behind the building, slightly hidden from plain sight. Stupid blind people. Sherlock made it easier for her to find out, but even then she complained. Ingrates.
Oh, and the fish was well and alive, swimming proudly in a drinking-water jar.
~0~0~0~
John's palms were sweating, profusely.
He was now sitting in the visiting room in Sherlock's rehab, trying and failing to shove off all the bitter memories from the last visit and reassuring himself that coming here was the right decision he made (not that he had much of a choice but still...)
The door suddenly burst open and John almost fell from his chair.
Sherlock.
Sherlock stood there, hair looking like bird's nest, clad in pajamas which had...tiny magnifying glasses printed all over it. John gaped for a moment then looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes, and shut his mouth promptly.
Sherlock was scowling.
The momentarily forgotten panic rushed in and John clenched his jaw tight.
Brace yourself, John Watson.
Sherlock kept scowling. John had never seen someone scowl with so much passion. After a few moments, which felt like a millennium to John, Sherlock crossed the room and sat on the opposite chair, hands steepled in front of his chin as if praying, never taking his eyes off John. John felt naked under that stare and looked away. He looked at his chair instead, and sat down with a bit of difficulty.
Now he had no other choice but to look at Sherlock again. This was more awkward and unnerving than John had ever anticipated. At last when it became too much for him to bear the tension, and Sherlock's I'll-scowl-the-life-out-of-you stare began to shred his nerves, he attempted a conversation. If Sherlock hadn't thrown him out yet, then there was a hope that he might have a faint chance surviving this, hadn't he? So, he could take a risk, right?
"Erm..."
Bravo, John Watson, bravo for your eloquence.
Sherlock's scowl deepened more.
John's stomach had dropped long ago and now it vanished completely. And that was the exact moment when his fight or flight instinct kicked in. John Watson would successfully start an adult conversation and show the world what he was capable of before dying of the radiation that that stare emitted.
"Erm...your..." his chin flicked towards Sherlock's chest, "your pajamas have...uh...magnifying glasses on them." He finished the sentence with a forced out laugh that actually sounded like mewling.
Very adult topic, indeed.
But points to John, as this elicited a response from Sherlock at last. He sniffed haughtily, lifted his chin and said, "Better than keeping a fake limp and a metal cane."
John paled, looking like someone had wiped his face with a blotting paper.
"What?"
"That limp is psychosomatic." Sherlock said with a grimace.
John mentally cringed away from that gesture. He hates me; he hates that I am not only physically broken but also mentally pathetic. Who can blame him though?
"Uh..yes, yes it is. But how…do you know?"
Sherlock gave John a look which John easily interpreted as 'are you seriously that thick?' but went on elaborating anyway.
"When you stand you do not lean on your cane, not always. In fact, to be precise, you never leaned on it when your focus was on me but whenever you get self conscious, just like when you looked away from me before sitting, its presence pops up which indicates that you are aware of it only when you are distressed. You were nervous about meeting me, but there were some elements of unexpected danger or rush of excitement that forced you to forget all about that limp which, again, means your body craves the adrenalin, which as a consequence, means your Psychosomatic limp will disappear once you get out of your current dull and boring life."
John didn't know for which he should be amazed more- the fact that Sherlock had hit the bull's eye about his limp, or the fact that Sherlock could talk this long without stopping for breath once, or….or that Sherlock deduced him!
He deduced me.
Yes, that wasn't very flattering but at least he seemed interested enough to take the trouble. At least he didn't shut me off instantly. I can still hold his focus. That's a good sign, isn't it?
These questions, doubts, hopes fleeted through John's mind and his eyes searched Sherlock's still scowling face for the reassurance he desperately needed. But when his wandering mind got some of its concentration back he realized, to his horror, that Sherlock's face was closing down and a blank mask, devoid of any expression, taking its place. Panic rose when John realized the cause- he hadn't responded to that deduction.
Oh, shit.
"Th-that was…brilliant"
Eyes widening, blinking rapidly. Positive response. I still have a chance.
"Brilliant and quite extraordinary."
"You think so?"
"Yeah, I-yeah, absolutely. It was amazing."
"Oh... Erm...alright."
John found himself smiling with all his heart, for the first time since the night his whole life turned upside down.
~0~0~0~
Sherlock's breath hitched.
He knew that smile. He knew that smile. He felt the warmth it emitted, the warmth he stored carefully away in his memories. And now, he was causing it. It was directed at him.
Stilled picture came into being. Memories mingled with reality.
He was causing this smile.
He was making John smile like this.
John.
His John.
Sherlock's mind took him to that first chanced meeting when he deduced about John just like today. He deduced to drive him away, but he kept coming back instead. Kept coming back, kept on praising Sherlock, called him his best friend, gave Sherlock hope, changed his world.
That was his John. His strange John.
This John also didn't leave him after his brutal deduction, also kept trying to convince Sherlock, kept on reminding Sherlock about all the hopes, the promises they shared.
This John had broken them, of course, but he came back. He replied back. He smiled at him. He thought Sherlock was brilliant.
This John did all those things too.
This John was his John too.
His John.
His John.
Sherlock pursed his lips, blinked some more and gave John a short nod.
He still didn't forgive this idiot…..completely.
But now he….knew.
"You died."
It wasn't a question but John answered anyway. Idiot, trying to be polite always.
"Uh…yes, I did."
"Interesting."
John just snorted which was actually meant to be a chuckle.
He is getting nervous. His hands are shaking again. He is cradling his left hand, again.
"Your handwriting is as unintelligible as before," came Sherlock's next statement. John looked lost. Sherlock continued.
"It indicates that your shoulder injury will not hinder most of your work."
After a moment understanding dawned upon John, and Sherlock, once again, realized that this was his John indeed.
He is still an open book. He is still the same.
"I won't be able to perform surgery again."
"Well, if cutting others open interests you so much then there is always an option to be a serial killer. In fact I may assist you at the beginning of your career by giving you some creative tips. I know at least 348 ways to kill a person without getting caught."
John burst out laughing, startling Sherlock. It was full of not only amusement, Sherlock noted quite surprisingly, but also with fascination and something like…like fondness.
Everything felt so alien to Sherlock. Nobody had ever laughed hearing that he could kill in such a varied way before; nobody accepted his 'freakish' behaviour so openly; nobody looked at him like that, like he was something precious. Everything was so foreign yet Sherlock felt like he had found his home at last. He could breathe again.
Sherlock looked at John who was currently shuffling through a brown gift bag, made of expensive paper and bore the logo of a famous brand. The bag was new but John's careful handling told Sherlock that he was not habituated to buy from this particular store, obviously for their price tags. Not that Sherlock had to deduce the last part considering he already had knowledge about the comparatively low salary of the soldiers and their even lower pensions. But the rest of the things he noticed just after entering the room, when he saw the bag leaning on the seat John took.
But what Sherlock didn't understand was why John brought this ba- Ah, so this is why.
A moderate-sized box, wrapped in a bottle green and silver paper, was being pushed towards him on the table. John's voice followed.
"Um..uh..this is for you."
"Really? I thought it was for your imaginary friend who is currently occupying the next seat beside me."
"Huh?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook his head in response.
"Don't you think that you are a bit late for this year's Christmas, or a bit early for the next one?"
John looked hesitant and bashful. He was looking at the table where his right index finger was scratching the wood.
"It's….uh…it's for your coming birthday," he lifted his eyes and looked up.
Sherlock's eyes widened in comprehension.
Oh. Oh.
He still remembers my birthday. He hasn't forgotten, after all these months. He bought a gift for my birthday, even after all the things I said to him. Even after…
My John.
But the only thing he said to John in reply was, "Boring."
Because Sherlock Holmes was a little shit.
But apparently John hadn't reached the level yet where he could interpret this 'boring' as 'I-am-squealing-in-happiness-but-too-moronic-to-say-that'. So, as a result John's shoulder slumped in dejection (only the right one) "Oh."
Sherlock rolled his eyes again, oh for heaven's sake….
"But I will accept it considering it is rude to refuse a gift." Said the prat with that pratty haughty attitude of his, and saw John's eyes turned like saucers and his face lighting up like Christmas lights.
Yes, definitely my stupid and idiotic John.
"Thank you," said John. His face glowing.
Sherlock just 'hm'd' in response and stood up abruptly because no matter how he wanted to pretend to be non-chalant and unaffected in front of John, he was actually trembling with emotions within. It was way too much for him to continue this meeting any further, and his brain was sure to shut down completely if he did. Hence, Sherlock needed to escape as soon as possible. But not before ensuring that he should not lose his John again.
He just found him. Found John.
Yes, he was still angry, there were still many questions left to be answered. Everything was still not alright between them, but he would be a fool to let John go again. However, for now he needed to sort his feelings out, re-arrange his Mind Palace, needed to be with himself.
"I do not wish to continue this chat endlessly. This meeting is over."
Sherlock looked down his nose and saw John looking like as if a truck had hit him with all its force. Sherlock wondered if this could cause such a reaction then how did John look like after their last meeting. He realized that he did not want find out.
John stood up after much effort and whispered, "Oh, al-alright."
John's jaw was clenched tight and his Adam's apple bobbed. Sherlock observed
He thinks I am rejecting him…again.
An unknown ache shot through Sherlock's chest.
He looked at this vulnerable man, who was avoiding his gaze deliberately, and said, "I will be busy tomorrow but I may consider seeing you again the day after. Time will be the same and I prefer punctuality."
With this the great Sherlock Holmes, with magnifying glasses on his pajamas, turned and left the room, nose almost touching the sky. But not before he saw John's jaw hung open and his whole face splitted into half with a smile that made Sherlock's mouth go dry.
Sherlock also made sure to grab the gift before leaving.
~0~0~0~
The next morning, after the compulsory group breakfast which Sherlock joined for the first time, shocking everyone, Natalie cornered Sherlock.
"You have been wearing that blue scarf since last night." Her eyes were narrowed, as if deciphering a secret code.
"Either you start to learn how to form proper questions or stop bothering people with your inane statements. I have time for neither."
"Why?"
"Because I have a brain which do not feed on stupidity."
"Why are you wearing it?"
"Is there any rule that will prevent me from protecting myself against the cold?"
"Gotcha! John gave it to you, didn't he? When he came yesterday?! Oh my God, Sherlock! That's so cute! I am so happy that you resolved whatever problem you had. I'm so HAPPYYY!"
"I didn't know you were epileptic. Should I inform the doctors that you are having a seizure at the moment?"
"It won't work, darling. I knew you were a sap and now it is confirmed. Hah."
"You will NOT be able to find your phone this time."
"Wha-oh shit, oh fuck. SHERLOCK! Give me my phone, you thief."
~0~0~0~