Always that Something
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John if you squint
Warning: Trigger-warning for Suicide, Angst
Summary: Sherlock comes back but thinks his friends want him gone.
Link: sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15638.html?thread=90906902#t90906902
There was always something. There was always something that would be off, would be wrong about his deductions. Sherlock had hoped otherwise of course, but he was always prepared for that possibility.
Except, he didn’t expect that those ‘something’s would have hurt so much.
“You bloody bastard” John snarled at him the moment he appeared. Sherlock had predicted those exact words. “You bloody fool bastard, do you know what I’ve been through?” And then the punch. So far so good.
“You were dead. You’re dead to me Sherlock. You’re dead to me!”
But he hadn’t predicted that part.
Lestrade had pulled his gun. Sherlock had expected that. Lestrade had whispered “Mother of England, Sherlock” then sat down suddenly on the pavement. Sherlock had expected that too. But then he had pointed the gun at Sherlock and swore up and down that Sherlock was dead. That Sherlock was dead, buried and rotting in the ground.
Sherlock hadn’t seen that coming.
Sherlock had known that Donovan would slap him and dig her heels into his instep before kicking him in the shins and stomping off in a huff. He had known Anderson would insult his intelligence and try to one-up him by deducing how he faked his death. Sherlock knew Mrs. Hudson would cry into her lace handkerchief and try to sit him down for tea.
But he hadn’t expected their words.
“You’re dead to me Sherlock.”
“Sherlock’s dead you bastard!”
“You had to kill yourself!”
“You just have to humiliate everyone by coming back!”
“Please leave, Sherlock. Please leave.”
Even Molly who had helped him to fake his death wouldn’t look at him. She wouldn’t even let him into the morgue anymore.
Sherlock had made his peace. He had expected them to be angry with him. He expected everyone to hit him, hurt him, punish him for disappearing for three years. He was sure they would understand after he explained. They knew, didn’t they? They knew that he had to do it. He had been sure that they would let him explain and they would be happy to see him, even if they were really angry about it at first.
But they had denied him. They had denied his existence and insisted he was dead. They wanted him gone. Sherlock was a little put off at the cold fingers that trailed up and down his spine when he thought of those words. They weren’t happy to see him. They weren’t happy at all. They wanted him gone.
Somehow, people weren’t happy to see him. Apparently people didn’t want him back. They wanted him to stay gone. They wanted him dead.
The realization had Sherlock angry at first. It wasn’t enough that he had jumped from a roof for them? Wasn’t it enough that he had spent three years running, killing, hurting for them?
Sherlock had gotten over his anger pretty quickly. He couldn’t blame them. He had traumatized them by faking his death. They had mourned him and moved on. He couldn’t just come back. He couldn’t come back at all.
They had made their lives without him. He should have stayed dead. He owed them that much. He owed them that at least.
Sherlock considered his options. He considered his options carefully. Jumping was out of the question. Not only would it be in the public eye and be the source of a lot of newspaper articles, it would also be very bloody. It was a pain to clean up blood. He didn’t want some poor child to happen across his body and be scarred for life.
He considered the gun. Then he ruled it out because blood would get everywhere and he didn’t want to wish clean up on anyone else. Not to mention the fact that he didn’t like guns. He hated guns due to certain painful associations he had with them in the past year.
Slashing his wrists in a tub was definitely out because he had no tub, and again, too much blood. He wasn’t a fan of the pain either. Bleeding wrists would hurt and hurt a lot as he bled out
Carbon Monoxide poisoning was also out of the question because Sherlock didn’t have a car. Trying to get toxic fumes would most likely hurt someone else in the process.
Sherlock considered all his options. He considered carefully and then forged a prescription note.
He got his affairs in order as quickly as he could. He wrote a will, distributing what remained of his possessions, dividing what remained of his money. He sent out evidence that would have Lestrade reinstated. The New Scotland Yard would have a sudden slew of solved cold cases if they carefully looked through the evidence he sent to their office. Mrs. Hudson would never worry for rent. Molly would receive journals detailing his deducing process. Then John. John would get the letters. Letters Sherlock wrote to his best friend over the years but never sent. Each letter was titled with something funny, something ridiculous but oddly apt, like John’s blog entries. Each letter about all the adventures Sherlock had.
He left it all in 221B.
The pills felt heavy in his pocket.
Pop two a day as long as you’re feeling poorly.
He wouldn’t feel poorly for long if he popped two. He was allergic to them. Cefoperazone. An alternative to Penicillin, wrongly administered when he was seven. He was lucky Mycroft knew what to do then.
It wouldn’t be quick and it certainly wouldn’t be painless but if it was anything like what Sherlock remembered, it wouldn’t be messy. His homeless network had been paid off. Those that still remembered him had agreed to bury him in the cemetery, under the headstone with his name. No one would know. No one be compromised. No one would have to adjust to living with him around again.
The pill looked so innocent in the palm of his hand. It was so tiny but it could kill him. It would kill him. It wasn’t even one tenth of his palm. He poured another into his hand and knocked them back with a sip of water.
He fingered the phone as he sat on the bench, water bottle opened beside him. One of the homeless men had agreed to stay with him until it was over. It wouldn’t be long. It would take a bit for the medicine to kick in but very soon, he would feel dizzy, he would have difficulty breathing, he would black out. He would die.
Sherlock fingered the keypad and slowly entered John’s number. He was at the surgery. John wouldn’t answer his phone at the surgery. It would go to voicemail.
He hit dial.
John had just seen one of the patients out. His phone vibrated and without a thought, he had taken it out and hit the green button. He had expected Molly to call him. Toby had been feeling poorly but she had a body to come up so he had taken the cat to the vet.
“Hullo.” John had said before he even realized who was speaking.
“John.”
John nearly pressed ‘End call’ immediately.
“John. I’m sorry. I should have realized you moved on. I should have never come back. I’m sorry I hurt you by coming back.”
John pressed his lips into a thin line. This was a very crappy way of apologizing.
“I know I did something wrong so I’m trying to make it right, John. In about fifteen minutes, I will go away. I will be dead to you, John. Like you wanted.”
Sherlock let out a dry sob on the other end, his breathing heavy and labored. John froze where he stood. That didn’t sound good.
“I’m sorry, really I am. I hope you won’t hate me. John, you’ve always been my best friend.”
John’s mouth formed an ‘o’. That really didn’t sound good. He backed out of his office, shrugged his white coat off and grabbed the other one.
“John, I arranged everything. You don’t need to worry. You can just carry on. Everyone can just carry on like they were. It will be like I never came back.”
There was someone beside Sherlock. John could tell because the man grunted. There were birds chirping. Distant sounds of a traffic. A park! Which park?
“Where are you?” John snapped. There was a sharp intake of breath.
“John!”
An almost hysterical laugh. John swore.
“Away from prying eyes. No one will see so don’t worry. No blood this time, I promise. Clean death.”
Either a bigger park, or one that had few visitors.
“Sherlock, I’m not worried about that.” John all but snarled in his panic. He needed to get to Sherlock immediately. Dogs barked not far off. Someone shouted ‘Down boy!’
“Sherlock!”
“I’m doing it right this time, John. I won’t be coming back.” A dry sob. “Goodbye.”
The phone clicked. Sherlock had hung up.
John swore.
“Lestrade, I think Sherlock’s committing suicide in a big or secluded park near to some place full of dogs.”
John held the phone away from his hand when Lestrade swore up and down on the other end.
“Dogs?” Lestrade sounded non-plussed. “City Pups has a dog-walking service.” He said, sounding flustered. “It’s just beside Primrose Hill.”
John nearly tossed his phone from anger. Sherlock just had to pick the largest park in the area and on a hill.
Sherlock glanced at the homeless man beside him. The man patted his arm comfortingly. Sherlock could feel the dizziness already. He had trouble breathing, everything was going blurry. He leaned back on the bench and stared up at the blue sky. His stomach hurt. He wanted to throw up. Everything itched.
But it would all be better soon. John knew. He had left a note again. Sherlock shouldn’t have, he already left one the first time around but Sherlock was weak. John was his best friend. He wanted to hear his voice one last time. Even if it was just on voicemail. Well, he had gotten his wish.
John had sounded so angry.
Sherlock was making it right.
The sky was so blue.
But it was going dark.
Sherlock closed his eyes.
John shoved a fifty at his cabbie then ran towards the Park. The cabbie had done his best to stop between the park and the giant cheerful sign that said ‘City Pups’.
He shouted the name, ambulances wailing in the distance. There were a few people near a park bench in the far distance. No one passing would see them unless they were looking. The trees provided an adequate cover from the road.
“Sherlock!” John tripped over a Chihuahua who ran around him then made off in the direction of the road.
The short fifteen, twenty second sprint felt like hours to him.
He crashed to his knees beside Sherlock, barely registering that there was a girl kneeling beside the prone man attempting a very poor version of CPR.
John took over and the girl got up.
Every compression felt like an eternity. Every time John connected their lips to give him a breath, it felt like a part of him died inside.
“Don’t die, Sherlock. Not again.” John begged.
The girl came running back, breathless as a team of paramedics brought in a stretcher.
John stared blankly, unable to process the shouting. He was vaguely aware of being asked if he was a friend. He got in the ambulance along with the girl who was protesting about her job as a dog-walker.
‘Anaphylaxis - get the epinephrine now’
‘Get him onto the stretcher now’
‘Jones don’t stop CPR.’
‘We’re losing him’
‘BP’s down’
“Sherlock, don’t die.”
“Mr. Watson? Mr. Watson?”
John pulled himself back from the endless ‘Why’s in his head to look at the doctor clad in white.
“Your friend is alive.” The doctor said without waiting for John to ask. The breath went out of John immediately. It was as if someone had come along and shoved the heavy rock on his heart off. And John had watched it tumble into the sea with a satisfying plop.
“Miss Phillips said she attempted CPR for quite a bit. If she wasn’t successful those few minutes, we are looking at the possibility-”
“- of brain damage.” John finished, eyes closing. He looked at the ceiling and then at the ground.
“I know.” John told the doctor with a wan smile. “I’m a doctor too.” He whispered. The doctor nodded, patted his shoulder sympathetically.
John left voicemails informing many people of what happened. He rubbed his face with his hand and settled in for a long wait.
Sherlock didn’t expect to hear beeping when he awoke. He didn’t expect white walls, white sheets and and being in a smock.
Actually, he didn’t expect to wake up at all.
He felt like the time he had vaulted over a wall only to discover the fall was much further than he thought. Sherlock had broken an ankle that time and had lain in the trash for quite a while, fighting to remember how to even breathe.
There was a warm hand over his.
“Sherlock!”
Molly sounded relieved.
Everyone looked quite relieved.
“Lestrade had to finish up a case so he just left and Mrs. Hudson is getting her hip looked at downstairs but I’m here. John’s here too. Your brother threatened someone and you have a really nice room and Anderson and Donovan dropped by earlier to say thanks for the case files and, and, and -”
Sherlock tuned her out.
John was standing to one side, looking pale and scared.
“Why?” He asked softly. Molly wiped tears away on the wrist of her sleeve.
Sherlock forced himself into a sitting position.
“Wasn’t that what you wanted?” He rasped out. His throat felt sore. Every movement seemed to take a lifetime.
“Told me to go away. Said I was dead to you.” Sherlock whispered. Even now, the thought of it hurt.
Molly burst into tears again. John whispered a soft ‘Christ’ and then looked away.
“Sherlock, it was a figure of speech.”
John let out a choked hysterical laugh. He was on the bed, arm awkwardly thrown around Sherlock.
“You stupid man, you utter twat, you’re the only idiot genius in the world.” John was insulting him ten ways to Sunday but somehow, it was comforting.
“I’m sorry.” John was saying.
Sherlock didn’t know why he did, but he put his arms around the doctor.
“I’m okay. I’m here. Yes I’m an idiot.”
They remained like that for quite awhile.
Sherlock moved back into 221B as soon as he was discharged. People popped back every so often to look in on him. John had kept the skull. His violin was perched under the giant antlers, bow arranged artistically under it, headphones still in place on the antlers.
He couldn’t believe he didn’t deduce it before. There were a lot of things of his that John had kept. He had missed something, something very important. John had never wanted him gone.
Sherlock liked that little something.
And when he opened the fridge to find a lot of milk and a box of his favourite tea leaves, he liked that something very, very much.
Pairing: Sherlock/John if you squint
Warning: Trigger-warning for Suicide, Angst
Summary: Sherlock comes back but thinks his friends want him gone.
Link: sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15638.html?thread=90906902#t90906902
There was always something. There was always something that would be off, would be wrong about his deductions. Sherlock had hoped otherwise of course, but he was always prepared for that possibility.
Except, he didn’t expect that those ‘something’s would have hurt so much.
“You bloody bastard” John snarled at him the moment he appeared. Sherlock had predicted those exact words. “You bloody fool bastard, do you know what I’ve been through?” And then the punch. So far so good.
“You were dead. You’re dead to me Sherlock. You’re dead to me!”
But he hadn’t predicted that part.
Lestrade had pulled his gun. Sherlock had expected that. Lestrade had whispered “Mother of England, Sherlock” then sat down suddenly on the pavement. Sherlock had expected that too. But then he had pointed the gun at Sherlock and swore up and down that Sherlock was dead. That Sherlock was dead, buried and rotting in the ground.
Sherlock hadn’t seen that coming.
Sherlock had known that Donovan would slap him and dig her heels into his instep before kicking him in the shins and stomping off in a huff. He had known Anderson would insult his intelligence and try to one-up him by deducing how he faked his death. Sherlock knew Mrs. Hudson would cry into her lace handkerchief and try to sit him down for tea.
But he hadn’t expected their words.
“You’re dead to me Sherlock.”
“Sherlock’s dead you bastard!”
“You had to kill yourself!”
“You just have to humiliate everyone by coming back!”
“Please leave, Sherlock. Please leave.”
Even Molly who had helped him to fake his death wouldn’t look at him. She wouldn’t even let him into the morgue anymore.
Sherlock had made his peace. He had expected them to be angry with him. He expected everyone to hit him, hurt him, punish him for disappearing for three years. He was sure they would understand after he explained. They knew, didn’t they? They knew that he had to do it. He had been sure that they would let him explain and they would be happy to see him, even if they were really angry about it at first.
But they had denied him. They had denied his existence and insisted he was dead. They wanted him gone. Sherlock was a little put off at the cold fingers that trailed up and down his spine when he thought of those words. They weren’t happy to see him. They weren’t happy at all. They wanted him gone.
Somehow, people weren’t happy to see him. Apparently people didn’t want him back. They wanted him to stay gone. They wanted him dead.
The realization had Sherlock angry at first. It wasn’t enough that he had jumped from a roof for them? Wasn’t it enough that he had spent three years running, killing, hurting for them?
Sherlock had gotten over his anger pretty quickly. He couldn’t blame them. He had traumatized them by faking his death. They had mourned him and moved on. He couldn’t just come back. He couldn’t come back at all.
They had made their lives without him. He should have stayed dead. He owed them that much. He owed them that at least.
Sherlock considered his options. He considered his options carefully. Jumping was out of the question. Not only would it be in the public eye and be the source of a lot of newspaper articles, it would also be very bloody. It was a pain to clean up blood. He didn’t want some poor child to happen across his body and be scarred for life.
He considered the gun. Then he ruled it out because blood would get everywhere and he didn’t want to wish clean up on anyone else. Not to mention the fact that he didn’t like guns. He hated guns due to certain painful associations he had with them in the past year.
Slashing his wrists in a tub was definitely out because he had no tub, and again, too much blood. He wasn’t a fan of the pain either. Bleeding wrists would hurt and hurt a lot as he bled out
Carbon Monoxide poisoning was also out of the question because Sherlock didn’t have a car. Trying to get toxic fumes would most likely hurt someone else in the process.
Sherlock considered all his options. He considered carefully and then forged a prescription note.
He got his affairs in order as quickly as he could. He wrote a will, distributing what remained of his possessions, dividing what remained of his money. He sent out evidence that would have Lestrade reinstated. The New Scotland Yard would have a sudden slew of solved cold cases if they carefully looked through the evidence he sent to their office. Mrs. Hudson would never worry for rent. Molly would receive journals detailing his deducing process. Then John. John would get the letters. Letters Sherlock wrote to his best friend over the years but never sent. Each letter was titled with something funny, something ridiculous but oddly apt, like John’s blog entries. Each letter about all the adventures Sherlock had.
He left it all in 221B.
The pills felt heavy in his pocket.
Pop two a day as long as you’re feeling poorly.
He wouldn’t feel poorly for long if he popped two. He was allergic to them. Cefoperazone. An alternative to Penicillin, wrongly administered when he was seven. He was lucky Mycroft knew what to do then.
It wouldn’t be quick and it certainly wouldn’t be painless but if it was anything like what Sherlock remembered, it wouldn’t be messy. His homeless network had been paid off. Those that still remembered him had agreed to bury him in the cemetery, under the headstone with his name. No one would know. No one be compromised. No one would have to adjust to living with him around again.
The pill looked so innocent in the palm of his hand. It was so tiny but it could kill him. It would kill him. It wasn’t even one tenth of his palm. He poured another into his hand and knocked them back with a sip of water.
He fingered the phone as he sat on the bench, water bottle opened beside him. One of the homeless men had agreed to stay with him until it was over. It wouldn’t be long. It would take a bit for the medicine to kick in but very soon, he would feel dizzy, he would have difficulty breathing, he would black out. He would die.
Sherlock fingered the keypad and slowly entered John’s number. He was at the surgery. John wouldn’t answer his phone at the surgery. It would go to voicemail.
He hit dial.
John had just seen one of the patients out. His phone vibrated and without a thought, he had taken it out and hit the green button. He had expected Molly to call him. Toby had been feeling poorly but she had a body to come up so he had taken the cat to the vet.
“Hullo.” John had said before he even realized who was speaking.
“John.”
John nearly pressed ‘End call’ immediately.
“John. I’m sorry. I should have realized you moved on. I should have never come back. I’m sorry I hurt you by coming back.”
John pressed his lips into a thin line. This was a very crappy way of apologizing.
“I know I did something wrong so I’m trying to make it right, John. In about fifteen minutes, I will go away. I will be dead to you, John. Like you wanted.”
Sherlock let out a dry sob on the other end, his breathing heavy and labored. John froze where he stood. That didn’t sound good.
“I’m sorry, really I am. I hope you won’t hate me. John, you’ve always been my best friend.”
John’s mouth formed an ‘o’. That really didn’t sound good. He backed out of his office, shrugged his white coat off and grabbed the other one.
“John, I arranged everything. You don’t need to worry. You can just carry on. Everyone can just carry on like they were. It will be like I never came back.”
There was someone beside Sherlock. John could tell because the man grunted. There were birds chirping. Distant sounds of a traffic. A park! Which park?
“Where are you?” John snapped. There was a sharp intake of breath.
“John!”
An almost hysterical laugh. John swore.
“Away from prying eyes. No one will see so don’t worry. No blood this time, I promise. Clean death.”
Either a bigger park, or one that had few visitors.
“Sherlock, I’m not worried about that.” John all but snarled in his panic. He needed to get to Sherlock immediately. Dogs barked not far off. Someone shouted ‘Down boy!’
“Sherlock!”
“I’m doing it right this time, John. I won’t be coming back.” A dry sob. “Goodbye.”
The phone clicked. Sherlock had hung up.
John swore.
“Lestrade, I think Sherlock’s committing suicide in a big or secluded park near to some place full of dogs.”
John held the phone away from his hand when Lestrade swore up and down on the other end.
“Dogs?” Lestrade sounded non-plussed. “City Pups has a dog-walking service.” He said, sounding flustered. “It’s just beside Primrose Hill.”
John nearly tossed his phone from anger. Sherlock just had to pick the largest park in the area and on a hill.
Sherlock glanced at the homeless man beside him. The man patted his arm comfortingly. Sherlock could feel the dizziness already. He had trouble breathing, everything was going blurry. He leaned back on the bench and stared up at the blue sky. His stomach hurt. He wanted to throw up. Everything itched.
But it would all be better soon. John knew. He had left a note again. Sherlock shouldn’t have, he already left one the first time around but Sherlock was weak. John was his best friend. He wanted to hear his voice one last time. Even if it was just on voicemail. Well, he had gotten his wish.
John had sounded so angry.
Sherlock was making it right.
The sky was so blue.
But it was going dark.
Sherlock closed his eyes.
John shoved a fifty at his cabbie then ran towards the Park. The cabbie had done his best to stop between the park and the giant cheerful sign that said ‘City Pups’.
He shouted the name, ambulances wailing in the distance. There were a few people near a park bench in the far distance. No one passing would see them unless they were looking. The trees provided an adequate cover from the road.
“Sherlock!” John tripped over a Chihuahua who ran around him then made off in the direction of the road.
The short fifteen, twenty second sprint felt like hours to him.
He crashed to his knees beside Sherlock, barely registering that there was a girl kneeling beside the prone man attempting a very poor version of CPR.
John took over and the girl got up.
Every compression felt like an eternity. Every time John connected their lips to give him a breath, it felt like a part of him died inside.
“Don’t die, Sherlock. Not again.” John begged.
The girl came running back, breathless as a team of paramedics brought in a stretcher.
John stared blankly, unable to process the shouting. He was vaguely aware of being asked if he was a friend. He got in the ambulance along with the girl who was protesting about her job as a dog-walker.
‘Anaphylaxis - get the epinephrine now’
‘Get him onto the stretcher now’
‘Jones don’t stop CPR.’
‘We’re losing him’
‘BP’s down’
“Sherlock, don’t die.”
“Mr. Watson? Mr. Watson?”
John pulled himself back from the endless ‘Why’s in his head to look at the doctor clad in white.
“Your friend is alive.” The doctor said without waiting for John to ask. The breath went out of John immediately. It was as if someone had come along and shoved the heavy rock on his heart off. And John had watched it tumble into the sea with a satisfying plop.
“Miss Phillips said she attempted CPR for quite a bit. If she wasn’t successful those few minutes, we are looking at the possibility-”
“- of brain damage.” John finished, eyes closing. He looked at the ceiling and then at the ground.
“I know.” John told the doctor with a wan smile. “I’m a doctor too.” He whispered. The doctor nodded, patted his shoulder sympathetically.
John left voicemails informing many people of what happened. He rubbed his face with his hand and settled in for a long wait.
Sherlock didn’t expect to hear beeping when he awoke. He didn’t expect white walls, white sheets and and being in a smock.
Actually, he didn’t expect to wake up at all.
He felt like the time he had vaulted over a wall only to discover the fall was much further than he thought. Sherlock had broken an ankle that time and had lain in the trash for quite a while, fighting to remember how to even breathe.
There was a warm hand over his.
“Sherlock!”
Molly sounded relieved.
Everyone looked quite relieved.
“Lestrade had to finish up a case so he just left and Mrs. Hudson is getting her hip looked at downstairs but I’m here. John’s here too. Your brother threatened someone and you have a really nice room and Anderson and Donovan dropped by earlier to say thanks for the case files and, and, and -”
Sherlock tuned her out.
John was standing to one side, looking pale and scared.
“Why?” He asked softly. Molly wiped tears away on the wrist of her sleeve.
Sherlock forced himself into a sitting position.
“Wasn’t that what you wanted?” He rasped out. His throat felt sore. Every movement seemed to take a lifetime.
“Told me to go away. Said I was dead to you.” Sherlock whispered. Even now, the thought of it hurt.
Molly burst into tears again. John whispered a soft ‘Christ’ and then looked away.
“Sherlock, it was a figure of speech.”
John let out a choked hysterical laugh. He was on the bed, arm awkwardly thrown around Sherlock.
“You stupid man, you utter twat, you’re the only idiot genius in the world.” John was insulting him ten ways to Sunday but somehow, it was comforting.
“I’m sorry.” John was saying.
Sherlock didn’t know why he did, but he put his arms around the doctor.
“I’m okay. I’m here. Yes I’m an idiot.”
They remained like that for quite awhile.
Sherlock moved back into 221B as soon as he was discharged. People popped back every so often to look in on him. John had kept the skull. His violin was perched under the giant antlers, bow arranged artistically under it, headphones still in place on the antlers.
He couldn’t believe he didn’t deduce it before. There were a lot of things of his that John had kept. He had missed something, something very important. John had never wanted him gone.
Sherlock liked that little something.
And when he opened the fridge to find a lot of milk and a box of his favourite tea leaves, he liked that something very, very much.