[Sherlock BBC] Fic: Sentiment (PG-13; Sherlock, John, Irene)
Title: Sentiment
Author: obsessionality (Lady Merlin)
Word Count: 1054
Rating: PG-13, to be safe
Summary: There is something about not having to watch his back around John that melts Sherlock.
Warnings: I CANNOT BE MORE CLEAR ABOUT THIS, BUT THERE ARE SPOILERS FOR 'A SCANDAL IN BELGRAVIA'. I'M GIVING AWAY THE END. BE WARNED.
Pairings: Past-Sherlock/Irene, Pre-Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: Count this disclaimed. I own nothing.
John is hesitant and stops twice on his way down the staircase (Sherlock can hear his faltering step-half-step-step-pause), and takes a very long time to go about the business of returning the forged documents to Mycroft. Sherlock lets down his guard, but only a little, because he is more sure than not that Mycroft actually thinks Irene is dead. Otherwise he wouldn't have sent John up to lie for him. John is a terrible liar, the truth is written on every pore on his worn face. It's comforting, even as it is inconceivable to Sherlock, and men like him. Mycroft. Jim. Irene.
Irene.
He had gone and saved her. He had gone out of his way to save her. He couldn't explain it, and to any outsider it would seem like a young man nursing a hopeless crush on a beautiful woman. But no. He had saved her, but he would never fully forgive her. Assisting her was purely professional courtesy, from one thorn in Mycroft's side, to another. He would never forgive her for spilling what he told her to Moriarty. He would never forgive her for having a contract written out on his name in the first place; not when it had so obviously, so nearly threatened John.
John.
John, who had given him Irene's phone without any taunting about sentimentality, without judgment. Whom Sherlock had insulted, time and time again as he grew more and more irritated at the progress of the months, who had never left his side. John, who had watched with warm eyes as he had coddled Mrs. Hudson for days and days after her attack, who knew like he did what it felt like when his heart wouldn't stop pounding out of fear, helpless fear, every-time he looked at defenseless, loving Mrs. Hudson, so weak, and breakable, and precious.
John, who had laughed with him, instead of at him, as he sat naked in Buckingham Palace, fully accepting that this was the life he lived now.
John, who had remained in the background when he flirted with death and Irene (one and the same, perhaps). John, who had not forgiven Irene for lying to Sherlock, on his behalf, even when there was some wild and tangled thing in Sherlock's chest, that reared it's confusing head every-time Irene touched his hand, or licked her lips. Even when Sherlock had been tempted to forgive her himself, in the heady daze of her perfume.
Sherlock's intellect is not infallible. John's loyalty is. And John is loyal to him, and him alone, and there is something about not having to watch his back around John. Something comforting. Something Sherlock had never had before, that he likes more than he can explain, about John.
John, who is genuinely sorry about the death a woman he didn’t like, for Sherlock.
John, who comes up into the living room, and proves him right, even as he checks all the regular places Mycroft bugs them, and throws his jacked down the staircase in an attempt to get it as far from them as possible, because he knows Mycroft. And Mycroft literally cannot resist it.
John, who sits beside him, grips his shoulder, grounding him with his touch, and tells him that Mycroft had actually told him Irene was dead, and that he was sorry because he knows how much she meant to him. Sherlock is lost in his thoughts, of how very little John actually understands of what Irene meant to him. No doubt, John is referring to a banal, sexual way. And yes, while there had been some attraction initially, a mere physical impulse, it had faded into simple, mutual respect. She was a very clever woman. He was cleverer than her still. But clever people were hard enough to find that Sherlock wouldn’t quibble over the details.
Sherlock makes a split second decision. The type he is not at all used to. “I know Mycroft thinks she’s dead.”
John, who is on his way to find his coat and debug it, because the room is too cold for him when the heating is spoiled, and that was his nicest jacket, stops in his tracks. He knows what John is thinking; Denial.
But no. “I made it look like she was beheaded by the Taliban.” And those are the apparently magic words, because John had said nothing about her supposed method of death. Kindness. “I had had her tracked. I got there in time and saved her. She’s alive, in America, under a witness protection programme that Mycroft is fond of perusing for the people he needs to vanish. Right under his nose, as they would say.”
John is slow to turn, and there is something heated in his gaze, burning slowly. Sherlock is a good judge of human nature, but not an instinctive one, and it is hard for him to understand something he has never seen before, no matter how good a study he is. All he knows is, that heat will not explode today, or tomorrow, or even soon. Mainly because he is not ready to take it. Because he thinks he knows what it is, but he isn’t really sure, and it doesn’t make sense anyway, that John would feel that about him.
He asks a question he had asked not ten minutes ago; “Will you be seeing her again?” and Sherlock knows the difference in the way he asked, and knows that if he lies here, John will know (because god knew how John always knew; Sherlock was a good liar). And John will not say anything, never demand anything (like Molly), not answers, nor questions. But he will take a step back from Sherlock.
It is not sentiment to say, that that would devastate him, for reasons he cannot place. It is not sentiment to say, that had Irene remained, and had asked the question about making love on the last night before the end of time, he would have said no. It is not sentiment either, to say that he would have given an affirmative answer to that question, to only one person on earth, ever. And that person is standing across the room, facing him with a steady gaze and a tightly clenched fist.
It is not sentiment, when he replies, “Why would I want to?”