[Sherlock BBC] Around my neck I slowly felt the noose of innocence
Title: Around my neck I slowly felt the noose of innocence
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes
Rating: NC17
Warning: angst, slash, fluff, spoilers from 2x03
Wordcounter: 5252 (fiumidiparole)
Resume: It is just a moment, Sherlock’s hands tightening around the scarf, and John makes a staggering step ahead, a small whisper while his lips brush Sherlock’s. He can still taste an inkling of wine on his tongue, soft inside his mouth.
Notes: Never written something SO LONG in English! This is my fanfic for the sherlockrebang and I really hope it's not all crap, because really, English is not my first language, but I really wanted to write this because the art was sooooooo lovely. You'll find it under the cut, it's made by liseli <3 And well, hope you like it, and if you find some mistake please please please leave me a comment or send me a DM and I will correct it <3!
Disclaimer: Sherlock does not belong to me, or it would be a gay soap opera.
Wonderful piece of art by liseli
(Dear, if you post it somewhere else let me know and I will put the links!)
i.
Angelo is obliged to cast Sherlock and John out from his restaurant because it is almost two in the morning and is desperate to sleep, and he should be already at home, under the warm blankets of his bed - he would be, if his two best clients had stopped drinking at least a hour ago. He is glad to see Sherlock so relaxed after years of greyness; he thinks about the last three years, when John was not part of his life, and a shiver crosses his back. But really, he does need that bed now.
He shakes his head almost fatherly, waving his hand at the two boys leaving.
John feels strangely high, his mouth unable to stay close. He looks at the sky and laughs, alcohol into the circulation, spinning on his head. He does not remember the last time he felt so joyful, it probably was in his sixteen , when life seemed to be easier and was not made of guns and blood and death. His gaze slides to Sherlock, hands tucked on his coat’s pockets, his cheekbones slightly pink. “Never seen that shade on your face.” he says, his index finger rubbing the tip his nose. “You don’t seem used to drinking.”
Sherlock smiles, turning his head towards him. John’s eyes are liquid, the blue of his iris so dark. “I could say the same, John. You should see yourself walking, you are quite… interesting.”
John laughs again, and he totters towards a lamp to rest for a moment, his head buried on his hands. “Oh God. I’m worse than a teenager. Give me a second.” He shakes his hand in the air, trying to regain a bit of dignity. Sherlock grins, approaching him. Hands still on his pockets, he raises his head and looks at the stars shining shyly behind the cloudy sky.
“You don’t seem to be fine.”
“Head spinning, too much beer.”
“You are getting old, John.” Sherlock teases him, giving him a slap on his back. “Tea suits you better. You should leave beer to the youngster.”
“You are not funny.” He answers, not stopping smiling. “Okay. I am fine. Let’s go home, I really need to take a shower.”
“I do not want to go through the boredom to find a new flatmate, John. The shower can wait.”
The snort that escapes from John’s lips is strong. “It is damn hot, I really need to-“
He stops talking when he feels the fabric of Sherlock’s scarf rubbing gently against his neck. His eyes run over the hands of his mate, his face contracted in astonishment. “I said hot, Sherlock.”
“I know.”
It is just a moment, Sherlock’s hands tightening around the scarf, and John makes a staggering step ahead, a small whisper while his lips brush Sherlock’s. He can still taste an inkling of wine on his tongue, soft inside his mouth. He moans and clings to his coat, his mind torn between trying to keep balance and responding to Sherlock’s kiss. When they part, Sherlock’s eyes are shining in arousal, making shivers run down John’s spine.
“Okay. Now I absolutely need to get home.” he laughs on Sherlock’s lips and holds his hips, leaving another kiss.
Sherlock is right. The shower can wait.
ii.
The night has swallowed London from three hours, when the first gunshots rumble in the air. John jumps on his bed, eyes open in search of some kind of light. He does not understand if he was dreaming or if that terrifying noise was really that near. When he turns on the night-lamp, Sherlock is already on his feet putting his trousers on, giving him the answer to his doubts. “Get dressed,” he only says, his hands busy with a white shirt.
“What the hell…” he whispers, rubbing his face. When he gives a glance at the clock and sees it is just three in the morning, he feels suddenly more tired than how he actually is. He leaves the bed with a groan, looking for the first clothes to put on.
Sherlock’s mobile phone rings while he is tying his shoes, and John is sure there is Lestrade on the other side. “Yes,” Sherlock says answering, his voice low. “Yes, checking in a minute. He must be still near, I will call you as soon as I have collected more data.”
John waits Sherlock to close the call, before talking to him. “What’s up?”
“Stephen Thompson, thirty-five, Lestrade found her wife dead on their bed, and two children in a state of shock, probably their sons. I would not accept the case, but his house is at the 211, so…”
“Oh, I see. Territory invasion.” John looks at the bed and sighs, renouncing to the umpteenth night of sleep, before approaching his desk. “I’ll take the gun.”
There is blood, out of the 211. The murder soiled his shoes, living a clear path behind him. Sherlock smirks, glad of the foolishness of that man because this means he will be back home soon, and follows the footprints on the road, dark red which melts with the tar. “He mustn’t be that far.” he says, a torch in his left hand. “We must take him before he reaches the crossroad or he could become a problem.”
John sighs, nodding. He is looking at the front door of the flat, still open, and he can hear the cries of the children - God only knows why this is happening.
Sherlock turns towards John, his face suddenly serious. “Police is coming, John. It is useless to think about them, now, leave it to Lestrade. Let’s go.” Sherlock says, starting to follow the path. John throws another glance at the front door and sighs, trying to ignore the crying voices of the children.
They can hear sirens at the bottom of the road.
Anxiety starts to eat John’s heart inch by inch, while the footprints become less defined; blood is starting to dry under the man’s shoes, and the thought to find him soon is hammering so strong in his head he is starting to feel an headache.
Yards away from Baker Street there is a little park, where the grass is wet with dewdrops and blood. “We must be near him.” Sherlock whispers, putting away the torch and having a look around. The park is silent, just the soft noise of the wind through the branches of the trees. John is almost sure they will not find anything there - he has seen no blood, going through the park, and if someone was hiding there, they would have already found him.
“John.” Sherlock calls him in a low voice. He looks far in front of him, behind the swings, behind the rocking horses. “There.” Sherlock raises his arm, pointing at a shadow behind a bench. He can see the back of a man rising and lowering frantically. John’s heart starts to run, a bad feeling invading his chest. They walk slowly, trying not to make a noise.
But it is very hard, when London is sleeping and the wind stops blowing. A foot on the wrong twig, and the shadow moves, a scream filling the air.
“Keep away!”
It becomes the phantom of a man, his face paler for the blood already dry on his skin. John takes the gun, aiming at the danger in front of them.
“Keep away!” the man cries again, shaking his weapon, Sherlock that raises his hand to stop John from doing something he might regret.
“Don’t move.” The detective shouts, moving his hand towards the man. He can see his history on his body - pupils dilated in shock, his left hand dirt in blood. He probably tried to stop his wife’s haemorrhage, but after having realised the amount of damage, he left his house as soon as he could.
Not without the gun, anyway.
“It is useless. Just stay there.”
He does not expect him to obey. In fact, the man shakes his head, aims at the ground with the gun and fires, before to run. Sherlock jumps back in surprise, looking back at John. “You okay?”
“I am fine, just- move!”
Chasing him through London’s streets makes adrenaline rush in their veins, John holding his gun so tight that his knuckles are blanching, Sherlock trying to stop the man by voice before he makes something even duller than killing his wife.
In the end, the man traps himself on a blind valley.
Silence is the only thing running between them. John’s arms are stiff, his gun held tight on his hands. “Don’t you dare.” He whispers, aiming at the man’s legs - Sherlock said he is a desperate man who lost his job and does not see any other way to live than killing his own family and faking a cruelty that does not belong to him, but John feels strange, and does not really want to trust a man with a gun - particularly if he has nothing to lose. He holds his breath, looking at Sherlock while he tries to approach the man.
“Put that gun down. It won’t really help you.”
“Shut up!” he screams, shaking the weapon in the air. John loads the gun and steps forward, an eye on the sights, shoot him, prevent him from hurting anybody. Sherlock raises a hand, shaking his head.
How does he know everything?
“The police will be here in a minute, Stephen. Do you really want to go to jail and lose the chance to see your children again? Not a good idea, don’t you think?”
The man shakes his head, making a step back. He is scared, his pupils terrifyingly dilated. He seems to react to his name, because now he trembles, and looks around in panic. “Now, put that gun down.”
“No!”
John does not realize what he is really doing until he does not feel something burning down his thigh. Sherlock screams his name but he does not hear it, too busy at pushing Sherlock to the ground. There is a strong noise, the smell of grass and gun powder filling his nostrils while his leg pulses in pain. Sherlock is holding him to his shoulders, when the second shot rumbles in the air.
Thump.
Sherlock turns his head to see a stream of blood pouring from Stephen’s head. He bites his lip, disappointed, before to notice that John is pressing his fingers hard on his shoulders. “John!” he calls him. John tries to smile, but it is a broken one.
“I think I got shot.” He laughs in difficulty, bending his head towards the wound. Thanks God the bullet did not stuck inside him, but the flesh burns and he is bleeding and - oh, fuck.
“Lie down.” Sherlock says, pushing gently on John shoulders and taking off his scarf.
“Sherlock, I’m- I am fine, it is just a-“
He does not finish the sentence, pain obliging him to hiss. Sherlock tries to be as gentle as possible, while he pushes his scarf on the broken skin of his mate and takes the phone with his free hand. John hears him talking, but he soon decides that he is too tired to follow the dialogue, and rests on the ground, his arm covering his eyes.
“They are coming, John.”
The tremble in his voice is so strong that John can almost touch it. “Sherlock, it is just a scratch, don’t…”
But Sherlock does not hear him. He keeps pressing the scarf on his thigh, looking around - John could swear he is nervous, but Sherlock would never admit it. “Don’t worry.”
Sherlock presses his lips in a wreck smile, shaking his head. “I’m not worried. I know you’ll be fine.”
John sighs and the only thing he wants now is to be at home and sleep, and not to worry about what is happening around him - he wants to forget those cries, he wants to forget those sick, panicked eyes, he wants to forget the worry in Sherlock’s face, and the pain on his leg.
John looks at the scarf and looks at his own blood, and when he starts to see white behind his eyelids he thanks God for sparing him the suffering to be awake and giving him a few minutes of peace.
iii.
Sherlock is bent over his microscope, snorting every now and then and cursing whatever he is doing. John is still sleeping, his body relaxed on the couch, and for a moment he loses himself looking at the doctor. Sherlock smiles, shaking his head faintly before coming back to his work - Gregson almost cried, when he gave him a plastic bag with a lock of hair and some pledgets, imploring him to find something connected to the bastard who abused a poor child who does not sleep from three days. Gregson should have also learnt by now that he cannot perform miracles, and with the evidences he gave him, he cannot magically know the background of the victim life, nor the one of the mugger.
There is a soft noise behind his back. He turns again to see John yawning, eyes wet and tired. “Hi.” he says smiling. John tries to sit, yawning again.
“What time is it?”
“Almost two in the morning.”
He laughs, when he hears John groaning in frustration. “Why didn’t you wake me?” he groans, his hands on the face, palms pressed on his eyes. “Goodbye night.”
“You seems frustrated.”
“I am frustrated. I have got extra-work to do tomorrow, I really can’t spend the night looking at you, I need sleep.”
“You have slept, John. There is no need to-“
“I’ll go to the bathroom.” he interrupts his flatmate, shaking his hand and leaving the room.
Sherlock shrugs and, for the third time in a few minutes, comes back to cells and blood. He wonders how much will take before John interrupts him again with his ranting. He must get free of this stuff before the sun rises, because he is already getting bored, and this is really not good.
He puts a hand on the evidence bag and takes another pledget, blood and another liquid he cannot identify. He will need something more than a bunch of garbage to resolve the case.
He does not notice the soft sound of John’s footsteps on the floor. He does not even notice that John is behind him, when the room becomes dark and he feels the fabric of his scarf over his eyes - it smells like his aftershave, and there a hint of smoke that makes that scent unmistakable. “John?” he calls him, trying to look at his face, but John ties the scarf behind his head, and the only answer he gives him is a “Shh, silence,” barely whispered. “Stand up.”
“What is happening?”
Maybe he wants to punish him because he did not wake him? No, it is not something John would do - or he would have received more than one punishment by now. He obeys, John that holds his shoulders and push him softly. “Don’t worry, just walk.”
He smiles, reassured by John’s voice. His behaviour is completely abnormal, by the way. Sherlock perfectly understands where they are going, because he knows his flat like the back of his hand. But John is bringing him in his room, and then in the bathroom, and now they are in the middle of the dining room and Sherlock still has not any clue of what there is in John’s head.
Noises. Doors opening, two extra feet walking on the floor - a woman, judging from the softer sound. Plastic on the table, it full of something heavy, because the wood crackles under his weight. John laughs behind him, and Sherlock feels the sudden urge to throw away his scarf and see what the hell John is doing.
“You ready?”
A nod, and his eyes are free. He is speechless, when he can what is on the table where they usually have dinner.
“I went to the morgue and Molly told me I could take them. I know you like these kind of things, a wallet or a tie are far too much ordinary for you.” The plastic bag is dirt in blood and shred of flesh, amputated arms and legs that makes him feel so damned happy. “So you can play at the chemist without kidnapping Molly’s corpses.”
Mrs Hudson laughs in front of him, an hand on her mouth and eyes staring at Sherlock not to look at the terrible slaughter on her table.
“Happy birthday, darling.”
He could not have a better family.
iv.
Nightingales are singing outside his window. It is the first night without rain after a series of thunderstorms that had filled the sky with dark clouds and lightings. The flat is plunged into silence, and the only noise barely audible is the voice of a speaker from the telly Mrs. Hudson forgot to switch off before sleeping. John whines in his sleep, a soft pain radiating from the neck to the elbows. He slowly open his eyes, the light of a lamp on the street resting upon the furniture. He yawns, squinting his eyes. When he tries to bring a hand over his shoulders, he realises that something is wrong.
He cannot move his hands. “What the…” he whispers, his head bent to try to see what is tightening around his wrists.
Sherlock’s scarf seems brown, under the orange light of the lamp. John wonders for a moment if he is still dreaming, because how in the hell could the scarf be there? “Sherlock?” he calls, trying to grip the fabric and loose the knot. “Sherlock!”
He hears the sound of his footsteps out of the room, and sighs in relief. He starts to think that it is just one of his silly experiments - maybe he wanted to see how long would it take to make his hands develop gangrene? He will probably punch him in the face once he will free him, fuck the subtext.
The door opens and Sherlock is there, the vest the only thing he is wearing. “What’s up?”
“What the hell is going on? I can’t feel my hands.”
Sherlock approaches, the click of the door lock being the only noise in the room. Sherlock turns on the night-lamp and look at his flatmate, a slight grin on his face. “And you won’t for the next half hour.”
John raises an eyebrow, while Sherlock takes off his vest.
That man is impossible.
“Would you mind to tell me-“
“You’ll see.”
He would very like to protest, because his shoulders are aching, but then Sherlock presses his lips on his, and every will to talk disappears outright. Their chest brushes, John that arches a bit to catch all the heat in Sherlock’s body. The fabric of his pyjama is so thin he can see the line of his pectoral. John moans on Sherlock’s mouth, the consulting detective’s tongue caressing his slowly, tasting it, sucking it. He bites his lower lip and pulls it a bit, stealing a deeper moan, hot, passionate. Their lips part when Sherlock decides he does not want to stay sit anymore. Seeing Sherlock over him, his legs spread around his hips, makes John forget to be tied for a moment, the wood cracking a bit while he pulls his hands to touch him. He groans in frustration and lets his head fall on the cushion, Sherlock’s hands under his shirt. “If you wanted to give vent to your instincts, you could have just asked.”
“I didn’t want your permission.” he states, his lips wet and red. “Remember? Experiment.” And hand slips down his chest, a finger playing with his soft hairs before going down to the navel, and his crotch. “And you are reacting well, John.”
“I would have never expect you to have some kind of kinks.”
“It’s not me.” He whispers on his lips, his tongue touching gently his hot skin. “It’s you.”
John does not notice Sherlock spreading his legs and wedging between them, his man’s lips catching his eyes. His voice cracks when Sherlock takes his underwear and puts them off, throwing them somewhere on the floor. “You would never admit it, but you enjoying being… limited.”His lips kisses John’s belly, his tongue drawing circles on his skin. “You tried while in the army and liked it. But you were probably scared by the idea of being dominated, so you suffocated the need, the desire, and forgot about it. Am I right?”
“More or less.”
“Predictable.”
Sherlock smiles at him, skin between his teeth. He tastes of salt. He licks his lips and goes down, his mouth eating John inch by inch. His erection throbs against his neck, and Sherlock takes it in his hand, a gentle stroke over his already wet skin. “Oh God.”, and this is the best thing Sherlock could ever hear at the moment.
“You can’t do anything.” He whispers against his cock, licking it. “I could do whatever I want to you. I could just go out and leave you here longing to come, I could stare at you, and wait you to beg for sucking it, or fuck you. You are helpless, and every time I remember you your situation, you become harder.”
He overhangs towards him, John’s cock touching his belly. “You like it, don’t you?”
“You prick.”
“Oh, not a news.” he smirks on John’s lips. “But today is your lucky day.”
John arches when he feels Sherlock’s fingers pressing against his entrance. His legs spread almost instantly, his pelvis raising to help Sherlock making his way through his body. He does not want him to use his fingers - Sherlock tired him enough, because his erection is aching and he just want to free himself by that uncomfortable feeling lying on his belly. “S-Sherlock…”
“Patience, John.”
Sherlock pushes his finger harder, his free hand caressing the line of John’s abdomen. John feels shivers down his spine, and Sherlock staring at his face does not help him at all; his fingers open and close inside him, and the only thing he would do is screaming in pleasure, but then it would be a problem answering to Mrs Hudson’s embarrassing questions. Better to remain silent.
He does not want to give Sherlock any satisfaction.
The problem crops up when his lips, wet and warm, lie on the top of his cock, his tongue that gives little licks. John closes his hands in fists, trying to suppress the desire, but his sight goes blank when Sherlock takes it all on his mouth, and he can feel his throat against his hard flesh. “C-Christ-“ he pants, biting his lower lip to hold a cry and failing miserably. It is a slow, fucking torture, his mouth sucking every inch of skin. John bends his legs around Sherlock’s head, pushing it against his crotch without thinking. When Sherlock stops sucking John groans in frustration, but it is a moment before he starts to push inside him, long and pale fingers around his thighs. John would stay like this for ever, if he only could. He would not mind his tied hands, he would not mind the pain eating his muscles. He would let Sherlock to whatever he wants, and only because he knows that he could not be better safe than in his hands.
Only because he trusts him so much.
He concentrates on every thrust Sherlock gives, his stomach shaken by shivers of pleasure. If his hands would not tied, he would now clutch at the sheets, but he only push against Sherlock’s belly and let himself go, and there is nothing more to do. Legs spread, his mouth open and lucid and red from bites and kisses, John arches again when he feels to have reached his limit. He comes with a long, low cry, teeth deepen in his lower lip. Sherlock follows him a few thrust later, relaxing over his body, not minding the mess on John’s stomach. He kisses John’s jaw.
“Have we finished?”
“I don’t know. Maybe not.”
Sherlock is mad, but he is hardly less so.
v.
The shift has literally destroyed him. Three cases of flu, a pregnant woman with an unbearable backache, an old man with an uncomfortable case of diarrhoea, and a headache starting to make him feel too tired to live. The cab stops in front of the 221b, and after paying the cabbie, John thanks him and goes towards his door, his hand poking around his bag to find the keys. The moon shines bright behind him today, so he does not lose too much time searching the keyhole.
“I’m home.” he says at the door, his voice low because Mrs Hudson is probably sleeping. The fact that he does not hear any noise from upstairs makes him feel a bit uncomfortable, but he is sure Sherlock is there, hypnotised by something strange on the microscope. He makes the steps slowly, putting off his jacket. There is no light into his flat, and the silence starts to be strange, almost annoying.
“Sherlock?”
He gropes for the light switch, but now that the room is lit up, the annoyance turns into anxiety. There is blood everywhere - on the table, on the floor, some drops on the green walls. He calls Sherlock again, but there is no answer. He looks in every room - there must be something to tell him what happened, he cannot just be disappeared. In panic, he looks for the mobile phone and calls the first person that jumps in his head, trying to convince himself that if something bad had happened, Mycroft would have already called him.
Three men are inspecting their flat, while Lestrade asks Mrs Hudson if she has heard something.
“I was in the kitchen, my chicken was burning and…” she says, her voice near to break. “I didn’t hear anything from upstairs, I thought Sherlock was doing those silly experiments he does every time John is not at home…”
John looks at Mrs Hudson in astonishment, but he soon decides that there is no time to argue about what Sherlock does in his flat while he is working. Lestrade shakes his head and puts his hands on her shoulders. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson. Take a sit and something hot, we’ll take care of it now.”
She sighs and nods, leaving the room. John strokes his hair and sighs. “He’ll be fine, John. Don’t worry.”
Lestrade must be right. There is no sign of breaking, no notes, nothing.
“I need to go out of here.” He whispers, Lestrade right behind him. The inspector sees John’s worry on his trembling fists, on his watery eyes. Thank God, and unlike Sherlock, he has a great self control. “Why didn’t he call me?”
“Maybe he didn’t have the time. He could have been attacked or…”
He stops talking, words failing him. John turns to see what he is attracting his attention, and suddenly the only thing he wants to do is put a good punch on that moron’s face.
“Oh, John.” Sherlock says, raising two plastic bag. “Took Chinese. Don’t thank me.”
“You fucking-“
Sherlock stops and look at John’s face, ignoring Lestrade, ignoring the blue lights painting the whole Baker Street. “What happened?”
“You imbecile, do you know” a punch on Sherlock’s stomach, “how much” and another one “I was worried about you?” He pushes him and then he grips on Sherlock’s collar. “Have you any idea?”
“I don’t understand.”
Lestrade reaches them just before John can punch Sherlock in the face. “John came back and found blood in your flat. He was-“
“John, oh God.” Sherlock puts the bags on the pavement and takes off his scarf, putting it around John’s neck. “I left without cleaning. It is not my blood. It’s just an experiment.”
“A bloody experiment.” he repeats, trying hard not to hit him and break his nose.
“A bloody experiment.” Sherlock hits off, smirking. This does not help John to stop willing to smash his face in, but at least the anxiety has gone.
“You better clean up next time, or I’ll kill you with my hands.”
“Yes, sir.” Sherlock just answers, before pressing his hand on John’s hot cheeks and kissing him.
John hates him so much, right now.
i .
He has already lost track of the days passed by the awful moment in which Sherlock decided that dying was a better option than trying to show he was not a fake. It is September, he cannot really remember the day, but it probably is a Tuesday because Mrs. Hudson left very early in the morning, and since she has been doing this for two years, John is almost sure she has gone to the market to fill her fridge - and his one for sure.
He does not really want to get up. His legs are heavy as lead, his head filled with thoughts he would like to suppress. He knows that someone will call him if he does not show himself to someone within a few hours, but, oh God, he wants only silence, some time to spend alone - why does everyone keep telling him that he must go out and live on, when they perfectly know that he cannot stop repeating the image of Sherlock falling down the Bart’s in his head endlessly? He groans, taking his mobile phone. The clock tells him that is almost lunch time, a few minutes past midday. Harry tried to call him three times between ten and half past eleven, but he is not sure he wants to hear her voice. He knows exactly what she would say - ”John, for God’s sake, bring your fucking arse out of that flat.”
It sounds so easy for everyone except him. But well, he does not expect someone to understand what he is going through.
He decides he has been too long on his bed. He draws away the sheets and puts his feet on the floor, a chill running through his spine. He will jump breakfast, it is too late. But a good shower will help him waking up before eating something. Leaving the room, his eyes fall on the chair where he left some of the Sherlock’s stuff Molly gave him after the funeral. ”I think you should take them.” she said in a broken voice.
He did not want to, but how could he say no to that poor girl?
The scarf, a tiny stain of blood he could not wash away, seems to be looking at him.
Well, he could go out a bit, after lunch. Just to stretch his leg. Maybe to visit someone he has not seen from months.
“I hate you.” he says, knees near his chest while his trousers get dirty with grass. “I don’t even know what day is today, and still you haven’t come back home. What are you waiting for?”
Does he really expect to receive an answer? He touches the gravestone like it is something sacred.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I could have help.” His hand is closed around Sherlock’s scarf while he fights not to cry. Would Sherlock laugh at him, if he was still alive?
The sky is annoyingly clear.
“Mrs Hudson cries every day. Same for Molly. I haven’t seen Mycroft since that day, because if I met him, I would probably kill him.” He rubs his hands on the face, sighing. “Greg isn’t that well, too. I think he feels responsible for your-.”
His voice breaks, and he presses his lips hard not to let a sob escape. He cannot pronounce that word without not having a crisis. He shakes his head and looks at the gravestone, at Sherlock’s name written in white letters, so painful for his eyes.
He clenches his fists around the scarf, his head disappearing between his arms. “I miss you.” he whispers, biting his lips.
It will be so hard, living without him.
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes
Rating: NC17
Warning: angst, slash, fluff, spoilers from 2x03
Wordcounter: 5252 (fiumidiparole)
Resume: It is just a moment, Sherlock’s hands tightening around the scarf, and John makes a staggering step ahead, a small whisper while his lips brush Sherlock’s. He can still taste an inkling of wine on his tongue, soft inside his mouth.
Notes: Never written something SO LONG in English! This is my fanfic for the sherlockrebang and I really hope it's not all crap, because really, English is not my first language, but I really wanted to write this because the art was sooooooo lovely. You'll find it under the cut, it's made by liseli <3 And well, hope you like it, and if you find some mistake please please please leave me a comment or send me a DM and I will correct it <3!
Disclaimer: Sherlock does not belong to me, or it would be a gay soap opera.
Wonderful piece of art by liseli
(Dear, if you post it somewhere else let me know and I will put the links!)
i.
Angelo is obliged to cast Sherlock and John out from his restaurant because it is almost two in the morning and is desperate to sleep, and he should be already at home, under the warm blankets of his bed - he would be, if his two best clients had stopped drinking at least a hour ago. He is glad to see Sherlock so relaxed after years of greyness; he thinks about the last three years, when John was not part of his life, and a shiver crosses his back. But really, he does need that bed now.
He shakes his head almost fatherly, waving his hand at the two boys leaving.
John feels strangely high, his mouth unable to stay close. He looks at the sky and laughs, alcohol into the circulation, spinning on his head. He does not remember the last time he felt so joyful, it probably was in his sixteen , when life seemed to be easier and was not made of guns and blood and death. His gaze slides to Sherlock, hands tucked on his coat’s pockets, his cheekbones slightly pink. “Never seen that shade on your face.” he says, his index finger rubbing the tip his nose. “You don’t seem used to drinking.”
Sherlock smiles, turning his head towards him. John’s eyes are liquid, the blue of his iris so dark. “I could say the same, John. You should see yourself walking, you are quite… interesting.”
John laughs again, and he totters towards a lamp to rest for a moment, his head buried on his hands. “Oh God. I’m worse than a teenager. Give me a second.” He shakes his hand in the air, trying to regain a bit of dignity. Sherlock grins, approaching him. Hands still on his pockets, he raises his head and looks at the stars shining shyly behind the cloudy sky.
“You don’t seem to be fine.”
“Head spinning, too much beer.”
“You are getting old, John.” Sherlock teases him, giving him a slap on his back. “Tea suits you better. You should leave beer to the youngster.”
“You are not funny.” He answers, not stopping smiling. “Okay. I am fine. Let’s go home, I really need to take a shower.”
“I do not want to go through the boredom to find a new flatmate, John. The shower can wait.”
The snort that escapes from John’s lips is strong. “It is damn hot, I really need to-“
He stops talking when he feels the fabric of Sherlock’s scarf rubbing gently against his neck. His eyes run over the hands of his mate, his face contracted in astonishment. “I said hot, Sherlock.”
“I know.”
It is just a moment, Sherlock’s hands tightening around the scarf, and John makes a staggering step ahead, a small whisper while his lips brush Sherlock’s. He can still taste an inkling of wine on his tongue, soft inside his mouth. He moans and clings to his coat, his mind torn between trying to keep balance and responding to Sherlock’s kiss. When they part, Sherlock’s eyes are shining in arousal, making shivers run down John’s spine.
“Okay. Now I absolutely need to get home.” he laughs on Sherlock’s lips and holds his hips, leaving another kiss.
Sherlock is right. The shower can wait.
ii.
The night has swallowed London from three hours, when the first gunshots rumble in the air. John jumps on his bed, eyes open in search of some kind of light. He does not understand if he was dreaming or if that terrifying noise was really that near. When he turns on the night-lamp, Sherlock is already on his feet putting his trousers on, giving him the answer to his doubts. “Get dressed,” he only says, his hands busy with a white shirt.
“What the hell…” he whispers, rubbing his face. When he gives a glance at the clock and sees it is just three in the morning, he feels suddenly more tired than how he actually is. He leaves the bed with a groan, looking for the first clothes to put on.
Sherlock’s mobile phone rings while he is tying his shoes, and John is sure there is Lestrade on the other side. “Yes,” Sherlock says answering, his voice low. “Yes, checking in a minute. He must be still near, I will call you as soon as I have collected more data.”
John waits Sherlock to close the call, before talking to him. “What’s up?”
“Stephen Thompson, thirty-five, Lestrade found her wife dead on their bed, and two children in a state of shock, probably their sons. I would not accept the case, but his house is at the 211, so…”
“Oh, I see. Territory invasion.” John looks at the bed and sighs, renouncing to the umpteenth night of sleep, before approaching his desk. “I’ll take the gun.”
There is blood, out of the 211. The murder soiled his shoes, living a clear path behind him. Sherlock smirks, glad of the foolishness of that man because this means he will be back home soon, and follows the footprints on the road, dark red which melts with the tar. “He mustn’t be that far.” he says, a torch in his left hand. “We must take him before he reaches the crossroad or he could become a problem.”
John sighs, nodding. He is looking at the front door of the flat, still open, and he can hear the cries of the children - God only knows why this is happening.
Sherlock turns towards John, his face suddenly serious. “Police is coming, John. It is useless to think about them, now, leave it to Lestrade. Let’s go.” Sherlock says, starting to follow the path. John throws another glance at the front door and sighs, trying to ignore the crying voices of the children.
They can hear sirens at the bottom of the road.
Anxiety starts to eat John’s heart inch by inch, while the footprints become less defined; blood is starting to dry under the man’s shoes, and the thought to find him soon is hammering so strong in his head he is starting to feel an headache.
Yards away from Baker Street there is a little park, where the grass is wet with dewdrops and blood. “We must be near him.” Sherlock whispers, putting away the torch and having a look around. The park is silent, just the soft noise of the wind through the branches of the trees. John is almost sure they will not find anything there - he has seen no blood, going through the park, and if someone was hiding there, they would have already found him.
“John.” Sherlock calls him in a low voice. He looks far in front of him, behind the swings, behind the rocking horses. “There.” Sherlock raises his arm, pointing at a shadow behind a bench. He can see the back of a man rising and lowering frantically. John’s heart starts to run, a bad feeling invading his chest. They walk slowly, trying not to make a noise.
But it is very hard, when London is sleeping and the wind stops blowing. A foot on the wrong twig, and the shadow moves, a scream filling the air.
“Keep away!”
It becomes the phantom of a man, his face paler for the blood already dry on his skin. John takes the gun, aiming at the danger in front of them.
“Keep away!” the man cries again, shaking his weapon, Sherlock that raises his hand to stop John from doing something he might regret.
“Don’t move.” The detective shouts, moving his hand towards the man. He can see his history on his body - pupils dilated in shock, his left hand dirt in blood. He probably tried to stop his wife’s haemorrhage, but after having realised the amount of damage, he left his house as soon as he could.
Not without the gun, anyway.
“It is useless. Just stay there.”
He does not expect him to obey. In fact, the man shakes his head, aims at the ground with the gun and fires, before to run. Sherlock jumps back in surprise, looking back at John. “You okay?”
“I am fine, just- move!”
Chasing him through London’s streets makes adrenaline rush in their veins, John holding his gun so tight that his knuckles are blanching, Sherlock trying to stop the man by voice before he makes something even duller than killing his wife.
In the end, the man traps himself on a blind valley.
Silence is the only thing running between them. John’s arms are stiff, his gun held tight on his hands. “Don’t you dare.” He whispers, aiming at the man’s legs - Sherlock said he is a desperate man who lost his job and does not see any other way to live than killing his own family and faking a cruelty that does not belong to him, but John feels strange, and does not really want to trust a man with a gun - particularly if he has nothing to lose. He holds his breath, looking at Sherlock while he tries to approach the man.
“Put that gun down. It won’t really help you.”
“Shut up!” he screams, shaking the weapon in the air. John loads the gun and steps forward, an eye on the sights, shoot him, prevent him from hurting anybody. Sherlock raises a hand, shaking his head.
How does he know everything?
“The police will be here in a minute, Stephen. Do you really want to go to jail and lose the chance to see your children again? Not a good idea, don’t you think?”
The man shakes his head, making a step back. He is scared, his pupils terrifyingly dilated. He seems to react to his name, because now he trembles, and looks around in panic. “Now, put that gun down.”
“No!”
John does not realize what he is really doing until he does not feel something burning down his thigh. Sherlock screams his name but he does not hear it, too busy at pushing Sherlock to the ground. There is a strong noise, the smell of grass and gun powder filling his nostrils while his leg pulses in pain. Sherlock is holding him to his shoulders, when the second shot rumbles in the air.
Thump.
Sherlock turns his head to see a stream of blood pouring from Stephen’s head. He bites his lip, disappointed, before to notice that John is pressing his fingers hard on his shoulders. “John!” he calls him. John tries to smile, but it is a broken one.
“I think I got shot.” He laughs in difficulty, bending his head towards the wound. Thanks God the bullet did not stuck inside him, but the flesh burns and he is bleeding and - oh, fuck.
“Lie down.” Sherlock says, pushing gently on John shoulders and taking off his scarf.
“Sherlock, I’m- I am fine, it is just a-“
He does not finish the sentence, pain obliging him to hiss. Sherlock tries to be as gentle as possible, while he pushes his scarf on the broken skin of his mate and takes the phone with his free hand. John hears him talking, but he soon decides that he is too tired to follow the dialogue, and rests on the ground, his arm covering his eyes.
“They are coming, John.”
The tremble in his voice is so strong that John can almost touch it. “Sherlock, it is just a scratch, don’t…”
But Sherlock does not hear him. He keeps pressing the scarf on his thigh, looking around - John could swear he is nervous, but Sherlock would never admit it. “Don’t worry.”
Sherlock presses his lips in a wreck smile, shaking his head. “I’m not worried. I know you’ll be fine.”
John sighs and the only thing he wants now is to be at home and sleep, and not to worry about what is happening around him - he wants to forget those cries, he wants to forget those sick, panicked eyes, he wants to forget the worry in Sherlock’s face, and the pain on his leg.
John looks at the scarf and looks at his own blood, and when he starts to see white behind his eyelids he thanks God for sparing him the suffering to be awake and giving him a few minutes of peace.
iii.
Sherlock is bent over his microscope, snorting every now and then and cursing whatever he is doing. John is still sleeping, his body relaxed on the couch, and for a moment he loses himself looking at the doctor. Sherlock smiles, shaking his head faintly before coming back to his work - Gregson almost cried, when he gave him a plastic bag with a lock of hair and some pledgets, imploring him to find something connected to the bastard who abused a poor child who does not sleep from three days. Gregson should have also learnt by now that he cannot perform miracles, and with the evidences he gave him, he cannot magically know the background of the victim life, nor the one of the mugger.
There is a soft noise behind his back. He turns again to see John yawning, eyes wet and tired. “Hi.” he says smiling. John tries to sit, yawning again.
“What time is it?”
“Almost two in the morning.”
He laughs, when he hears John groaning in frustration. “Why didn’t you wake me?” he groans, his hands on the face, palms pressed on his eyes. “Goodbye night.”
“You seems frustrated.”
“I am frustrated. I have got extra-work to do tomorrow, I really can’t spend the night looking at you, I need sleep.”
“You have slept, John. There is no need to-“
“I’ll go to the bathroom.” he interrupts his flatmate, shaking his hand and leaving the room.
Sherlock shrugs and, for the third time in a few minutes, comes back to cells and blood. He wonders how much will take before John interrupts him again with his ranting. He must get free of this stuff before the sun rises, because he is already getting bored, and this is really not good.
He puts a hand on the evidence bag and takes another pledget, blood and another liquid he cannot identify. He will need something more than a bunch of garbage to resolve the case.
He does not notice the soft sound of John’s footsteps on the floor. He does not even notice that John is behind him, when the room becomes dark and he feels the fabric of his scarf over his eyes - it smells like his aftershave, and there a hint of smoke that makes that scent unmistakable. “John?” he calls him, trying to look at his face, but John ties the scarf behind his head, and the only answer he gives him is a “Shh, silence,” barely whispered. “Stand up.”
“What is happening?”
Maybe he wants to punish him because he did not wake him? No, it is not something John would do - or he would have received more than one punishment by now. He obeys, John that holds his shoulders and push him softly. “Don’t worry, just walk.”
He smiles, reassured by John’s voice. His behaviour is completely abnormal, by the way. Sherlock perfectly understands where they are going, because he knows his flat like the back of his hand. But John is bringing him in his room, and then in the bathroom, and now they are in the middle of the dining room and Sherlock still has not any clue of what there is in John’s head.
Noises. Doors opening, two extra feet walking on the floor - a woman, judging from the softer sound. Plastic on the table, it full of something heavy, because the wood crackles under his weight. John laughs behind him, and Sherlock feels the sudden urge to throw away his scarf and see what the hell John is doing.
“You ready?”
A nod, and his eyes are free. He is speechless, when he can what is on the table where they usually have dinner.
“I went to the morgue and Molly told me I could take them. I know you like these kind of things, a wallet or a tie are far too much ordinary for you.” The plastic bag is dirt in blood and shred of flesh, amputated arms and legs that makes him feel so damned happy. “So you can play at the chemist without kidnapping Molly’s corpses.”
Mrs Hudson laughs in front of him, an hand on her mouth and eyes staring at Sherlock not to look at the terrible slaughter on her table.
“Happy birthday, darling.”
He could not have a better family.
iv.
Nightingales are singing outside his window. It is the first night without rain after a series of thunderstorms that had filled the sky with dark clouds and lightings. The flat is plunged into silence, and the only noise barely audible is the voice of a speaker from the telly Mrs. Hudson forgot to switch off before sleeping. John whines in his sleep, a soft pain radiating from the neck to the elbows. He slowly open his eyes, the light of a lamp on the street resting upon the furniture. He yawns, squinting his eyes. When he tries to bring a hand over his shoulders, he realises that something is wrong.
He cannot move his hands. “What the…” he whispers, his head bent to try to see what is tightening around his wrists.
Sherlock’s scarf seems brown, under the orange light of the lamp. John wonders for a moment if he is still dreaming, because how in the hell could the scarf be there? “Sherlock?” he calls, trying to grip the fabric and loose the knot. “Sherlock!”
He hears the sound of his footsteps out of the room, and sighs in relief. He starts to think that it is just one of his silly experiments - maybe he wanted to see how long would it take to make his hands develop gangrene? He will probably punch him in the face once he will free him, fuck the subtext.
The door opens and Sherlock is there, the vest the only thing he is wearing. “What’s up?”
“What the hell is going on? I can’t feel my hands.”
Sherlock approaches, the click of the door lock being the only noise in the room. Sherlock turns on the night-lamp and look at his flatmate, a slight grin on his face. “And you won’t for the next half hour.”
John raises an eyebrow, while Sherlock takes off his vest.
That man is impossible.
“Would you mind to tell me-“
“You’ll see.”
He would very like to protest, because his shoulders are aching, but then Sherlock presses his lips on his, and every will to talk disappears outright. Their chest brushes, John that arches a bit to catch all the heat in Sherlock’s body. The fabric of his pyjama is so thin he can see the line of his pectoral. John moans on Sherlock’s mouth, the consulting detective’s tongue caressing his slowly, tasting it, sucking it. He bites his lower lip and pulls it a bit, stealing a deeper moan, hot, passionate. Their lips part when Sherlock decides he does not want to stay sit anymore. Seeing Sherlock over him, his legs spread around his hips, makes John forget to be tied for a moment, the wood cracking a bit while he pulls his hands to touch him. He groans in frustration and lets his head fall on the cushion, Sherlock’s hands under his shirt. “If you wanted to give vent to your instincts, you could have just asked.”
“I didn’t want your permission.” he states, his lips wet and red. “Remember? Experiment.” And hand slips down his chest, a finger playing with his soft hairs before going down to the navel, and his crotch. “And you are reacting well, John.”
“I would have never expect you to have some kind of kinks.”
“It’s not me.” He whispers on his lips, his tongue touching gently his hot skin. “It’s you.”
John does not notice Sherlock spreading his legs and wedging between them, his man’s lips catching his eyes. His voice cracks when Sherlock takes his underwear and puts them off, throwing them somewhere on the floor. “You would never admit it, but you enjoying being… limited.”His lips kisses John’s belly, his tongue drawing circles on his skin. “You tried while in the army and liked it. But you were probably scared by the idea of being dominated, so you suffocated the need, the desire, and forgot about it. Am I right?”
“More or less.”
“Predictable.”
Sherlock smiles at him, skin between his teeth. He tastes of salt. He licks his lips and goes down, his mouth eating John inch by inch. His erection throbs against his neck, and Sherlock takes it in his hand, a gentle stroke over his already wet skin. “Oh God.”, and this is the best thing Sherlock could ever hear at the moment.
“You can’t do anything.” He whispers against his cock, licking it. “I could do whatever I want to you. I could just go out and leave you here longing to come, I could stare at you, and wait you to beg for sucking it, or fuck you. You are helpless, and every time I remember you your situation, you become harder.”
He overhangs towards him, John’s cock touching his belly. “You like it, don’t you?”
“You prick.”
“Oh, not a news.” he smirks on John’s lips. “But today is your lucky day.”
John arches when he feels Sherlock’s fingers pressing against his entrance. His legs spread almost instantly, his pelvis raising to help Sherlock making his way through his body. He does not want him to use his fingers - Sherlock tired him enough, because his erection is aching and he just want to free himself by that uncomfortable feeling lying on his belly. “S-Sherlock…”
“Patience, John.”
Sherlock pushes his finger harder, his free hand caressing the line of John’s abdomen. John feels shivers down his spine, and Sherlock staring at his face does not help him at all; his fingers open and close inside him, and the only thing he would do is screaming in pleasure, but then it would be a problem answering to Mrs Hudson’s embarrassing questions. Better to remain silent.
He does not want to give Sherlock any satisfaction.
The problem crops up when his lips, wet and warm, lie on the top of his cock, his tongue that gives little licks. John closes his hands in fists, trying to suppress the desire, but his sight goes blank when Sherlock takes it all on his mouth, and he can feel his throat against his hard flesh. “C-Christ-“ he pants, biting his lower lip to hold a cry and failing miserably. It is a slow, fucking torture, his mouth sucking every inch of skin. John bends his legs around Sherlock’s head, pushing it against his crotch without thinking. When Sherlock stops sucking John groans in frustration, but it is a moment before he starts to push inside him, long and pale fingers around his thighs. John would stay like this for ever, if he only could. He would not mind his tied hands, he would not mind the pain eating his muscles. He would let Sherlock to whatever he wants, and only because he knows that he could not be better safe than in his hands.
Only because he trusts him so much.
He concentrates on every thrust Sherlock gives, his stomach shaken by shivers of pleasure. If his hands would not tied, he would now clutch at the sheets, but he only push against Sherlock’s belly and let himself go, and there is nothing more to do. Legs spread, his mouth open and lucid and red from bites and kisses, John arches again when he feels to have reached his limit. He comes with a long, low cry, teeth deepen in his lower lip. Sherlock follows him a few thrust later, relaxing over his body, not minding the mess on John’s stomach. He kisses John’s jaw.
“Have we finished?”
“I don’t know. Maybe not.”
Sherlock is mad, but he is hardly less so.
v.
The shift has literally destroyed him. Three cases of flu, a pregnant woman with an unbearable backache, an old man with an uncomfortable case of diarrhoea, and a headache starting to make him feel too tired to live. The cab stops in front of the 221b, and after paying the cabbie, John thanks him and goes towards his door, his hand poking around his bag to find the keys. The moon shines bright behind him today, so he does not lose too much time searching the keyhole.
“I’m home.” he says at the door, his voice low because Mrs Hudson is probably sleeping. The fact that he does not hear any noise from upstairs makes him feel a bit uncomfortable, but he is sure Sherlock is there, hypnotised by something strange on the microscope. He makes the steps slowly, putting off his jacket. There is no light into his flat, and the silence starts to be strange, almost annoying.
“Sherlock?”
He gropes for the light switch, but now that the room is lit up, the annoyance turns into anxiety. There is blood everywhere - on the table, on the floor, some drops on the green walls. He calls Sherlock again, but there is no answer. He looks in every room - there must be something to tell him what happened, he cannot just be disappeared. In panic, he looks for the mobile phone and calls the first person that jumps in his head, trying to convince himself that if something bad had happened, Mycroft would have already called him.
Three men are inspecting their flat, while Lestrade asks Mrs Hudson if she has heard something.
“I was in the kitchen, my chicken was burning and…” she says, her voice near to break. “I didn’t hear anything from upstairs, I thought Sherlock was doing those silly experiments he does every time John is not at home…”
John looks at Mrs Hudson in astonishment, but he soon decides that there is no time to argue about what Sherlock does in his flat while he is working. Lestrade shakes his head and puts his hands on her shoulders. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson. Take a sit and something hot, we’ll take care of it now.”
She sighs and nods, leaving the room. John strokes his hair and sighs. “He’ll be fine, John. Don’t worry.”
Lestrade must be right. There is no sign of breaking, no notes, nothing.
“I need to go out of here.” He whispers, Lestrade right behind him. The inspector sees John’s worry on his trembling fists, on his watery eyes. Thank God, and unlike Sherlock, he has a great self control. “Why didn’t he call me?”
“Maybe he didn’t have the time. He could have been attacked or…”
He stops talking, words failing him. John turns to see what he is attracting his attention, and suddenly the only thing he wants to do is put a good punch on that moron’s face.
“Oh, John.” Sherlock says, raising two plastic bag. “Took Chinese. Don’t thank me.”
“You fucking-“
Sherlock stops and look at John’s face, ignoring Lestrade, ignoring the blue lights painting the whole Baker Street. “What happened?”
“You imbecile, do you know” a punch on Sherlock’s stomach, “how much” and another one “I was worried about you?” He pushes him and then he grips on Sherlock’s collar. “Have you any idea?”
“I don’t understand.”
Lestrade reaches them just before John can punch Sherlock in the face. “John came back and found blood in your flat. He was-“
“John, oh God.” Sherlock puts the bags on the pavement and takes off his scarf, putting it around John’s neck. “I left without cleaning. It is not my blood. It’s just an experiment.”
“A bloody experiment.” he repeats, trying hard not to hit him and break his nose.
“A bloody experiment.” Sherlock hits off, smirking. This does not help John to stop willing to smash his face in, but at least the anxiety has gone.
“You better clean up next time, or I’ll kill you with my hands.”
“Yes, sir.” Sherlock just answers, before pressing his hand on John’s hot cheeks and kissing him.
John hates him so much, right now.
i .
He has already lost track of the days passed by the awful moment in which Sherlock decided that dying was a better option than trying to show he was not a fake. It is September, he cannot really remember the day, but it probably is a Tuesday because Mrs. Hudson left very early in the morning, and since she has been doing this for two years, John is almost sure she has gone to the market to fill her fridge - and his one for sure.
He does not really want to get up. His legs are heavy as lead, his head filled with thoughts he would like to suppress. He knows that someone will call him if he does not show himself to someone within a few hours, but, oh God, he wants only silence, some time to spend alone - why does everyone keep telling him that he must go out and live on, when they perfectly know that he cannot stop repeating the image of Sherlock falling down the Bart’s in his head endlessly? He groans, taking his mobile phone. The clock tells him that is almost lunch time, a few minutes past midday. Harry tried to call him three times between ten and half past eleven, but he is not sure he wants to hear her voice. He knows exactly what she would say - ”John, for God’s sake, bring your fucking arse out of that flat.”
It sounds so easy for everyone except him. But well, he does not expect someone to understand what he is going through.
He decides he has been too long on his bed. He draws away the sheets and puts his feet on the floor, a chill running through his spine. He will jump breakfast, it is too late. But a good shower will help him waking up before eating something. Leaving the room, his eyes fall on the chair where he left some of the Sherlock’s stuff Molly gave him after the funeral. ”I think you should take them.” she said in a broken voice.
He did not want to, but how could he say no to that poor girl?
The scarf, a tiny stain of blood he could not wash away, seems to be looking at him.
Well, he could go out a bit, after lunch. Just to stretch his leg. Maybe to visit someone he has not seen from months.
“I hate you.” he says, knees near his chest while his trousers get dirty with grass. “I don’t even know what day is today, and still you haven’t come back home. What are you waiting for?”
Does he really expect to receive an answer? He touches the gravestone like it is something sacred.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I could have help.” His hand is closed around Sherlock’s scarf while he fights not to cry. Would Sherlock laugh at him, if he was still alive?
The sky is annoyingly clear.
“Mrs Hudson cries every day. Same for Molly. I haven’t seen Mycroft since that day, because if I met him, I would probably kill him.” He rubs his hands on the face, sighing. “Greg isn’t that well, too. I think he feels responsible for your-.”
His voice breaks, and he presses his lips hard not to let a sob escape. He cannot pronounce that word without not having a crisis. He shakes his head and looks at the gravestone, at Sherlock’s name written in white letters, so painful for his eyes.
He clenches his fists around the scarf, his head disappearing between his arms. “I miss you.” he whispers, biting his lips.
It will be so hard, living without him.