One percent for the extraordinary
It's my birthday today and since I'm not so lucky to have a bunch of friends around here who would write "treats" for me I've decided to publish a story as a birthday gift from me to you, my readers.
The prompt for this I've found here and I fancied it immediately; though when I've discovered that it's been actually written down in a most marvelous form, I took the liberty of altering it slightly. What if John, upon seeing Sherlock on the steps to 221B, immediately jumped to the conclusion that he's finally lost his sanity and started projecting his lost friend? An awful lot of misunderstandings would occur, to be sure.
It should have been funny, but somehow it turned out more angsty that I predicted. It's been a hard work too to construct the dialogues so that John would be hearing only what he wants to hear and Sherlock (as usual) not listening at all, only deducing in advance (and wrong).
And not a single word of this would ever be published weren't it be for the invaluable help of AlwaysNifty who beta-ed this for me and laughed at the right places:)
Seventy-three percent chance of being punched, this increases to eighty if John’s been dumped by another girlfriend recently. Eleven percent probability of severe shock, either because of joy or anger. Seven, maybe eight percent of fainting. Anything between one and seven percent chance of some, hitherto unheard of, declaration. As much as Sherlock hates to err, he prefers to err on the safe side, so he’s leaving the one remaining percent to anything extraordinary.
“What the f...!”
The extraordinary, of course, happened. Sherlock would have been glad to have had the wisdom to devise a scenario for a case where a scenario couldn’t be predicted. Because the door slamming right in his face, leaving him standing on the door to 221B, left him more than confused.
On the other side of the wooden barrier, a gentle thud tells the tale of John resting his head against the door a little bit more fiercely than needed. As if the pain could help him to regain his composure. Muttered curses interlace with barely distinguishable sighing, and Sherlock is sure his sharp hearing catches something like “I knew this would happen, to the hell with it all,” which leaves him, at once, pleased and suspicious. Did Mycroft talk, after all?
The door opens a little again and John’s face peers out; bearing the same expression of questioning incredulity it showed the day he discovered the severed head in the fridge.
“It happened,” he says, half to himself. It sounds like a mere statement of fact, like he was letting it sink into his mind and getting used to it already, like the calm and enduring John he always was.
“Yes, John,” Sherlock is forced to clear his throat because of an unexpected tightness, “I came back.”
“God, even the voice’s the same,” John exhales with an awe slightly bordering on amusement. He clears his throat too, casts swift glances in both directions of the street, and then shifts from one foot to another.
“Well, um. It’s not like I didn’t expect it... with all the... oh, never mind.” He catches a casual glance of a man passing by and suddenly appears to get self-conscious.
John is ashamed of himself, Sherlock deduces quickly. It had probably hit him at last that having an emotionally-charged conversation in the public on a highly-frequented street is far from English. As if he suddenly remembered leaving a burnt meal in the oven, John turns abruptly back into the house, climbing the stairs with the uneven march of old, letting the door swing closed. Sherlock catches it in time and lets himself in. One percent for the extraordinary, indeed.
“I’m glad you expected this,” Sherlock feels a heavy burden removed from his heart but still approaches John in the kitchen rather cautiously. John snorts.
“I’d rather have had more strength of mind in the end,” he replies with a strange sort of resignation and Sherlock wonders briefly what to make of this. Mycroft had kept him informed about John’s whereabouts, and he seemed to be doing fine.
“But then it wasn’t easy, you know. I think, I wished you’d never left me.” John shrugs and looks apologetic, of all things.
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock hastens to assure him. “I can explain, John. Tell you how I...”
“Oh I’m sure I don’t want to hear the details,” John waves his hand. Sherlock is taken aback, but surmises for the present. He assumes that John might just need some time to get accustomed to the novelty of having his friend back and it wouldn’t be good to overload him with too many unsettling revelations at once.
“I... all is fine, then?”
“All’s just fine,” John nods and turns to the counter: putting the kettle on. His hands are steady, and there’s a gentle smile round his lips, like he was remembering a good dream.
Sherlock wanders off to the sofa and stretches himself out on it, letting the long-missed smell of tea fill his nose and feeling his palm itch with longing for the warm cup John’s about to hand him soon, just like the old days.
Only that, John’s taking his cup, the only one he’s made, and he’s going upstairs to his room without a word or look in Sherlock’s direction.
Okay, Sherlock muses. He didn’t expect things to go easily, after all. If John’s going to sulk at last, Sherlock will let him.
***
“You’re still here?”
John stands in the middle of the living room, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and shaking his head at the sight of Sherlock who’s fallen asleep on the sofa some time in the middle of the night.
“There’s nowhere else I’d want to be,” Sherlock confirms, trying to infuse as much warmth into his voice as his heart is currently overflowing with.
“Of course.” It’s such a relief that John understands, Sherlock thinks, no need to trample upon the emotional side of all this.
“I just didn’t expect this to be... a permanent thing,” John finishes, and Sherlock gapes. Perhaps John doesn’t trust him, his true intentions to stay and to repent. Painful as it is, it’s understandable.
“You did leave me before,” John adds as if having read Sherlock’s thoughts from his face.
“I had to, John. You must understand that...” It would seem that Sherlock’s never going to get a chance to boast about the extent of his cleverness and the depth of his sacrifice, because John’s never going to let him finish.
“Oh great.” A hint of anger in John’s voice, at last.
“That’s why you’re here, like this? To make me understand why you’ve killed yourself in front of your fucking best friend? I don’t want to hear it, thanks. I don’t want to understand. It’s not something that a normal person could ever understand and I’m fucked enough right now, don’t need to sink even deeper. I don’t want to look for excuses for what you did and I won’t have this...” he stopped, swallowed, and pointed an accusing finger, “...you - presenting them to me like some fucking kind of therapy.”
“Do be reasonable, John. Refusing...”
John, in his righteous wrath, is inexorable.
“You be reasonable, if that’s possible. It’s enough that it seems I can’t help it - you being here. I’d appreciate if you’d keep your mouth shut when I ask you to. Surely I can expect this little of you?”
Sherlock shrinks back to the sofa silently. Time, he reminds himself, John needs time. Perhaps he needs to forgive first and to understand after. The logical course would be quite reversed, but one can’t expect logic from John, not all the time.
“Good.” John nods, evidently satisfied a little. “It’s nice it’s working this way.”
“Would it be easier for you if I stayed elsewhere for a while? Just dropping by now and then.” Sherlock tries not to sound like he’s pleading.
“Maybe you don’t want to hear this, but I’ve... missed you.”
John’s face softens a shade and there’s the half-sad smile that’s confusing Sherlock because it seems it’s not directed at him, or connected with him, at all.
“I’m sure I did want to hear that.” Then he shakes his head, as if waking from a daydream, and regards his friend contemplatively.
“Actually, it’s better to have you here. The flat feels more... real.” On that, he retreats to the bathroom, giggling occasionally to himself like he’d heard a particularly good joke.
***
A quiet routine settles over the flat over the course of few days. John’s still silently refusing to act as the provider once more: stubbornly making only his own portions of meals and tea just for himself, but otherwise their co-habitation is smooth and seamless.
It’s clear, though, that John’s not appeased yet. They move around each other in a strange kind of armistice - John amazingly, peaceful and terribly fine with it all and Sherlock feels like he’s walking the minefield.
John’s usually off to the clinic before Sherlock wakes up. Sherlock’s lounging around the flat for some hours, getting used to the feeling of home again. His restoration hasn’t begun yet so he’s better staying shut up in here. When John returns, usually late, Sherlock’s always the first to bid him good evening, and slowly, but steadily John’s replies lose the undertone of startling incredulity that had been colouring them during the first days. He smiles more often now. Sometimes they discuss the newspapers or watch telly together. But most of the time, Sherlock feels like another piece of furniture to his friend, and it makes him want to climb the walls in frustration.
He must devise some plans for dragging John out of his stubborn mindset. A dinner, perhaps could do.
The first real outburst of expected anger comes from an unexpected direction, though.
“What the hell is this!” John is back home for barely ten seconds and now he’s yelling in the kitchen, glaring at a forgotten cup of tea Sherlock’s made for himself some time during the day like it was an outrage to John’s sense of military order. Interesting, Sherlock doesn’t remember that John would ever display such fondness of neatness and order in the past. He has to remind himself that John’s had the flat for himself for three years and...
“I could have sworn I didn’t make that tea,” John continues his fussing.
“Of course not. I made it for me.”
“Like the hell you did. You’ve never made a damned cuppa in your life. Not to mention to wash it afterwards. Sherlock, we have to set some rules.”
The change in conversation - as if this one-sided ranting could be described as such - interests Sherlock immediately. Rules require actions to be applied to, it means there has been some progress. One doesn’t need rules for ignoring each other. He straightens expectantly and puts on an eager face.
“Sherlock, I really don’t mind seeing you around, but I don’t fancy letting things get any worse. I’ve already got rid of the annoying habit of making two cups instead of one and I don’t want to get back to it. No messing up, okay?”
Not quite the rules Sherlock expected. But that’s not the point now. Something John’s said stirred an unwelcome feeling: a sudden chill that has very little to do with the fact that the temperature in their flat is set lower than it used to be before he left.
“You don’t mind me here,” Sherlock echoes the words that struck him cold.
“Well, what did you expect?” John flails his arms wide.
“Frankly, I expected some degree of violence, at the best.”
“Hardly any sense in punching you now, is there?” John sighs and suddenly, the anger is gone, his shoulders sagging, his calm composure regained.
“I should have punched you before you jumped off that roof. Or, at least, talked to you a little more. It’s no use now. Ella says I shouldn’t be talking to you at all, that I should ignore you. But I... you know I talked to you for days on end, in the beginning, when it was still fresh - I suppose I brought this on myself.”
“No, you didn’t,” Sherlock protests instantly. “It wasn’t your fault, but mine. If only you could trust me that it had to be done. I know I deserve being ignored for what I’ve put you through and I’m sorry...”
He’s interrupted again in the midst of his explanations by an unexpected bark of laughter. John laughs so hard that he has to wipe his eyes.
“You know what I’ve been through! I’m damn sure I wanted to hear that as well, but hearing it coming from your mouth sounds so funny. You never had a speck of empathy, Sherlock. My subconscious mind might wish that you did, but frankly, it’s better if stay the way you were.”
Despite his resolutions not to do so, Sherlock decides it’s time for a sulk, and curls up on the sofa with his back turned to the room. If John doesn’t want his understanding, Sherlock won’t exert himself. Win-win scenario.
“Just like that,” John chuckles appreciatively and off he goes to make dinner. Just for himself.
Later that night, Sherlock sneaks in the kitchen and finds himself something to eat. He makes sure to put everything back into the exact state it was before, even if it feels oddly like he’s stealing.
***
“I had to do it. There was no other way. Moriarty had set a trap for me, he would have killed you if I didn’t jump...”
“Moriarty never existed.” John stands barely two feet away and yet seems so unreachable: eyes hard as flint above a condescending smile. “You invented him for your own purposes.”
“John!” Surely he couldn’t swallow all this bullshit? No, not John.
“Don’t you remember? The Game, the pool, you in that bomb-jacket? You of all people must know...”
“I never existed either.”
His smiling face now morphs into someone equally familiar. Lestrade.
“You never had a flatmate. You never had a friend. You’ve invented John so you had someone to boast to and then you’ve strapped him to Semtex so you could hate your Moriarty even more. All in your head.”
Sherlock wakes up almost falling off the bed, drenched in sweat. The dream is rapidly escaping the grasp of his conscious mind, leaving behind only a vague feeling of a missing clue. As his heart rate slows, he realizes there’s a sound that awoken him: muffled, incoherent cries and sobs from the room above.
“Oh, it’s you. Please, not here, not now.” John groans and blinks into the light from his night-stand lamp. Sherlock turns it off again but remains still, sitting on the perch of John’s bed, not withdrawing his hand from John’s shoulder.
“You had a nightmare.” Surely, that’s a perfectly logical explanation for one man’s presence in another man’s bedroom in the middle of the night, at least, if the two men are friends. Sherlock hopes they still are.
“It’s hardly news,” John yawns. “I have problems with REM sleep. Failing exams at uni, getting shot in Afghanistan, watching a certain detective falling to his death. There’s always a scenario handy, you know.”
John’s voice is light but his heavy breathing betrays the actual dread these dreams cause him. The muscles in his shoulders are tense, rock hard under Sherlock’s fingers, and that’s why Sherlock moves at last to sit behind his friend, pulling his upper body to lean against his own and massaging his neck with slow, steady circles. Much to his surprise, John lets him.
“I never wanted this,” John says after a long pause, as if correcting an unseen witness of this scene that no, it’s not what it looks like.
“You’ve never asked for this, that’s different.” Sherlock keeps the pace and the pressure and feels the tension melt slowly away. John hums with approval and slides a little bit lower, half-sitting, half-laying on Sherlock’s lap, letting him pet his head like one might a cat.
“Anyway, you’re not jumping from the bed and throwing up dramatically, like a proper straight man,” Sherlock points out mockingly. John’s not even blushing. He’s content, relaxed. Fine with this.
Sherlock lowers his head to murmur close to John’s ear: “I could give you more. Anything. I’ve never been attracted to anybody, but I don’t mind when it’s you.”
“Well, that’s a turn on,” John huffs out, somewhere between irony and real amusement.
Take that, John, Sherlock thinks. You’re not the only one here NOT MINDING.
“My poor head. I could never imagine anything like this.” Still that amused, relaxed, totally all fine tone, so Sherlock decides to pull the strings a little more.
“Don’t you tell me you’ve never fantasised about me.”
“Ha!” John’s practically laughing now. “Have you ever seen yourself in the mirror? Your face, the way you walk, and the way you dress! Half of the London used to fantasise about you. And the other half too, if you consider kicking your arse for a shag.”
With his friend’s back pressed so close to his own body, Sherlock can easily read any change in John’s emotions; the sagging of shoulders indicates sadness creeping back in, the folding of his arms means he’s shutting down again.
“There were men, before. I was in the sodding Army for God’s sake. I have enough experience to be sure that I’m not gay.”
Then he adds, as if to soften the harsh statement: “It might have been different with you... but there’s no need to think about it now.”
“You’re sure you don’t want to think it over?” Sherlock’s dangerously close to begging, but he doesn’t mind.
“Pretty sure.” Another yawn that nearly splits John’s face in half. “Anyway, I’m not having a sexual identity crisis in the middle of the night. I’m too tired for it now, and too old for it on the whole.”
Five minutes later, Sherlock is still not moving apart from his fingers which are slowly tracing the shapes of seams of the bones of John’s skull, and John’s still letting him.
“Why are you here?” A whisper: fitting in the dark.
“Comforting you. Don’t tell me it isn’t working.”
“Not now. Altogether. I think you’re here to reconcile me with you. So I’d stop hating you when I remember that I once...” The rest of the sentence is swallowed rapidly.
“You once?” Sherlock is very careful not to break the spell of the moment, while never stopping his gentle caresses, neither venturing for more, nor moving for an inch. He succeeds and John doesn’t stop talking to him, but it’s close.
“Nothing you could understand.”
“The concept of romance isn’t so unfamiliar to me.”
“Romance!” John jolts in his arms, sitting up and turning so that he can see him, and Sherlock can see John too, eyes glinting in the traces of light from the street.
“That’s what everybody assumed, right? It was so much more than that, Sherlock. You were fucking essential. Living with you was like breathing to me, and when you.. jumped... Don’t try to imagine anything like having your heart burned out or something. You’ve proved enough times that one can live without a heart. Imagine that it’s your lungs that are ripped out, and you’re choking every day... oh, I forgot that too. Breathing’s boring.”
Sherlock reaches for his face, but John’s already withdrawing from him again. He tries nonetheless: “Breathing for you was never boring, John.”
“That’s why you jumped off a building and made me watch?”
Somewhere in the control room of his head, Sherlock feels the annoying yellow lights of frustration turn into warning red of anger. “Thank you for bringing it up, again.”
“Yeah, I keep reminding myself that you’re a heartless bastard so I wouldn’t start projecting any unrealistic wishes into you.” The anger is mirrored back at him like from a polished shield.
“I’m not going to apologize over and over. There was nothing you could do. It had to be done.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to convince myself all the time.” John’s eyes are narrow, no more of light reflecting in them. “Nothing that I could do. No way we could solve it together. No chance I could talk you out of it. You never cared that much.”
John recites it like a mantra and Sherlock can see that this is part of the self-preservation mindset John rooted in deeply through the last three years.
“Is the pain any better when you’re hurting my feelings in return?”
John smiles and Sherlock nearly freezes because something of the strange smile evokes a part of the earlier dream.
“But you don’t have any feelings, do you? Now get off my bedroom.”
***
In the late afternoon on the sixth or seventh day - Sherlock’s so bored that he doesn’t even bother keeping exact count - Mycroft shows up. Sherlock recognizes his steps on the stairs before the unpopular face of his brother can dampen the atmosphere in their living room and assumes his usual retreat spot near the window, fidgeting with his violin and making a show of ignoring his visitor.
To his surprise, Mycroft seems to ignore him in return, and addresses John who happens to be at home that day.
To Sherlock’s further annoyance, the usual vein of marked ignorance is more pronounced today, as John is quite hell-bent on ignoring Sherlock in front of his brother. Sherlock’s perfectly aware that John notices every pulled face and each dismissive snort that Sherlock bestows on Mycroft, but makes sure that Mycroft doesn’t see his amused smirks.
He’s ashamed to show that I’m still capable of making him smile. That hurts.
As for Mycroft, his detached glance surveys everything in the room except the window nook where his younger brother sulks to an extreme.
The tea is brought in (two cups only, of course) and after the social niceties are exchanged, Mycroft begins in a business-like voice:
“John, you should know that my brother, shortly before his demise, feared that you’d be subjected to an attack from some member of Moriarty’s web, and gave me instructions that I followed accordingly, despite their... obtrusive nature.”
“Oh no. Are you telling me that...”
“Quite so. There’s a constant surveillance set on the hallway and living areas of 221B. And I must say... the footage from last few days has been... interesting.”
John’s rubbing his temples, the tips of his ears are pink with embarrassment, his eyes are firmly shut.
“What are you up to, Mycroft?” Sherlock growls from his corner. His brother flashes him one of his calculated, lupine smiles but breaks eye contact before John lifts his head again.
“Okay,” John sighs, “so I hope you’ve enjoyed the show. Captain John Watson, MD, going mad as a hatter. Are you going to have me sectioned? Because you see, he never bothers me at work, it’s not like I’m seeing white mice or anything... ”
Sherlock is so stricken that he doesn’t bother to hide it. “I didn’t know I was upsetting you that much.”
Mycroft’s smile is impossibly smug.
“Has it ever occurred to you, John, that there may be nothing wrong with your perception?”
Blank face. “What do you mean?” Two blank faces, actually. Sherlock’s eyelids begin to flutter; he’s on a verge of something...
“I think I’ll leave the explanation to the Detective Inspector,” Mycroft drawls amusedly and to be sure, there’s the sound of footsteps on the stairs again, swift and excited, taking them two at a time, and in a matter of seconds Lestrade bursts in the room, bewilderment and hope mixed in his face.
“God, it’s true!” he exclaims and grins, and John’s suddenly feeling very cold, because Greg is grinning right at Sherlock. “I didn’t believe it when Mr. Holmes called me in but, God strike me dead if I ever say it again, I’m glad to have you back.”
There’s a strange grey haze surrounding everything in the room save for the faces, and John is flickering his dazed eyes between the two brothers, frozen like a deer in the headlights. Mycroft is the personification of satisfaction and Sherlock is... oh.
Sherlock’s laughing. Trembling with laughter, breathing in amongst almost hysterical gasps, and he knows it’s just the impossible relief making its way through the anxiety in him but he can’t help it, he laughs and struggles for air and it’s ridiculous how is he still trying to speak in between...
“Brilliant. That’s so brilliant. You’re right, Mycroft, you’ve deduced it, and I haven’t. Oh my God, John, I understand now. Like how you asked - why are you here? - it should have occurred to me how wrong this question was. Oh, and that conversation in your b-”
Sherlock never gets the chance to embarrass John any further as his laughter is cut short by one well-aimed punch. Seventy-three percent is far too high to neglect.
Later in the afternoon, a delayed shock takes place. John sits on the sofa most of the time and stares. He listens, too.
Sometime in the middle of the night, he kisses Sherlock, too. It would be pity to waste those seven percent on becoming a complete man again.
The prompt for this I've found here and I fancied it immediately; though when I've discovered that it's been actually written down in a most marvelous form, I took the liberty of altering it slightly. What if John, upon seeing Sherlock on the steps to 221B, immediately jumped to the conclusion that he's finally lost his sanity and started projecting his lost friend? An awful lot of misunderstandings would occur, to be sure.
It should have been funny, but somehow it turned out more angsty that I predicted. It's been a hard work too to construct the dialogues so that John would be hearing only what he wants to hear and Sherlock (as usual) not listening at all, only deducing in advance (and wrong).
And not a single word of this would ever be published weren't it be for the invaluable help of AlwaysNifty who beta-ed this for me and laughed at the right places:)
Seventy-three percent chance of being punched, this increases to eighty if John’s been dumped by another girlfriend recently. Eleven percent probability of severe shock, either because of joy or anger. Seven, maybe eight percent of fainting. Anything between one and seven percent chance of some, hitherto unheard of, declaration. As much as Sherlock hates to err, he prefers to err on the safe side, so he’s leaving the one remaining percent to anything extraordinary.
“What the f...!”
The extraordinary, of course, happened. Sherlock would have been glad to have had the wisdom to devise a scenario for a case where a scenario couldn’t be predicted. Because the door slamming right in his face, leaving him standing on the door to 221B, left him more than confused.
On the other side of the wooden barrier, a gentle thud tells the tale of John resting his head against the door a little bit more fiercely than needed. As if the pain could help him to regain his composure. Muttered curses interlace with barely distinguishable sighing, and Sherlock is sure his sharp hearing catches something like “I knew this would happen, to the hell with it all,” which leaves him, at once, pleased and suspicious. Did Mycroft talk, after all?
The door opens a little again and John’s face peers out; bearing the same expression of questioning incredulity it showed the day he discovered the severed head in the fridge.
“It happened,” he says, half to himself. It sounds like a mere statement of fact, like he was letting it sink into his mind and getting used to it already, like the calm and enduring John he always was.
“Yes, John,” Sherlock is forced to clear his throat because of an unexpected tightness, “I came back.”
“God, even the voice’s the same,” John exhales with an awe slightly bordering on amusement. He clears his throat too, casts swift glances in both directions of the street, and then shifts from one foot to another.
“Well, um. It’s not like I didn’t expect it... with all the... oh, never mind.” He catches a casual glance of a man passing by and suddenly appears to get self-conscious.
John is ashamed of himself, Sherlock deduces quickly. It had probably hit him at last that having an emotionally-charged conversation in the public on a highly-frequented street is far from English. As if he suddenly remembered leaving a burnt meal in the oven, John turns abruptly back into the house, climbing the stairs with the uneven march of old, letting the door swing closed. Sherlock catches it in time and lets himself in. One percent for the extraordinary, indeed.
“I’m glad you expected this,” Sherlock feels a heavy burden removed from his heart but still approaches John in the kitchen rather cautiously. John snorts.
“I’d rather have had more strength of mind in the end,” he replies with a strange sort of resignation and Sherlock wonders briefly what to make of this. Mycroft had kept him informed about John’s whereabouts, and he seemed to be doing fine.
“But then it wasn’t easy, you know. I think, I wished you’d never left me.” John shrugs and looks apologetic, of all things.
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock hastens to assure him. “I can explain, John. Tell you how I...”
“Oh I’m sure I don’t want to hear the details,” John waves his hand. Sherlock is taken aback, but surmises for the present. He assumes that John might just need some time to get accustomed to the novelty of having his friend back and it wouldn’t be good to overload him with too many unsettling revelations at once.
“I... all is fine, then?”
“All’s just fine,” John nods and turns to the counter: putting the kettle on. His hands are steady, and there’s a gentle smile round his lips, like he was remembering a good dream.
Sherlock wanders off to the sofa and stretches himself out on it, letting the long-missed smell of tea fill his nose and feeling his palm itch with longing for the warm cup John’s about to hand him soon, just like the old days.
Only that, John’s taking his cup, the only one he’s made, and he’s going upstairs to his room without a word or look in Sherlock’s direction.
Okay, Sherlock muses. He didn’t expect things to go easily, after all. If John’s going to sulk at last, Sherlock will let him.
***
“You’re still here?”
John stands in the middle of the living room, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and shaking his head at the sight of Sherlock who’s fallen asleep on the sofa some time in the middle of the night.
“There’s nowhere else I’d want to be,” Sherlock confirms, trying to infuse as much warmth into his voice as his heart is currently overflowing with.
“Of course.” It’s such a relief that John understands, Sherlock thinks, no need to trample upon the emotional side of all this.
“I just didn’t expect this to be... a permanent thing,” John finishes, and Sherlock gapes. Perhaps John doesn’t trust him, his true intentions to stay and to repent. Painful as it is, it’s understandable.
“You did leave me before,” John adds as if having read Sherlock’s thoughts from his face.
“I had to, John. You must understand that...” It would seem that Sherlock’s never going to get a chance to boast about the extent of his cleverness and the depth of his sacrifice, because John’s never going to let him finish.
“Oh great.” A hint of anger in John’s voice, at last.
“That’s why you’re here, like this? To make me understand why you’ve killed yourself in front of your fucking best friend? I don’t want to hear it, thanks. I don’t want to understand. It’s not something that a normal person could ever understand and I’m fucked enough right now, don’t need to sink even deeper. I don’t want to look for excuses for what you did and I won’t have this...” he stopped, swallowed, and pointed an accusing finger, “...you - presenting them to me like some fucking kind of therapy.”
“Do be reasonable, John. Refusing...”
John, in his righteous wrath, is inexorable.
“You be reasonable, if that’s possible. It’s enough that it seems I can’t help it - you being here. I’d appreciate if you’d keep your mouth shut when I ask you to. Surely I can expect this little of you?”
Sherlock shrinks back to the sofa silently. Time, he reminds himself, John needs time. Perhaps he needs to forgive first and to understand after. The logical course would be quite reversed, but one can’t expect logic from John, not all the time.
“Good.” John nods, evidently satisfied a little. “It’s nice it’s working this way.”
“Would it be easier for you if I stayed elsewhere for a while? Just dropping by now and then.” Sherlock tries not to sound like he’s pleading.
“Maybe you don’t want to hear this, but I’ve... missed you.”
John’s face softens a shade and there’s the half-sad smile that’s confusing Sherlock because it seems it’s not directed at him, or connected with him, at all.
“I’m sure I did want to hear that.” Then he shakes his head, as if waking from a daydream, and regards his friend contemplatively.
“Actually, it’s better to have you here. The flat feels more... real.” On that, he retreats to the bathroom, giggling occasionally to himself like he’d heard a particularly good joke.
***
A quiet routine settles over the flat over the course of few days. John’s still silently refusing to act as the provider once more: stubbornly making only his own portions of meals and tea just for himself, but otherwise their co-habitation is smooth and seamless.
It’s clear, though, that John’s not appeased yet. They move around each other in a strange kind of armistice - John amazingly, peaceful and terribly fine with it all and Sherlock feels like he’s walking the minefield.
John’s usually off to the clinic before Sherlock wakes up. Sherlock’s lounging around the flat for some hours, getting used to the feeling of home again. His restoration hasn’t begun yet so he’s better staying shut up in here. When John returns, usually late, Sherlock’s always the first to bid him good evening, and slowly, but steadily John’s replies lose the undertone of startling incredulity that had been colouring them during the first days. He smiles more often now. Sometimes they discuss the newspapers or watch telly together. But most of the time, Sherlock feels like another piece of furniture to his friend, and it makes him want to climb the walls in frustration.
He must devise some plans for dragging John out of his stubborn mindset. A dinner, perhaps could do.
The first real outburst of expected anger comes from an unexpected direction, though.
“What the hell is this!” John is back home for barely ten seconds and now he’s yelling in the kitchen, glaring at a forgotten cup of tea Sherlock’s made for himself some time during the day like it was an outrage to John’s sense of military order. Interesting, Sherlock doesn’t remember that John would ever display such fondness of neatness and order in the past. He has to remind himself that John’s had the flat for himself for three years and...
“I could have sworn I didn’t make that tea,” John continues his fussing.
“Of course not. I made it for me.”
“Like the hell you did. You’ve never made a damned cuppa in your life. Not to mention to wash it afterwards. Sherlock, we have to set some rules.”
The change in conversation - as if this one-sided ranting could be described as such - interests Sherlock immediately. Rules require actions to be applied to, it means there has been some progress. One doesn’t need rules for ignoring each other. He straightens expectantly and puts on an eager face.
“Sherlock, I really don’t mind seeing you around, but I don’t fancy letting things get any worse. I’ve already got rid of the annoying habit of making two cups instead of one and I don’t want to get back to it. No messing up, okay?”
Not quite the rules Sherlock expected. But that’s not the point now. Something John’s said stirred an unwelcome feeling: a sudden chill that has very little to do with the fact that the temperature in their flat is set lower than it used to be before he left.
“You don’t mind me here,” Sherlock echoes the words that struck him cold.
“Well, what did you expect?” John flails his arms wide.
“Frankly, I expected some degree of violence, at the best.”
“Hardly any sense in punching you now, is there?” John sighs and suddenly, the anger is gone, his shoulders sagging, his calm composure regained.
“I should have punched you before you jumped off that roof. Or, at least, talked to you a little more. It’s no use now. Ella says I shouldn’t be talking to you at all, that I should ignore you. But I... you know I talked to you for days on end, in the beginning, when it was still fresh - I suppose I brought this on myself.”
“No, you didn’t,” Sherlock protests instantly. “It wasn’t your fault, but mine. If only you could trust me that it had to be done. I know I deserve being ignored for what I’ve put you through and I’m sorry...”
He’s interrupted again in the midst of his explanations by an unexpected bark of laughter. John laughs so hard that he has to wipe his eyes.
“You know what I’ve been through! I’m damn sure I wanted to hear that as well, but hearing it coming from your mouth sounds so funny. You never had a speck of empathy, Sherlock. My subconscious mind might wish that you did, but frankly, it’s better if stay the way you were.”
Despite his resolutions not to do so, Sherlock decides it’s time for a sulk, and curls up on the sofa with his back turned to the room. If John doesn’t want his understanding, Sherlock won’t exert himself. Win-win scenario.
“Just like that,” John chuckles appreciatively and off he goes to make dinner. Just for himself.
Later that night, Sherlock sneaks in the kitchen and finds himself something to eat. He makes sure to put everything back into the exact state it was before, even if it feels oddly like he’s stealing.
***
“I had to do it. There was no other way. Moriarty had set a trap for me, he would have killed you if I didn’t jump...”
“Moriarty never existed.” John stands barely two feet away and yet seems so unreachable: eyes hard as flint above a condescending smile. “You invented him for your own purposes.”
“John!” Surely he couldn’t swallow all this bullshit? No, not John.
“Don’t you remember? The Game, the pool, you in that bomb-jacket? You of all people must know...”
“I never existed either.”
His smiling face now morphs into someone equally familiar. Lestrade.
“You never had a flatmate. You never had a friend. You’ve invented John so you had someone to boast to and then you’ve strapped him to Semtex so you could hate your Moriarty even more. All in your head.”
Sherlock wakes up almost falling off the bed, drenched in sweat. The dream is rapidly escaping the grasp of his conscious mind, leaving behind only a vague feeling of a missing clue. As his heart rate slows, he realizes there’s a sound that awoken him: muffled, incoherent cries and sobs from the room above.
“Oh, it’s you. Please, not here, not now.” John groans and blinks into the light from his night-stand lamp. Sherlock turns it off again but remains still, sitting on the perch of John’s bed, not withdrawing his hand from John’s shoulder.
“You had a nightmare.” Surely, that’s a perfectly logical explanation for one man’s presence in another man’s bedroom in the middle of the night, at least, if the two men are friends. Sherlock hopes they still are.
“It’s hardly news,” John yawns. “I have problems with REM sleep. Failing exams at uni, getting shot in Afghanistan, watching a certain detective falling to his death. There’s always a scenario handy, you know.”
John’s voice is light but his heavy breathing betrays the actual dread these dreams cause him. The muscles in his shoulders are tense, rock hard under Sherlock’s fingers, and that’s why Sherlock moves at last to sit behind his friend, pulling his upper body to lean against his own and massaging his neck with slow, steady circles. Much to his surprise, John lets him.
“I never wanted this,” John says after a long pause, as if correcting an unseen witness of this scene that no, it’s not what it looks like.
“You’ve never asked for this, that’s different.” Sherlock keeps the pace and the pressure and feels the tension melt slowly away. John hums with approval and slides a little bit lower, half-sitting, half-laying on Sherlock’s lap, letting him pet his head like one might a cat.
“Anyway, you’re not jumping from the bed and throwing up dramatically, like a proper straight man,” Sherlock points out mockingly. John’s not even blushing. He’s content, relaxed. Fine with this.
Sherlock lowers his head to murmur close to John’s ear: “I could give you more. Anything. I’ve never been attracted to anybody, but I don’t mind when it’s you.”
“Well, that’s a turn on,” John huffs out, somewhere between irony and real amusement.
Take that, John, Sherlock thinks. You’re not the only one here NOT MINDING.
“My poor head. I could never imagine anything like this.” Still that amused, relaxed, totally all fine tone, so Sherlock decides to pull the strings a little more.
“Don’t you tell me you’ve never fantasised about me.”
“Ha!” John’s practically laughing now. “Have you ever seen yourself in the mirror? Your face, the way you walk, and the way you dress! Half of the London used to fantasise about you. And the other half too, if you consider kicking your arse for a shag.”
With his friend’s back pressed so close to his own body, Sherlock can easily read any change in John’s emotions; the sagging of shoulders indicates sadness creeping back in, the folding of his arms means he’s shutting down again.
“There were men, before. I was in the sodding Army for God’s sake. I have enough experience to be sure that I’m not gay.”
Then he adds, as if to soften the harsh statement: “It might have been different with you... but there’s no need to think about it now.”
“You’re sure you don’t want to think it over?” Sherlock’s dangerously close to begging, but he doesn’t mind.
“Pretty sure.” Another yawn that nearly splits John’s face in half. “Anyway, I’m not having a sexual identity crisis in the middle of the night. I’m too tired for it now, and too old for it on the whole.”
Five minutes later, Sherlock is still not moving apart from his fingers which are slowly tracing the shapes of seams of the bones of John’s skull, and John’s still letting him.
“Why are you here?” A whisper: fitting in the dark.
“Comforting you. Don’t tell me it isn’t working.”
“Not now. Altogether. I think you’re here to reconcile me with you. So I’d stop hating you when I remember that I once...” The rest of the sentence is swallowed rapidly.
“You once?” Sherlock is very careful not to break the spell of the moment, while never stopping his gentle caresses, neither venturing for more, nor moving for an inch. He succeeds and John doesn’t stop talking to him, but it’s close.
“Nothing you could understand.”
“The concept of romance isn’t so unfamiliar to me.”
“Romance!” John jolts in his arms, sitting up and turning so that he can see him, and Sherlock can see John too, eyes glinting in the traces of light from the street.
“That’s what everybody assumed, right? It was so much more than that, Sherlock. You were fucking essential. Living with you was like breathing to me, and when you.. jumped... Don’t try to imagine anything like having your heart burned out or something. You’ve proved enough times that one can live without a heart. Imagine that it’s your lungs that are ripped out, and you’re choking every day... oh, I forgot that too. Breathing’s boring.”
Sherlock reaches for his face, but John’s already withdrawing from him again. He tries nonetheless: “Breathing for you was never boring, John.”
“That’s why you jumped off a building and made me watch?”
Somewhere in the control room of his head, Sherlock feels the annoying yellow lights of frustration turn into warning red of anger. “Thank you for bringing it up, again.”
“Yeah, I keep reminding myself that you’re a heartless bastard so I wouldn’t start projecting any unrealistic wishes into you.” The anger is mirrored back at him like from a polished shield.
“I’m not going to apologize over and over. There was nothing you could do. It had to be done.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to convince myself all the time.” John’s eyes are narrow, no more of light reflecting in them. “Nothing that I could do. No way we could solve it together. No chance I could talk you out of it. You never cared that much.”
John recites it like a mantra and Sherlock can see that this is part of the self-preservation mindset John rooted in deeply through the last three years.
“Is the pain any better when you’re hurting my feelings in return?”
John smiles and Sherlock nearly freezes because something of the strange smile evokes a part of the earlier dream.
“But you don’t have any feelings, do you? Now get off my bedroom.”
***
In the late afternoon on the sixth or seventh day - Sherlock’s so bored that he doesn’t even bother keeping exact count - Mycroft shows up. Sherlock recognizes his steps on the stairs before the unpopular face of his brother can dampen the atmosphere in their living room and assumes his usual retreat spot near the window, fidgeting with his violin and making a show of ignoring his visitor.
To his surprise, Mycroft seems to ignore him in return, and addresses John who happens to be at home that day.
To Sherlock’s further annoyance, the usual vein of marked ignorance is more pronounced today, as John is quite hell-bent on ignoring Sherlock in front of his brother. Sherlock’s perfectly aware that John notices every pulled face and each dismissive snort that Sherlock bestows on Mycroft, but makes sure that Mycroft doesn’t see his amused smirks.
He’s ashamed to show that I’m still capable of making him smile. That hurts.
As for Mycroft, his detached glance surveys everything in the room except the window nook where his younger brother sulks to an extreme.
The tea is brought in (two cups only, of course) and after the social niceties are exchanged, Mycroft begins in a business-like voice:
“John, you should know that my brother, shortly before his demise, feared that you’d be subjected to an attack from some member of Moriarty’s web, and gave me instructions that I followed accordingly, despite their... obtrusive nature.”
“Oh no. Are you telling me that...”
“Quite so. There’s a constant surveillance set on the hallway and living areas of 221B. And I must say... the footage from last few days has been... interesting.”
John’s rubbing his temples, the tips of his ears are pink with embarrassment, his eyes are firmly shut.
“What are you up to, Mycroft?” Sherlock growls from his corner. His brother flashes him one of his calculated, lupine smiles but breaks eye contact before John lifts his head again.
“Okay,” John sighs, “so I hope you’ve enjoyed the show. Captain John Watson, MD, going mad as a hatter. Are you going to have me sectioned? Because you see, he never bothers me at work, it’s not like I’m seeing white mice or anything... ”
Sherlock is so stricken that he doesn’t bother to hide it. “I didn’t know I was upsetting you that much.”
Mycroft’s smile is impossibly smug.
“Has it ever occurred to you, John, that there may be nothing wrong with your perception?”
Blank face. “What do you mean?” Two blank faces, actually. Sherlock’s eyelids begin to flutter; he’s on a verge of something...
“I think I’ll leave the explanation to the Detective Inspector,” Mycroft drawls amusedly and to be sure, there’s the sound of footsteps on the stairs again, swift and excited, taking them two at a time, and in a matter of seconds Lestrade bursts in the room, bewilderment and hope mixed in his face.
“God, it’s true!” he exclaims and grins, and John’s suddenly feeling very cold, because Greg is grinning right at Sherlock. “I didn’t believe it when Mr. Holmes called me in but, God strike me dead if I ever say it again, I’m glad to have you back.”
There’s a strange grey haze surrounding everything in the room save for the faces, and John is flickering his dazed eyes between the two brothers, frozen like a deer in the headlights. Mycroft is the personification of satisfaction and Sherlock is... oh.
Sherlock’s laughing. Trembling with laughter, breathing in amongst almost hysterical gasps, and he knows it’s just the impossible relief making its way through the anxiety in him but he can’t help it, he laughs and struggles for air and it’s ridiculous how is he still trying to speak in between...
“Brilliant. That’s so brilliant. You’re right, Mycroft, you’ve deduced it, and I haven’t. Oh my God, John, I understand now. Like how you asked - why are you here? - it should have occurred to me how wrong this question was. Oh, and that conversation in your b-”
Sherlock never gets the chance to embarrass John any further as his laughter is cut short by one well-aimed punch. Seventy-three percent is far too high to neglect.
Later in the afternoon, a delayed shock takes place. John sits on the sofa most of the time and stares. He listens, too.
Sometime in the middle of the night, he kisses Sherlock, too. It would be pity to waste those seven percent on becoming a complete man again.