Fiction: Won't Be Leaving
Title: Won't Be Leaving
Rating: PG
Pairings: John/Sherlock
Warnings: None
Word Count: 2,364
Summary: John and Sherlock's reunion and reconcilliation three years after Sherlock's "death" at Reichenbach Falls. A little angst, a little romance, and some music.
Won't Be Leaving
Well it's cold and it's raining. Midnight cars roll down the street.
Streetlight shines in the gutter, and you've gone off to sleep.
Baby, I sit up smoking, wipe the ashes off the bed.
Think of what you told me and the words I never said.
Won't be leaving, won't be leaving, anymore.*
POV: John
Sherlock, love, I know you're sleeping, but this is the only way I can talk to you. And I really need to talk. You see, I look at you now, and I see the man I knew, the one who's open and brave enough to tell me what he thinks, even if he knows it'll make me mad as hell. But come morning, I know I'll find that other poor sod, brilliant and charming and gorgeous as ever, but so numb and distant I hardly recognize him. Because it's a show Sherlock. I can read you, always could, and there's no feeling behind that smile. It's like you're a tree covered with dead limbs that hides its one living part inside a thick trunk, but for the life of me I can't get past all those scratchy branches and thick bark. I need in, Sherlock, and soon.
But, Christ, I'm no better. I mean, look at me. Three years and I haven't smiled once. Couldn't if you paid me. It's like I'm one of those desert pools, so alkaline I'm poison, and I slosh around this city, day after day, so full of tears I can't shed. Not a damned one, Sherlock. Not until…well you remember that night. Anyway, it's like everything I touch or see or hear or taste seems off, somehow, like it's been curdled in all this brine I carry around. And with you back home, reminding me of the old days, it makes it just that much harder to get by with so much less.
But I still love you, you know, you prickly son-of-a-bitch, and I know you love me. That's why I'm so glad to find you here every night, glad that you come join me after I'm asleep. I'll invite you myself soon. That's a promise. But not yet. I'm not ready. You remember what happened last week, and if that ever happened again, I do believe it would kill me. 'Cause when I look at you now, love, I forget it all, everything, except that you're that goddam beautiful angel who played dead for three years just so I would be safe.
*sigh*
I'm just going to move over here. If I try and hold you, the way I used to, shit, I'll just start crying again, and I really need to sleep. Clinic in the morning, you know. Goodnight, love.
Now a police helicopter flies circles in the sky.
And I ask myself, baby, could you believe just one more lie.
Baby, I sit up smoking, wipe the ashes off the bed.
Think of what you told me and the words I never said.
Won't be leaving, won't be leaving, anymore.*
POV: Sherlock
John? John? Not awake then. Fine, that's probably best. I have all day to talk to you when you're awake, but your face, it always looks like it's carrying the weight of the world, and I don't want to say anything that would add to that, so I play it safe and don't say anything at all. I'm trying, John, I really am, to make things right. But I'm not having much luck. We're both so different now. I should have known that everything couldn't be as it was. I miss that, John, more than ever now that I'm back. I miss you, and even though we're back sharing a flat again, I feel like we're still miles apart.
I wish you could see yourself. Everything about you softens when you sleep. You look like you're about eighteen and without a care in the world. Christ, looking at you like this I'm starting to feel like an old letch. I can't wait to see your face tomorrow morning. Lines and all, it's the one I carry in my heart.
I know I rushed things last week. Patience is not my strong suit. But I miss your warmth, your skin, and, most of all, that small gasp you make when you press in-it's like you're surprised every single time how good it feels when we're together. I just thought that, if we could be intimate, then maybe that would speed things along, get us to a better place. But I'd underestimated you again, how much you've been holding in. No wonder you exploded. Even a heart as big as yours can't hold in all that love and anger without getting it a little mixed up. So it's not your fault, John. It's mine, only mine, all of it. I honestly don't know what I would have done if things had been reversed, if you had left me.
*pause*
Don't leave me, John. Ever.
*pause*
So, John, I was thinking that I may just need your help. I always need it for the important things, whether I admit it or not, but now more than ever. You see, the usual routine, working cases together, playing my violin for you, isn't working. And I want to be able to surprise you again, anticipate what you want, what you need. I want to see that look on your face when I give you something amazing and you realize that I do pay attention after all. But that wide open face of yours, that window to your world, is closed, love. And, if I'm reading you right, there is nothing I can bring you, nothing I can show you that will make you smile. Not now. Not when you're like this. So what do I do?
I've been spending my days walking around London, just observing, trying to shake off the dust from those miserable years, to see if I can't look at things afresh. But in the end, the answer's with you, John. It always is.
I'm going downstairs to play now. I know the sound of the Strad grates on you, reminds you of what's been lost. But I need it, just like I need cigarettes and brainwork. I'll see you at breakfast. Maybe if I make you some jam on toast I'll get a smile instead of whatever it is you call that strained expression you've been making instead. It's worth a try. Haven't given up yet, John, my love, and I never will.
*kisses cheek before leaving*
I see you sleeping, our shoes on the floor
and it would be so easy, baby, to slip out the door.
But if you were awake, love, I swear I would tell you
that I won't be leaving, anymore.*
POV: John
Sherlock missed dinner, but came home around 9:00. His hours have always been erratic, so it doesn't bother me. Actually, it's kind of reassuring that he hasn't changed, at least in that way. Anyway, I was busy trying to think of something to blog about when he asked me the strangest thing. He'd bought a small radio, an expensive one by the looks of it, and wanted to try it out. Of course I told him that was fine.
Actually, I was very relieved. It's the damnedest thing, but ever since his return, whenever Sherlock plays his violin, I get so overwhelmed I have to make a dash for my room before I start weeping uncontrollably. Not for minutes, mind you, but for nearly an hour. When this happens I worry that I've insulted him, of course I do, but what can I say? How can I explain my reaction when I don't quite understand it myself?
I'd assumed he'd put on the classical station as I've never known him to be interested in any other kind of music. But, no, he'd tuned it to a station that plays old R&B and soul and even some blues, if you can believe it. And just as I began writing up some thoughts on childhood vaccination rates, this old Dinah Washington song came on, Make The Man Love Me, I think it was.
I looked up and was shocked to find Sherlock standing beside me, hand extended in invitation. It was clear. There was no mistake. He wanted to dance. Well, that was new. And after seeing that disarmingly hopeful expression on his face, I could think of nothing more appealing than to be wrapped up in his arms, to be holding him in mine, all the while rocking and stepping our way across the floor.
So we danced, and it was brilliant! Like some miracle, I could feel the heartache fall away as Dinah crooned and the horn section wailed behind her. The warmth of his body upon my cheek through that silk shirt of his (god I love that one), the feel of those long graceful fingers pressed firmly against my back, the slight rasp of stubble against my temple was all that I knew, all that I cared about. And best of all, I couldn't cry because I was so damned happy!
I looked up because I needed to see his face, which I already knew was smiling-I could feel it. And there they were, those grey blues looking down beneath that dark mop of his. My heart just about leapt out of my chest when I saw that, yes, those eyes were smiling too. And that's when it happened. Out of the blue, I felt them, the words I'd so long repressed, bubbling up without a thought, without a care.
"Next time, promise you'll take me with you."
And, would you believe it, it was Sherlock who was blubbering then, bless him, shoulders heaving even as those long graceful legs of his continued to step lightly to the song. His voice was so low and broken by sobs, but he spoke right into my ear, so I heard every bloody beautiful word.
"I promise, John. If there's leaving to be done, we're both going."
I hear sirens in the darkness, tell sad stories in the night.
Could have been me caught red-handed. Could have been me who lost the fight.
Baby, I sit up smoking, wipe the ashes off the bed.
Think of what you told me and the words I never said.
Won't be leaving, won't be leaving, anymore.*
POV: Sherlock
It came to me as I was passing one of those trendy clubs in Soho. I'd always connected with John through music, specifically by playing the Strad. But, obviously, that was not working. In fact, the violin made John sadder than ever; and, apparently, he isn't someone who benefits from having a good cry. So, when I saw those couples leaving the club, reeking of hormones, hanging all over each other but still swaying to the simple rhythms and emotionally charged chord progressions, I thought I'd give it a try.
Dancing. Together. I didn't know if I would like it, if he would like it. But I knew that John was becoming increasingly unhappy and frustrated since my return. It was only a matter of time before he realized he'd be better off leaving me and starting fresh with someone who wouldn't let him down the way I had, the way I was bound to do again. The price of a radio was a small price to pay to make that man happy, or at least happy enough to stay until I could think of something else.
John seemed surprised at my asking him to dance. But he didn't hesitate. That's my John-he always knows so quickly what he wants, and what he wants is so often right for us both. I must say I was surprised at how good he felt pressed up against me, vertical and fully clothed. Why we'd never tried dancing like this before, just a simple embrace, swaying to music (that surprisingly compelling music), is a mystery. He fit just perfectly, his soft hair brushing against my cheek, his hands resting gently on my hips. And he smelled so good, just like I remembered. Best of all, I could feel him relax, melt into me. It gave me cause to hope for what I wanted most, his trust and his forgiveness. But things had been so strained between us, I dared not ask. Then John, he must have known because he looked up and said these words, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
"Next time, promise you'll take me with you."
I'm not really sure why, whether it was because, again, John had dared to be so brave for the sake of us both; or whether it was because I knew now that he wasn't going to leave me; or whether it was because I was just so relieved that the hell of those last three years was finally behind us, but I was totally overcome with emotion. I was almost completely incapacitated by wave after wave of choking sobs that kept rising out of my chest. But regardless of my condition, John, my John, deserved an answer. So, using what was left of my voice, I gave him one.
"I promise, John. If there's leaving to be done, we're both going."
We swayed through the song, and then another, and another. All the while I clutched him tightly, sobbing into his shoulder like child. But I felt better, so much better than I had in a long time. Apparently, unlike John, I am one of those who benefits from a good cry.
By the fourth song I had recovered enough to think about leaving again, with John of course. The only question was whether we should go to the south of France or to the south of Wales. But before I could decide, John, that clever man, had taken my hand and was leading me upstairs. Well, he had forgiven me, so it was only right to let him choose our first destination.
Won't be leaving, won't be leaving, anymore.
Won't be leaving, won't be leaving...*
*song I Won't Be Leaving written by Dave Alvin. Youtube Link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ix9kl3-gFoQ
-fin-