The Talk (chapter 5)
title: The Talk
pairing: John/Sherlock
warnings: none
The Talk
„When did you stop believing?
“Uh?”
“That I was alive. I know you couldn't believe I was dead in the first months, but, clearly, today you refused to spin your head around the idea I was real. Why? And when?”
John let out a long sigh. He was finally sitting on his bed again, after hours of pacing around the room, refusing to talk at all. After all what happened he was frustrated, mad, horrified, tired and ecstatic - all at the same time. When he finally agreed to open up, Sherlock was relieved at last. He got John propped up on some pillows and seated himself on the only chair available. To some point he did enjoy the awkward hug he gave John earlier, but he didn't want to strain his nerves with any more physical contact than needed.
Hesitant words found their way out of a sore throat.
“When you 'appeared' for the twenty-first time here. The doctors... they didn't know what to do. Clearly a bunch of idiots, even Anderson would shine as bright as the sun compared to these dull people. Whatever. They showed me some surveillance tapes. I saw it with my very own eyes. Me. Fighting, screaming. With nothing but an empty room. That's when I thought you'd never come back again. That you were really dead and I was the biggest idiot for believing in you for so long. I never thought you'd be a fake, though.
What about you? When did you decide to hurt me so bad? And why?”, John added with a weak fake-smile.
These questions caught Sherlock off-guard. Of course he knew he had to explain some day but he thought his curious and admiring blogger would be rather interested in how he did it.
“I... Well, in fact, I never decided to hurt you. Of course I knew it would hurt you to some point when I decided to leave but it wasn't my intention at all. You. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. I had to appear dead for the three of you to survive. Snipers. Deadly snipers. There were 176 people involved - Moriarty clearly had every possibility covered - and it took Mycroft about three years to have the whole web destroyed. I couldn't even send a letter to you without risking anything. I'm sorry, John. I really am.”
“Uhum. Okay. I think. You probably had your reasons.”
“John. You would have been KILLED if I hadn't done what I did!”, the detective said in an somewhat angry tone, though he intended to stay calm.
The broken blond man gazed up into Sherlock's eyes. “Well, I'd rather chosen death over the life without you.”
Long pale fingers rubbed over oh-so-tired eyes and hollow cheeks.
“Again - I'm sorry. And you probably still know that I'm not a man of sentiments. Still not exactly my road. Yet, here I am. Apologizing.”
“And you think that will fix things? Do you... do you really think you could just come back, and we'd share 221B again with Mrs. Hudson not being our housekeeper and we'd go on solving crimes and it would be like one big happy end like in a fucking fairytale?”
“Yes.”
The answer surprised Sherlock himself even more than John. He'd never thought of himself as a naïve person but in this case he clearly was. Three years were a long time after all but yet he had expected John to be the same person, with the same unconditioned friendship between them.
John stared at him in blank surprise. Did Sherlock really just simply answer his questions with a simple yes?
“John.”
“Yes?”
“You're wounded, in fact you're broken.”
“Yes.”
“Any bad?”
“Very bad.”
“Seen a lot of annoying things then. Flatmates shooting at walls.”
“Well. Yes.”
“Bit of body parts lying in a fridge, too, I bet.”
“Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”
“Wanna see some more?”
They both knew where this was going. The memory of a very similar conversation was burned in either man's brain and none of them were surprised of John's answer.
“Oh god, yes.”
There was still a lot of talking left to do. A hell lot of a talking. But things would get better eventually. And though neither of the two men made any attempt on talking about romantic feelings of any kind, they both sensed that they were way closer to each other than they'd ever been before.
pairing: John/Sherlock
warnings: none
The Talk
„When did you stop believing?
“Uh?”
“That I was alive. I know you couldn't believe I was dead in the first months, but, clearly, today you refused to spin your head around the idea I was real. Why? And when?”
John let out a long sigh. He was finally sitting on his bed again, after hours of pacing around the room, refusing to talk at all. After all what happened he was frustrated, mad, horrified, tired and ecstatic - all at the same time. When he finally agreed to open up, Sherlock was relieved at last. He got John propped up on some pillows and seated himself on the only chair available. To some point he did enjoy the awkward hug he gave John earlier, but he didn't want to strain his nerves with any more physical contact than needed.
Hesitant words found their way out of a sore throat.
“When you 'appeared' for the twenty-first time here. The doctors... they didn't know what to do. Clearly a bunch of idiots, even Anderson would shine as bright as the sun compared to these dull people. Whatever. They showed me some surveillance tapes. I saw it with my very own eyes. Me. Fighting, screaming. With nothing but an empty room. That's when I thought you'd never come back again. That you were really dead and I was the biggest idiot for believing in you for so long. I never thought you'd be a fake, though.
What about you? When did you decide to hurt me so bad? And why?”, John added with a weak fake-smile.
These questions caught Sherlock off-guard. Of course he knew he had to explain some day but he thought his curious and admiring blogger would be rather interested in how he did it.
“I... Well, in fact, I never decided to hurt you. Of course I knew it would hurt you to some point when I decided to leave but it wasn't my intention at all. You. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. I had to appear dead for the three of you to survive. Snipers. Deadly snipers. There were 176 people involved - Moriarty clearly had every possibility covered - and it took Mycroft about three years to have the whole web destroyed. I couldn't even send a letter to you without risking anything. I'm sorry, John. I really am.”
“Uhum. Okay. I think. You probably had your reasons.”
“John. You would have been KILLED if I hadn't done what I did!”, the detective said in an somewhat angry tone, though he intended to stay calm.
The broken blond man gazed up into Sherlock's eyes. “Well, I'd rather chosen death over the life without you.”
Long pale fingers rubbed over oh-so-tired eyes and hollow cheeks.
“Again - I'm sorry. And you probably still know that I'm not a man of sentiments. Still not exactly my road. Yet, here I am. Apologizing.”
“And you think that will fix things? Do you... do you really think you could just come back, and we'd share 221B again with Mrs. Hudson not being our housekeeper and we'd go on solving crimes and it would be like one big happy end like in a fucking fairytale?”
“Yes.”
The answer surprised Sherlock himself even more than John. He'd never thought of himself as a naïve person but in this case he clearly was. Three years were a long time after all but yet he had expected John to be the same person, with the same unconditioned friendship between them.
John stared at him in blank surprise. Did Sherlock really just simply answer his questions with a simple yes?
“John.”
“Yes?”
“You're wounded, in fact you're broken.”
“Yes.”
“Any bad?”
“Very bad.”
“Seen a lot of annoying things then. Flatmates shooting at walls.”
“Well. Yes.”
“Bit of body parts lying in a fridge, too, I bet.”
“Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”
“Wanna see some more?”
They both knew where this was going. The memory of a very similar conversation was burned in either man's brain and none of them were surprised of John's answer.
“Oh god, yes.”
There was still a lot of talking left to do. A hell lot of a talking. But things would get better eventually. And though neither of the two men made any attempt on talking about romantic feelings of any kind, they both sensed that they were way closer to each other than they'd ever been before.