Fic: Cut open my sternum and pull
Title: Cut open my sternum and pull
Links: AO3, LJ
Rating: PG-13
Status: Complete
Author: 30percent
Pairing: John/Mary, John/Sherlock
Tags: Angst, grieving, hurt/comfort, romance, slash
Word count: 1862
Disclaimer: Not mine, alas.
Warnings: Mentions of suicidal ideation, minor character death
Author's note: The title comes from Purity Ring’s Fineshrine, which I listen to rather compulsively when I write about these two.
Sherlock hovers: a great dramatic shadow, drifting in John’s wake.
***
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
White granite, polished to a shine. Elegant, feminine script - not the blocky, commanding presence of the headstone of a Holmes.
Tepid afternoon sunshine gives way to frigid evening wind, damp gusts of air rattling dry tree branches and sneaking chilly fingers under the wool of his scarf.
“John.” Sherlock’s voice is pitched so low he nearly doesn’t hear it.
He was supposed to be done with this. For a few decades, at least.
Fingers brush his sleeve. “John, they’re waiting for us.”
John turns. Sherlock’s face is unreadable in the dim light, but his eyes are bright.
John swallows. “It wasn’t supposed to be her.”
“I know.”
John braces his hands against Sherlock’s shoulders and shoves, ignoring Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath and the flash of pain in his eyes.
“It wasn’t supposed to be her.” His voice cracks.
“I know.”
If Sherlock had pushed back, or retaliated with a sharp remark, or even given John that condescending stare, he would have turned around, walked away.
But instead Sherlock’s brow furrows and his eyes turn bottomless and he mouths John’s name, silent but unmistakable, and something breaks inside John. A crack running down his spine, a fissure yawning wider and wider until he’s in pieces, and he fists his hands in the lapels of Sherlock’s coat and leans into him, his forehead to Sherlock’s collarbone, and shakes and shakes and shakes.
***
Concerned whispers just out of earshot.
Eyes filled with liquid sympathy.
It’s all so sickeningly familiar.
Mrs Hudson and bloody Mycroft and Sherlock, Sherlock of all people orchestrate the demise of his new life, and the construction of something painfully familiar.
After the services, a silent black car whisks him not to the flat he’d shared with Mary, but to Baker Street, where his overnight bag waits patiently just inside the threshold.
He can’t be bothered to care.
Someone manoeuvres him into an armchair and wraps his hand around a mug of tea.
He watches the steam rise until it disappears.
Eventually the room goes silent, family and well-wishers dispatched by Mrs Hudson. Sherlock returns to extract the mug from his unresisting fingers, and then stands in front of John, utterly silent.
John blinks at Sherlock’s knuckles, long fingers wrapped around the mug of cold tea. The clock ticks, and 221B is silent and oppressive in a way it hasn’t been since Sherlock was dead.
The moments tick by, and John whispers. “I don’t know if I can do this again.”
Sherlock abandons the mug on the end table, and kneels at John’s feet, head tipped down. He places a hand on each of John’s knees, palms shockingly warm through the fabric, and squeezes, once.
***
He thinks about it, in the small hours of the night.
He wouldn’t do it, not really. But when the panic wells up, and his mind is a churning kaleidoscope of I can’t do this, the metal is soothing under his fingertips, cool lines and blunt edges, and eventually his heartbeat slows.
Sometimes, knowing he could is the only way he gets through the day.
***
Sherlock hovers: a great dramatic shadow, drifting in John’s wake.
***
John forgets, countless times. Wakes up in the night expecting familiar warmth. Reaches for his phone to text her when Sherlock’s done something absurd, and the bottom falls out of his stomach.
***
He flings a mug, twice. Sends ceramic crashing against the wall, startling as a gunshot. He’s already apologizing before the sound has finished reverberating through the room, and sweeps up the shards with shaking fingers as he fights to regain his breath, Sherlock standing by with a furrowed brow and unreadable gaze.
***
He cries on Sherlock, once. Great ugly sobs they never mention again, inspired by darkness and nightmares and an unacceptable reality. Sherlock doesn’t murmur platitudes or stroke John’s hair, but his heart thunders under John’s cheek and his breath is ragged in John’s ear.
***
Six weeks pass before he shouts at Sherlock over body parts in the fridge.
***
Two months before John follows Sherlock’s coattails into a case again. Lestrade’s eyes go wide for just a moment, but he greets John casually enough. Thank god.
***
Three months before he speaks up on a case.
After two days of chasing down leads and one fist-fight in an alleyway, John ventures an opinion. “What about the brother? He seemed a bit dodgy to me, all those skull tattoos and drawings of guns lying about.”
Sherlock’s grin is feral. “John, excellent. Completely wrong, but valuable all the same. Of course! The sister! Clever, really. The brother was the perfect cover.”
He writes up the Case of the Tattooed Skull for the blog, the first update since -- well. He wakes up to 137 comments.
***
Six months before he laughs, really laughs, without the dull weight of guilt pressing on his chest immediately afterward.
***
Ten months before he kisses Sherlock.
***
The first time, he slides his hands up Sherlock’s jaw and into those curls and touches him because he can’t imagine not for a second longer, and Sherlock makes a sad lost desperate sound and pulls him closer. He’s warm and alive under John’s hands and mouth and tongue, but then John’s pulling away and pressing his mouth to Sherlock’s shoulder and gulping ragged breaths.
“This wasn’t... I never..” John closes his eyes. “I wasn’t wishing -- when Mary was....”
“I know.” Sherlock’s voice is low and quiet.
John pulls away, Sherlock’s fingers catching in his sleeve for a brief moment. John flees to his room before he chokes on his own regrets.
***
The second time he kisses Sherlock, it’s an apology.
John stumbles downstairs, still groggy with sleep, to find Sherlock perched in his armchair, fussing with his violin, discordant notes emerging plaintive and off-kilter at odd moments.
He looks so young, sitting there in his ratty t-shirt and dressing gown in the pale morning light, knees pulled to his chest, and when his eyes meet John’s, for the thinnest slice of a moment his gaze is wide and afraid before the shutters come down.
It’s Sherlock, and he’s human and alive and right here in the sitting room, and it’s unbelievable, really, that he has this chance. John crosses the room in long strides, coming round the back of the armchair to sway forward and wrap his arms around Sherlock’s chest, letting his head fall to the crook of Sherlock’s neck.
“Sherlock,” he sighs, pressing his mouth to warm, fragile skin. Sherlock’s head tips back, his hand loosening on his bow to reach up and drift over John’s hair, tentative.
How could he let this slip away, again? His fingers tighten in the thin fabric of Sherlock’s shirt, and the sudden swell of emotion in his chest leaves him nearly unable to breathe.
“I love you, you know.” John’s voice is hoarse, but the words are easy. It’s a simple statement of fact.
Sherlock’s fingers curl in his hair, and his voice is hushed. “I know.”
After one last shuddering breath, John slips away to make tea with shaking fingers, his back to Sherlock and his heart thundering in his chest.
***
The third time, it’s a promise.
John’s been dozing on the sofa one Sunday afternoon while Sherlock putters around the kitchen in his dressing gown, wielding a blowtorch and scalpel by turns.
It’s peaceful, really, and John lets himself relax in a way he hasn’t in... well. A long time.
So it shouldn’t be a surprise, then, when a roar from the kitchen nearly sends him tumbling off the sofa, and Sherlock’s subsequent dash for the fire extinguisher has him on his feet and running to check for damage before he’s fully awake.
By the time he reaches the kitchen, Sherlock has coated the entire table with a layer of foam, and the immediate danger seems to be over.
He rounds on Sherlock, reaching for his wrists to inspect his hands for damage. “Sherlock... what in... god’s name?”
“Everything was under control. It was simply a slight... augmentation of the expected results.”
Sherlock’s hands and forearms seem unscathed. “Oh, so bringing the entire fire squad round to the flat is your idea of under control?” He looks up. “We should probably--”
The words die in his throat as he meets Sherlock’s eyes. Which... are all the more alien now that he’s singed his own eyebrows off.
John blinks. “You.”
Sherlock sighs. “Exaggeration is beneath you, John. That explosion was hardly noticeable enough to alert the authorities.”
John blinks a few more times. A giggle bubbles up from somewhere before he’s even aware of it, and then he’s leaning on the table for balance as and laughs until he can barely breath.
Sherlock’s scowls, and the effect is priceless. “Have you gone mad?”
John wipes at his eyes and tries to control himself, gesturing lamely in Sherlock’s direction. “You... just... your eyebrows.”
Sherlock’s spine straightens, wounded dignity on full display. “What about my eyebrows? No, don’t tell me. Your juvenile behavior and a rather distinct smell in the air makes it clear. I’ve burned them.”
John nearly loses it at that, but instead he takes a deep breath presses his lips together to suppress a grin.
Sherlock starts to turn away, likely to go sulk on the sofa and leave John to clean up this unholy mess, but John stops him with a hand to his arm. “Hold on, let me look at you.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t pull away.
John slides his hands up to cup Sherlock’s jaw, tilting his head toward the light to check for burns. He’s a bit pink, but he’s managed to escaped serious damage. “Why weren’t you wearing your goggles?”
Sherlock doesn’t answer, and John meets his gaze.
Sherlock is perfectly still, his eyes wide and vulnerable and fixed on John. As John watches, his eyes close and his brow furrows. “John”, he murmurs, a broken breath of sound.
“Sherlock,” John sighs, and then he’s tipping forward and tugging Sherlock closer and they’re kissing, lips and tongue and the careless click of teeth.
Long moments pass before John pulls back just far enough to speak, their foreheads pressed together, sharing the same breath. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, running a thumb over the blade of one cheekbone, and god how long has he wanted that--
Sherlock’s shoulders tighten, just a fraction. “Why?”
“Not like that. Just -- you. I.” He sighs in frustration, but Sherlock seems to understand.
“So no more running away?” Sherlock’s voice is low, more rumble than sound.
John shakes his head where they’re pressed together, running his nose along Sherlock’s cheek and tightening his hand on the nape of Sherlock’s neck.
“Good.” Sherlock steps forward, crowding John back until he’s pressed against the kitchen table, and grips John’s hips and groans into his mouth, tongue sliding deep and hot. John issues an undignified mff of surprise, but drops a hand down to fist in the fabric at the small of Sherlock’s back to pull him closer.
Sherlock slides his lips along John’s jaw and nuzzles at the sensitive skin below his ear. “I’ve been waiting.”
John brushes his lips over Sherlock’s hair. “I know.”
Links: AO3, LJ
Rating: PG-13
Status: Complete
Author: 30percent
Pairing: John/Mary, John/Sherlock
Tags: Angst, grieving, hurt/comfort, romance, slash
Word count: 1862
Disclaimer: Not mine, alas.
Warnings: Mentions of suicidal ideation, minor character death
Author's note: The title comes from Purity Ring’s Fineshrine, which I listen to rather compulsively when I write about these two.
Sherlock hovers: a great dramatic shadow, drifting in John’s wake.
***
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
White granite, polished to a shine. Elegant, feminine script - not the blocky, commanding presence of the headstone of a Holmes.
Tepid afternoon sunshine gives way to frigid evening wind, damp gusts of air rattling dry tree branches and sneaking chilly fingers under the wool of his scarf.
“John.” Sherlock’s voice is pitched so low he nearly doesn’t hear it.
He was supposed to be done with this. For a few decades, at least.
Fingers brush his sleeve. “John, they’re waiting for us.”
John turns. Sherlock’s face is unreadable in the dim light, but his eyes are bright.
John swallows. “It wasn’t supposed to be her.”
“I know.”
John braces his hands against Sherlock’s shoulders and shoves, ignoring Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath and the flash of pain in his eyes.
“It wasn’t supposed to be her.” His voice cracks.
“I know.”
If Sherlock had pushed back, or retaliated with a sharp remark, or even given John that condescending stare, he would have turned around, walked away.
But instead Sherlock’s brow furrows and his eyes turn bottomless and he mouths John’s name, silent but unmistakable, and something breaks inside John. A crack running down his spine, a fissure yawning wider and wider until he’s in pieces, and he fists his hands in the lapels of Sherlock’s coat and leans into him, his forehead to Sherlock’s collarbone, and shakes and shakes and shakes.
***
Concerned whispers just out of earshot.
Eyes filled with liquid sympathy.
It’s all so sickeningly familiar.
Mrs Hudson and bloody Mycroft and Sherlock, Sherlock of all people orchestrate the demise of his new life, and the construction of something painfully familiar.
After the services, a silent black car whisks him not to the flat he’d shared with Mary, but to Baker Street, where his overnight bag waits patiently just inside the threshold.
He can’t be bothered to care.
Someone manoeuvres him into an armchair and wraps his hand around a mug of tea.
He watches the steam rise until it disappears.
Eventually the room goes silent, family and well-wishers dispatched by Mrs Hudson. Sherlock returns to extract the mug from his unresisting fingers, and then stands in front of John, utterly silent.
John blinks at Sherlock’s knuckles, long fingers wrapped around the mug of cold tea. The clock ticks, and 221B is silent and oppressive in a way it hasn’t been since Sherlock was dead.
The moments tick by, and John whispers. “I don’t know if I can do this again.”
Sherlock abandons the mug on the end table, and kneels at John’s feet, head tipped down. He places a hand on each of John’s knees, palms shockingly warm through the fabric, and squeezes, once.
***
He thinks about it, in the small hours of the night.
He wouldn’t do it, not really. But when the panic wells up, and his mind is a churning kaleidoscope of I can’t do this, the metal is soothing under his fingertips, cool lines and blunt edges, and eventually his heartbeat slows.
Sometimes, knowing he could is the only way he gets through the day.
***
Sherlock hovers: a great dramatic shadow, drifting in John’s wake.
***
John forgets, countless times. Wakes up in the night expecting familiar warmth. Reaches for his phone to text her when Sherlock’s done something absurd, and the bottom falls out of his stomach.
***
He flings a mug, twice. Sends ceramic crashing against the wall, startling as a gunshot. He’s already apologizing before the sound has finished reverberating through the room, and sweeps up the shards with shaking fingers as he fights to regain his breath, Sherlock standing by with a furrowed brow and unreadable gaze.
***
He cries on Sherlock, once. Great ugly sobs they never mention again, inspired by darkness and nightmares and an unacceptable reality. Sherlock doesn’t murmur platitudes or stroke John’s hair, but his heart thunders under John’s cheek and his breath is ragged in John’s ear.
***
Six weeks pass before he shouts at Sherlock over body parts in the fridge.
***
Two months before John follows Sherlock’s coattails into a case again. Lestrade’s eyes go wide for just a moment, but he greets John casually enough. Thank god.
***
Three months before he speaks up on a case.
After two days of chasing down leads and one fist-fight in an alleyway, John ventures an opinion. “What about the brother? He seemed a bit dodgy to me, all those skull tattoos and drawings of guns lying about.”
Sherlock’s grin is feral. “John, excellent. Completely wrong, but valuable all the same. Of course! The sister! Clever, really. The brother was the perfect cover.”
He writes up the Case of the Tattooed Skull for the blog, the first update since -- well. He wakes up to 137 comments.
***
Six months before he laughs, really laughs, without the dull weight of guilt pressing on his chest immediately afterward.
***
Ten months before he kisses Sherlock.
***
The first time, he slides his hands up Sherlock’s jaw and into those curls and touches him because he can’t imagine not for a second longer, and Sherlock makes a sad lost desperate sound and pulls him closer. He’s warm and alive under John’s hands and mouth and tongue, but then John’s pulling away and pressing his mouth to Sherlock’s shoulder and gulping ragged breaths.
“This wasn’t... I never..” John closes his eyes. “I wasn’t wishing -- when Mary was....”
“I know.” Sherlock’s voice is low and quiet.
John pulls away, Sherlock’s fingers catching in his sleeve for a brief moment. John flees to his room before he chokes on his own regrets.
***
The second time he kisses Sherlock, it’s an apology.
John stumbles downstairs, still groggy with sleep, to find Sherlock perched in his armchair, fussing with his violin, discordant notes emerging plaintive and off-kilter at odd moments.
He looks so young, sitting there in his ratty t-shirt and dressing gown in the pale morning light, knees pulled to his chest, and when his eyes meet John’s, for the thinnest slice of a moment his gaze is wide and afraid before the shutters come down.
It’s Sherlock, and he’s human and alive and right here in the sitting room, and it’s unbelievable, really, that he has this chance. John crosses the room in long strides, coming round the back of the armchair to sway forward and wrap his arms around Sherlock’s chest, letting his head fall to the crook of Sherlock’s neck.
“Sherlock,” he sighs, pressing his mouth to warm, fragile skin. Sherlock’s head tips back, his hand loosening on his bow to reach up and drift over John’s hair, tentative.
How could he let this slip away, again? His fingers tighten in the thin fabric of Sherlock’s shirt, and the sudden swell of emotion in his chest leaves him nearly unable to breathe.
“I love you, you know.” John’s voice is hoarse, but the words are easy. It’s a simple statement of fact.
Sherlock’s fingers curl in his hair, and his voice is hushed. “I know.”
After one last shuddering breath, John slips away to make tea with shaking fingers, his back to Sherlock and his heart thundering in his chest.
***
The third time, it’s a promise.
John’s been dozing on the sofa one Sunday afternoon while Sherlock putters around the kitchen in his dressing gown, wielding a blowtorch and scalpel by turns.
It’s peaceful, really, and John lets himself relax in a way he hasn’t in... well. A long time.
So it shouldn’t be a surprise, then, when a roar from the kitchen nearly sends him tumbling off the sofa, and Sherlock’s subsequent dash for the fire extinguisher has him on his feet and running to check for damage before he’s fully awake.
By the time he reaches the kitchen, Sherlock has coated the entire table with a layer of foam, and the immediate danger seems to be over.
He rounds on Sherlock, reaching for his wrists to inspect his hands for damage. “Sherlock... what in... god’s name?”
“Everything was under control. It was simply a slight... augmentation of the expected results.”
Sherlock’s hands and forearms seem unscathed. “Oh, so bringing the entire fire squad round to the flat is your idea of under control?” He looks up. “We should probably--”
The words die in his throat as he meets Sherlock’s eyes. Which... are all the more alien now that he’s singed his own eyebrows off.
John blinks. “You.”
Sherlock sighs. “Exaggeration is beneath you, John. That explosion was hardly noticeable enough to alert the authorities.”
John blinks a few more times. A giggle bubbles up from somewhere before he’s even aware of it, and then he’s leaning on the table for balance as and laughs until he can barely breath.
Sherlock’s scowls, and the effect is priceless. “Have you gone mad?”
John wipes at his eyes and tries to control himself, gesturing lamely in Sherlock’s direction. “You... just... your eyebrows.”
Sherlock’s spine straightens, wounded dignity on full display. “What about my eyebrows? No, don’t tell me. Your juvenile behavior and a rather distinct smell in the air makes it clear. I’ve burned them.”
John nearly loses it at that, but instead he takes a deep breath presses his lips together to suppress a grin.
Sherlock starts to turn away, likely to go sulk on the sofa and leave John to clean up this unholy mess, but John stops him with a hand to his arm. “Hold on, let me look at you.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t pull away.
John slides his hands up to cup Sherlock’s jaw, tilting his head toward the light to check for burns. He’s a bit pink, but he’s managed to escaped serious damage. “Why weren’t you wearing your goggles?”
Sherlock doesn’t answer, and John meets his gaze.
Sherlock is perfectly still, his eyes wide and vulnerable and fixed on John. As John watches, his eyes close and his brow furrows. “John”, he murmurs, a broken breath of sound.
“Sherlock,” John sighs, and then he’s tipping forward and tugging Sherlock closer and they’re kissing, lips and tongue and the careless click of teeth.
Long moments pass before John pulls back just far enough to speak, their foreheads pressed together, sharing the same breath. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, running a thumb over the blade of one cheekbone, and god how long has he wanted that--
Sherlock’s shoulders tighten, just a fraction. “Why?”
“Not like that. Just -- you. I.” He sighs in frustration, but Sherlock seems to understand.
“So no more running away?” Sherlock’s voice is low, more rumble than sound.
John shakes his head where they’re pressed together, running his nose along Sherlock’s cheek and tightening his hand on the nape of Sherlock’s neck.
“Good.” Sherlock steps forward, crowding John back until he’s pressed against the kitchen table, and grips John’s hips and groans into his mouth, tongue sliding deep and hot. John issues an undignified mff of surprise, but drops a hand down to fist in the fabric at the small of Sherlock’s back to pull him closer.
Sherlock slides his lips along John’s jaw and nuzzles at the sensitive skin below his ear. “I’ve been waiting.”
John brushes his lips over Sherlock’s hair. “I know.”