[Fanfic] The Distance in Your Eyes (Part 2)

[hoshiko_2000]

Title: The Distance in Your Eyes

Author: Hoshiko_2000

Fandom: Sherlock

Characters/pairings: Jeanette/John, possible Sherlock/John

Rating: T

Warnings: Occasional strong language, some sex references, references to past injury

Summary: John and Sherlock's relationship, as seen through Jeanette's eyes throughout her and John's relationship.

Status: Complete


'Are you having an affair with Sherlock Holmes?'

She asked the question bluntly, with no attempt at pretense. Looking up from his plate, John gaped at her, apparently shocked.

'No -'

'You two, you're very, very close.' she said, trying to keep her voice steady but failing, her voice cracking in anger. 'Really, you seem completely dedicated to him. He obviously means an awful lot to you. You seem to worry about him constantly, you're at his beck and call day and night, you even cancel our dates to be with him. So John, if there's something you'd like to tell me about the two of you, I'd rather you do it now.'

Her tone was bitter and sarcastic, and her voice had gone embarrassingly high as well, despite her futile attempts to control it. And despite having promised herself beforehand that she wouldn't, she could not help the humiliating tears that welled up in her eyes. John was looking at her with an expression which was a mixture of shock and concern, looking genuinely upset. He tried to take her hands in his, but she angrily snatched them away.

'Jeanette.' John said, speaking slowly, his voice calm and steady. 'I am not gay. There is nothing between me and Sherlock.'

'And how am I supposed to take your word for it?!' Jeanette demanded, laughing sarcastically. 'Given how much time you spend with him, how much you see to care about him?'. She was aware that people nearby were beginning to look, wondering what was going on, but she was beyond caring.

'Jeanette.' John said seriously, frowning now, but speaking in the same calm, deliberate manner he had been using moments before. 'Sherlock is my best friend. Yes, I do care about him. And I do worry about him as well.'

He sighed heavily, looking down at the table and running a hand through his short, sandy hair.

'Sherlock, he's......he's had problems with drugs in the past. As a doctor - and as his friend - I've helped him to overcome them, but....there's always the risk he could go back to them. If something happens, if he goes through a bad patch, even if he simply goes through a period with nothing to do, there's always the risk he could go back to drugs.'

He sighed again, looking troubled. 'That's the reality of living with a recovered drug addict. So I do worry about him, and on some occasions he does need me too. And our work can be rather time consuming as well-'

'I feel like I'm competing with him!'

Her voice had risen sharply without her meaning too, rising clearly above the hubbub of the busy restaurant, drawing stares and a sudden silence from the nearby diners. She stared solidly at John, anger and hurt written all over her face, the tears of anger and embarrassment threatening to overflow. John looked back at her, his face etched with worried sympathy and guilt that only served to increase her anger.

His pity, his sympathy, his apologies - it did nothing to make her feel better. She didn't want him feeling sorry for her. She didn't want his concern. She didn't want his pity. She didn't want his apologies. She had heard enough of those already.

She just wanted to know that she was most important to him.

For him to assure her of that.

To know that she mattered.

'Jeanette.' John said gently, slowly reaching out and gently taking hold of her hands. She stiffened, but didn't pull them away this time.

'I'm really, really sorry I made you feel this way. I'm sorry. I love you, Jeanette. You are a beautiful, intelligent, fascinating woman, and I really do love you. And if I've made you feel this way, then I feel terrible.'

The whole time John had been saying this he'd been staring straight in to her eyes, but now Jeanette had to break eye contact, looking down and trying hard not to cry.

John paused, apparently not knowing what else to say. There was an extended silence, as the two looked away from each other, and tried to ignore the looks and murmurs being directed at them by some of their fellow diners.

Jeanette wondered whether she should just leave now. To walk away from the restaurant - to walk away from John - now. To put an end to this.

Maybe it would be best of she just ended this relationship here.

Jeanette was just wondering whether or not she should seriously leave when John suddenly began to speak again.

'Look, Jeanette....a while ago, I had a girlfriend. Her name was Maria. It was all going brilliantly. I liked her, she liked me. We had fun together, went out, enjoyed each others company. It was just...nice, you know? It was really, really lovely.'

Jeanette looked up, surprised and a little startled, wondering where this rather unexpected topic of conversation was going. John was not directly looking at her, instead gazing off somewhere to her right, smiling somewhat sadly.

'Then we went to bed together for the first time. It was going great, until she took off my shirt. Then she just....froze. She just stopped. I will never, never.....forget the look on her face.'

John looked pained. The smile had vanished from his face, his mouth a taught line. Jeanette straightened up, staring at him open mouthed, shocked and appalled.

'She told me she was no longer in the mood. She put her clothes back on and left. And it hurt. Really hurt. Not just because of the rejection of physical intimacy. But because of the look on her face. It was disgust. Disgust at my scar. Disgust at me.'

He smiled sadly to himself again, letting out a soft snort, a ghost of amusement. 'I remember, she once told me she thought it was cool to be going out with a soldier. She broke up with me a week later.'

He added this last sentence very quietly and matter of fact, his gaze returning to their table. But the pain was obvious on John's face.

He hurt, this hurt him. Badly. And despite herself, despite her own anger and hurt, Jeanette felt sorry for him. She really did.

'I'm not saying this because I'm looking for pity.' He said quickly, looking back up at her, his tone urgent and imploring, his expression serious. 'I don't want it. I don't pity myself, nor do I want other people to pity me. Especially those I love. Or because I'm trying to gain forgiveness through sympathy. I'm not looking for that either. That's not the reason why I told you this.'

His expression softened, his mouth turned up in to a gentle smile, gazing at Jeanette with warmth in his eyes.

'But the thing is Jeanette, you've seen my scar, but it's not changed me in your eyes. I know it's ugly, and I know it's not nice - I know that better than anyone - but you, you've just accepted it. It just doesn't bother you. And that makes me really happy. I'm touched by that.'

He leaned in closer to her, his gaze warm and loving, gently cupping her cheek with one hand, gazing steadily in to her eyes.

'The time I've spent with you, right from the start - it's been wonderful Jeanette. I'm very lucky to have you. I'm very aware of that. Being with you has made me more happy than I've ever been. You've made me more happy than I've ever been.'

Reaching up with his free hand, he gently, tenderly, swept a loose strand of her dark hair behind her right ear.

'I love you, Jeanette.'

Right at that moment, there were so many emotions buzzing around Jeanette's mind. Surprise. Confusion. Happiness. Relief. Guilt. Distrust. Warmth. But looking in to John's dark brown eyes, at the amount of warmth, the amount of love, directed at her, almost heartbreaking in it's intensity, there was only one feeling, one emotion, stronger of any of the others, that she could express honestly.

'I love you too.'

x x x x x

In mid November, Jeanette made her third visit to John and Sherlock's flat.

Jeanette had been dreading the visit all day, dreading the evening, dreading Sherlock, but when she and John reached the top of the stairs, she was surprised to see Sherlock apparently getting ready to leave himself.

He was putting on a dark blue scarf and a long black overcoat she recognized from his photos in the papers, and his face was neutral, expressionless. As he passed her to go through the doorway, to her surprise, he turned to her and nodded.

'Good evening.'

The tone was not friendly, but at the same time it was not unfriendly either. His manner was polite, courteous, and when he looked at her his blue eyes, while as piercing as ever, seemed calm, vacant of the coldness, the reproach, they had previously seemed to hold when he had spoken to her before.

Then, without a word to John, he swept away down the stairs.

'Oh, we're in luck. Looks like Sherlock's going out himself.' John was remarking, surprised, behind her, but Jeanette stayed silent, instead watching after Sherlock's retreating back as he walked down the stairs.

That look you gave me the first time you met me, was it jealousy?

Are you jealous of me?

Do you hate me?

Do you love John?

Is he in love with you?

Do you fuck him?

Do his scars bother you when you do?

Or do you not care?

Is that the thing that makes you better?

Are you passing him over to me now?

Can you just no longer bear to be in the same room as me?

The echoing thud of the closing front door was her only answer.

x x x x x

By the time Christmas rolled around, the tensions in John and Jeanette's relationship had not eased. In fact, they had only gotten stronger, only now they seethed silently under the surface, both she and John aware of them, but neither of them mentioning them.

She'd agreed to join him and Sherlock for a party at their flat with a small group of friends on Christmas Eve, not that she particularly expected much enjoyment out of the evening. She had only agreed to come since she and John would be going out for a meal afterwards, though she pessimistically didn't expect much from that either. But she thought she might as well, since it was the only real time she'd get to spend with John over Christmas, seeing as he was planning to spend Christmas itself at his sister's.

On arriving at the flat, Jeanette had been surprised to find Sherlock in by far the most talkative mood she had ever seen him. In reverse to his usual, silent self, he seemed to, if anything, be trying to make the day about himself, complaining out loud frequently and bitterly, muttering moodily to himself, constantly going over to John to talk to him. The two of them had spent a long time in the kitchen, bent over the kitchen table, holding long, muttered conversations as John uncovered the various plates of snacks, while Jeanette sat nursing a glass of wine by herself in John's armchair, 'making herself at home'.

As the small number of guests began to arrive, this did nothing to sooth her unease. Instead it only served to make her feel more uncomfortable, alienated amongst this group of people. These people, they were all friends, they all knew each other. People who mingled in each others lives, people who spent time together, people who cared about each other, people who mattered to one another.

Even Sherlock was part of this. Even he was having people come up to talk to him, was holding (albeit short and moody) conversations with the other guests. Even he; rude, unfriendly, cold, moody Sherlock, had people who seemed to be genuinely pleased for his company. Who wanted to speak to him. Who cared about him. Who maybe even loved him. That was more than Jeanette had.

How many times, on how many occasions, over the last few months, had Jeanette blown off invitations, had missed out on outings, had turned down the company of friends, in order to be with John? How much time had she spent isolating herself from her friends, to focus on this relationship?

The pit of loneliness gnawed deep in her stomach; a fierce, miserable ache.

How much time had she wasted?

While speaking to the landlady, Mrs Hudson, Jeanette, for the first time, actually saw Sherlock smile. It was a gentle, almost kind look, which softened his features, and made him look younger, somehow. Jeanette was surprised. She'd never thought him even capable of such an expression.

There were many things that did not surprise Jeanette that evening. She was not surprised when Sherlock refused her home-made biscuits when she offered him them. She was not surprised when he couldn't remember her name. She was not surprised when John defended him for this. She was not surprised when he inadvertently called her 'boring' while trying to remember 'which one' she was, or that John failed to admonish him for this either. She was not surprised when Sherlock bluntly pointed out a colleagues wife's affair, or John's sister's persistent alcoholism. Or when he nearly reduced one of his guests to tears, after he obliviously tore to pieces the romantic gesture she had been planning to make to him that evening.

She was also not surprised when John barely took his eyes off Sherlock throughout the entire night. He just watched him constantly; following him with his eyes as he moved around the room, watching and listening appreciatively as he played the violin, going over to speak with him whenever he called his name, constantly checking what he was doing out of the corner of his eye. John wasn't consciously doing this. He wasn't even aware he was doing it. It was just habit.

A habit he'd probably held for a long time now.

But while it wasn't surprising, it didn't hurt any less. The pain burned deep in her heart, a lonely, stabbing, bitter pain.

She just wanted to John to look at her like that.

What Jeanette wasn't expecting was for the celebrations to abruptly come to an end when Sherlock had to leave the party to identify the body of a dead 'acquaintance'. She was not expecting the panic, the worry that followed his departure; the anxious, tense, hushed conversations between John and the landlady, Mrs Hudson, the worried, knowing looks shared between three members of the party. For the two guests to leave in a hurry, one mumbling something about 'having to get to work', and the other saying something pointedly to John about 'you know what to do if you find anything' as he left. She was not expecting to spend the following hour sat on the sofa by herself, while John and his landlady anxiously searched the flat for the drugs they feared Sherlock may take when he got home.

She had expected the evening to be bad, but not disastrous. Nothing like this.

Even before John had finished the phone call, and had walked stiltedly over to her, sighing heavily, Jeanette knew what he was about to say. She had already heard it so many times before, after all.

'I'm really sorry...'

That was it. It was over.

This was not the 'end' of their relationship itself. That had already ended ages ago. This was simply the point where this was stated officially. Where this ghost, this echo, this shadow of a relationship, was ended. Was finally laid to rest. As it should have been so long ago.

They were finished.

'You know, my friends are so wrong about you. You're a great boyfriend.'

John looked startled, and then nodded, looking rather confused.

'Yeah. Well. I always thought I was great.'

'And Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man.'

She stood up sharply and made her way to where her coat had been hung by the door.

'Jeanette.' John sighed wearily, evidently knowing what was coming, and trying to summon the energy to deal with it.

'No, really, it's heart-warming. You'll do anything for him. And he can't even tell your girlfriends apart.'

Because you do. You love him.

Even if the two of you aren't sleeping together. Even if he doesn't know. Even if you don't realize it yourself. You do.

All this time, it's never been me you have been in love with. It's him. It's always been him.

As she hastily buttoned up her coat, John had made futile, half-hearted attempts to persuade her to stay.

'Look, I'll do anything for you, just tell me what it is I'm not doing!' he tried desperately.

'Just don't make me compete with Sherlock Holmes!'

Because she wasn't going to compete any more. Because she was walking away, from John, from this relationship, from Sherlock Holmes, for ever.

It was over.

As she walked out in to the snowy street, shutting the front door of 221B behind her for the final time, the freezing winter air hit her face. It was not an unpleasant feeling however, but cool, refreshing, cleansing. She felt the anger, the hurt, the frustration - the emotions she had been holding on to for months now - ease finally, their place being taken by a sense of cool calmness, of purpose.

Stopping in the street outside the door, she took in a slow, deep breath of the cold night air, closing her eyes, and turning her head up to the sky, feeling the gentle patter of snowflakes on her upturned face.

She did not feel happy. Not yet. That would come later. But for now, she felt peaceful. For the first time in months, she felt peaceful. Calm. Assured. Confident. Secure.

Hopeful.

Opening her eyes, she could see the Christmas lights in the neighboring windows, hear the sound of distant music; of other parties taking place near by.

She would walk through these snowy streets, past the lit windows, past the flats, the houses - these places where life took place - and go home. She would leave this place, this relationship, this chapter of her life, and carry on. She would start again.

Whatever people mean by that.