Fic: Filling the Gaps
Title: Filling the Gaps
Author:
lefaym
Beta: Many thanks to
lionessvalenti and squeaky_the_pin
Fandom: Sherlock
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Sherlock/John
Summary: Sherlock is home, but there are gaps in his stories.
Rating: Mature
Content Notes: Contains discussion of drug use/addiction
Spoilers: for The Reichenbach Fall
Disclaimer: Moffat and Gatiss legally own this version of Sherlock Holmes.
Word Count: Approx. 1,400 words.
Cross-posted to AO3
Filling the Gaps
John tries not to focus on the gaps in Sherlock’s stories.
Sherlock has told him about tracing Moriarty's network, about chasing them across the globe, eliminating them one by one, until at last there was only Moran left, and John knows what happened then, because he was there. But there are still weeks and months that are unaccounted for, and when John asks about them, Sherlock's mouth settles into a tight frown, he turns to his violin, and refuses to answer.
And if the music doesn’t catch John quickly enough, he finds his hands balling into fists, his fingernails digging deep into his palms, and he needs to breathe slowly and heavily before he can move again.
* * *
Three days and two weeks after John has returned to Baker Street-three weeks exactly since Sherlock returned from the dead-John walks in on Sherlock in the shower.
Well, not in the shower, exactly. It’s more that he’s just stepped out of the shower, and he’s reaching for his towel, when John stumbles in, still too bleary-he hasn’t had his coffee yet-to realise that the room was actually occupied.
John’s first instinct is to yelp an apology, but he only manages, “Shit, I’m-” before he sees the marks that run along Sherlock’s arms; faded abscesses, half-healed, and none that could have been made less than six weeks ago, but they’re still there, dull brown and puckered white, running from his inside his elbows and down to his wrists.
Sherlock freezes, and John has crossed the room to stand in front of Sherlock before he even has time to think about it. John takes Sherlock by the arms, and his thumbs run over the older scars, and the newer ones that haven’t quite healed. Each one is a gap in Sherlock’s stories; each one makes John’s stomach twist.
“Christ, Sherlock,” he whispers, “what have you been doing to yourself?”
“Not anymore, John,” Sherlock says, his voice steady and quiet. “Not now.”
“But you did.”
Sherlock looks at him. “I needed something-something to make me believe that I could do what needed to be done.”
“Fuck.”
One corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches upwards. “Unlike you, John, I’m not accustomed to solving my problems in that way.”
And suddenly John is angry. Not the dull glow that is almost always in the back of his head these days; this is far more furious, full of flaming heat. John wants to punch Sherlock in the face, the way he should have done when he first turned up alive. Except, of course, that Sherlock had looked so ill then that John had thought he might shatter, and even now, he doesn’t look all that much better.
“I don’t understand,” John spits out, “I don’t understand how you can do this to yourself. You’re the most brilliant man-the most brilliant person that I’ve ever met, and you risk throwing it all away, for a fucking high.”
Sherlock’s jaw tightens. “It-it wasn’t easy, John.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Of course it wasn’t easy, these things were never easy, but Sherlock was smart, he knew what this stuff could do to him, he knew that he could lose everything, and yet he still-
“I missed you.” The words sound like they’ve been torn from Sherlock’s chest. “I missed you, and I couldn’t work when I felt that way.”
And then Sherlock is pushing past him, and John is left standing there, no less angry, but feeling as though something has shattered inside of him. All at once, the flat feels too small, and John needs to get out.
* * *
John ends up in a pub somewhere in Farringdon; he orders a pint, and keeps his phone handy, just in case-but it doesn’t ring, there are no texts summoning him home. (And he hates that, he really does, because he knows that he would go, if Sherlock asked him to.) He chats to a pretty woman for a little bit; he likes the way that her glossy dark hair catches the light. But his heart isn’t in it, and she can tell. She makes her excuses, and finds her way back to her group of friends upstairs.
In the end, when most of the day has passed, he goes home of his own accord.
Mrs Hudson greets him on his way in. “Is everything all right with you boys?”
John isn’t quite sure how to answer that, so he settles on another question. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s just-he’s been so quiet today.” Mrs Hudson tries to smile, and John remembers that this last year and a half hasn’t exactly been easy on her either. “I’m being silly.”
John squeezes her gently on the shoulder. “Everything’s fine,” he assures her, hoping that he’s telling the truth.
When he’s inside the flat, John can’t help but shiver, because it is eerily silent inside.
“Sherlock?” he calls. It’s always possible that he slipped out, without Mrs Hudson noticing-if a case had come in, and he hadn’t felt the need for John’s help.
But for some reason, John doesn’t think that’s likely.
“Sherlock?”
When Sherlock doesn’t answer for a second time, John makes his way to Sherlock’s bedroom, knocks once, and opens the door.
Sherlock is sitting on the edge of the bed, still naked, gazing at the periodic table on the wall, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
“Oh, shit,” John mutters, but then he realises that there are no new marks in Sherlock’s arms. And while his pupils are slightly dilated, it’s nothing more than you’d expect from someone who had been sitting in a dark room, with the blinds down. His breathing is normal, and he shows no signs of agitation.
Still, John checks his pulse for good measure. Sherlock makes no objection as John places his fingers against Sherlock’s neck, and feels the steady rate of a resting heartbeat.
“Thank god,” John breathes.
“I told you,” says Sherlock. “Not anymore. Not-not now.”
“I can’t-” John clears his throat. “I can’t be responsible for this, you know.”
“I know.”
“I mean-it could happen again. Whether I’m here or not.”
“I know.” Sherlock breathes deeply. “But it’s easier-it’s easier to resist, when-”
“When what?”
“When I’m afraid of disappointing you.”
Something tightens in John’s throat. “Since when have you been afraid of disappointing people?”
“Not people. You.” Sherlock unclenches his left fist, and turns it over, revealing a small vial of liquid in his palm.
John doesn’t need to guess at its contents.
“Seven per cent,” he mutters.
“I could have,” Sherlock says. “Anytime these past forty-five days, since I last-I could have done it. But I didn’t want-not when I was coming home. Not now.”
John realises that his breathing is shaky, and he forces it under control. “I’ll get rid of that for you, shall I?”
Sherlock nods. “Please.”
John takes the vial from Sherlock’s hand, and for a moment, Sherlock’s fingers curl around his.
“Needles in the bottom drawer,” Sherlock says.
“Right.”
When John has gathered everything together, he takes it to the bathroom. The cocaine solution goes down the toilet, and although John supposes he could find a use for the needles-still sealed, never used-it feels more right somehow, to crush them beneath his shoe.
He takes slow, measured steps as he returns to Sherlock’s room. Sherlock still hasn’t moved, but his fists are no longer clenched. He looks at John as John sits beside him once again.
“Thank you.”
John nods. “Anytime.” And then, because it needs to be said, “I missed you too, you know.”
“I know.”
“Let’s not-” John pauses, because he’s not quite sure how to put this. “Let’s not-let’s not do that again. Be in a situation where-we have to miss each other.”
“I agree,” says Sherlock, his voice soft.
John’s hand finds the back of Sherlock’s head; his fingers curl in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock turns towards him, and John leans in closer, rising slightly so he can press his lips to Sherlock’s forehead. “Good,” he says. “Now, get dressed. I’m going to order some Chinese.”
“Nothing with-”
“Nothing with black beans, I know.”
John smiles. Sherlock’s answering smile is tentative, but it makes John grin.
“Right,” he says, turning to leave the room. “Chinese.”
Author:
lefaym
Beta: Many thanks to
lionessvalenti and squeaky_the_pin
Fandom: Sherlock
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Sherlock/John
Summary: Sherlock is home, but there are gaps in his stories.
Rating: Mature
Content Notes: Contains discussion of drug use/addiction
Spoilers: for The Reichenbach Fall
Disclaimer: Moffat and Gatiss legally own this version of Sherlock Holmes.
Word Count: Approx. 1,400 words.
Cross-posted to AO3
Filling the Gaps
John tries not to focus on the gaps in Sherlock’s stories.
Sherlock has told him about tracing Moriarty's network, about chasing them across the globe, eliminating them one by one, until at last there was only Moran left, and John knows what happened then, because he was there. But there are still weeks and months that are unaccounted for, and when John asks about them, Sherlock's mouth settles into a tight frown, he turns to his violin, and refuses to answer.
And if the music doesn’t catch John quickly enough, he finds his hands balling into fists, his fingernails digging deep into his palms, and he needs to breathe slowly and heavily before he can move again.
* * *
Three days and two weeks after John has returned to Baker Street-three weeks exactly since Sherlock returned from the dead-John walks in on Sherlock in the shower.
Well, not in the shower, exactly. It’s more that he’s just stepped out of the shower, and he’s reaching for his towel, when John stumbles in, still too bleary-he hasn’t had his coffee yet-to realise that the room was actually occupied.
John’s first instinct is to yelp an apology, but he only manages, “Shit, I’m-” before he sees the marks that run along Sherlock’s arms; faded abscesses, half-healed, and none that could have been made less than six weeks ago, but they’re still there, dull brown and puckered white, running from his inside his elbows and down to his wrists.
Sherlock freezes, and John has crossed the room to stand in front of Sherlock before he even has time to think about it. John takes Sherlock by the arms, and his thumbs run over the older scars, and the newer ones that haven’t quite healed. Each one is a gap in Sherlock’s stories; each one makes John’s stomach twist.
“Christ, Sherlock,” he whispers, “what have you been doing to yourself?”
“Not anymore, John,” Sherlock says, his voice steady and quiet. “Not now.”
“But you did.”
Sherlock looks at him. “I needed something-something to make me believe that I could do what needed to be done.”
“Fuck.”
One corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches upwards. “Unlike you, John, I’m not accustomed to solving my problems in that way.”
And suddenly John is angry. Not the dull glow that is almost always in the back of his head these days; this is far more furious, full of flaming heat. John wants to punch Sherlock in the face, the way he should have done when he first turned up alive. Except, of course, that Sherlock had looked so ill then that John had thought he might shatter, and even now, he doesn’t look all that much better.
“I don’t understand,” John spits out, “I don’t understand how you can do this to yourself. You’re the most brilliant man-the most brilliant person that I’ve ever met, and you risk throwing it all away, for a fucking high.”
Sherlock’s jaw tightens. “It-it wasn’t easy, John.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Of course it wasn’t easy, these things were never easy, but Sherlock was smart, he knew what this stuff could do to him, he knew that he could lose everything, and yet he still-
“I missed you.” The words sound like they’ve been torn from Sherlock’s chest. “I missed you, and I couldn’t work when I felt that way.”
And then Sherlock is pushing past him, and John is left standing there, no less angry, but feeling as though something has shattered inside of him. All at once, the flat feels too small, and John needs to get out.
* * *
John ends up in a pub somewhere in Farringdon; he orders a pint, and keeps his phone handy, just in case-but it doesn’t ring, there are no texts summoning him home. (And he hates that, he really does, because he knows that he would go, if Sherlock asked him to.) He chats to a pretty woman for a little bit; he likes the way that her glossy dark hair catches the light. But his heart isn’t in it, and she can tell. She makes her excuses, and finds her way back to her group of friends upstairs.
In the end, when most of the day has passed, he goes home of his own accord.
Mrs Hudson greets him on his way in. “Is everything all right with you boys?”
John isn’t quite sure how to answer that, so he settles on another question. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s just-he’s been so quiet today.” Mrs Hudson tries to smile, and John remembers that this last year and a half hasn’t exactly been easy on her either. “I’m being silly.”
John squeezes her gently on the shoulder. “Everything’s fine,” he assures her, hoping that he’s telling the truth.
When he’s inside the flat, John can’t help but shiver, because it is eerily silent inside.
“Sherlock?” he calls. It’s always possible that he slipped out, without Mrs Hudson noticing-if a case had come in, and he hadn’t felt the need for John’s help.
But for some reason, John doesn’t think that’s likely.
“Sherlock?”
When Sherlock doesn’t answer for a second time, John makes his way to Sherlock’s bedroom, knocks once, and opens the door.
Sherlock is sitting on the edge of the bed, still naked, gazing at the periodic table on the wall, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
“Oh, shit,” John mutters, but then he realises that there are no new marks in Sherlock’s arms. And while his pupils are slightly dilated, it’s nothing more than you’d expect from someone who had been sitting in a dark room, with the blinds down. His breathing is normal, and he shows no signs of agitation.
Still, John checks his pulse for good measure. Sherlock makes no objection as John places his fingers against Sherlock’s neck, and feels the steady rate of a resting heartbeat.
“Thank god,” John breathes.
“I told you,” says Sherlock. “Not anymore. Not-not now.”
“I can’t-” John clears his throat. “I can’t be responsible for this, you know.”
“I know.”
“I mean-it could happen again. Whether I’m here or not.”
“I know.” Sherlock breathes deeply. “But it’s easier-it’s easier to resist, when-”
“When what?”
“When I’m afraid of disappointing you.”
Something tightens in John’s throat. “Since when have you been afraid of disappointing people?”
“Not people. You.” Sherlock unclenches his left fist, and turns it over, revealing a small vial of liquid in his palm.
John doesn’t need to guess at its contents.
“Seven per cent,” he mutters.
“I could have,” Sherlock says. “Anytime these past forty-five days, since I last-I could have done it. But I didn’t want-not when I was coming home. Not now.”
John realises that his breathing is shaky, and he forces it under control. “I’ll get rid of that for you, shall I?”
Sherlock nods. “Please.”
John takes the vial from Sherlock’s hand, and for a moment, Sherlock’s fingers curl around his.
“Needles in the bottom drawer,” Sherlock says.
“Right.”
When John has gathered everything together, he takes it to the bathroom. The cocaine solution goes down the toilet, and although John supposes he could find a use for the needles-still sealed, never used-it feels more right somehow, to crush them beneath his shoe.
He takes slow, measured steps as he returns to Sherlock’s room. Sherlock still hasn’t moved, but his fists are no longer clenched. He looks at John as John sits beside him once again.
“Thank you.”
John nods. “Anytime.” And then, because it needs to be said, “I missed you too, you know.”
“I know.”
“Let’s not-” John pauses, because he’s not quite sure how to put this. “Let’s not-let’s not do that again. Be in a situation where-we have to miss each other.”
“I agree,” says Sherlock, his voice soft.
John’s hand finds the back of Sherlock’s head; his fingers curl in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock turns towards him, and John leans in closer, rising slightly so he can press his lips to Sherlock’s forehead. “Good,” he says. “Now, get dressed. I’m going to order some Chinese.”
“Nothing with-”
“Nothing with black beans, I know.”
John smiles. Sherlock’s answering smile is tentative, but it makes John grin.
“Right,” he says, turning to leave the room. “Chinese.”