JLBB Fic (John/Sherlock): Battle Hymns, Pt II
Title: Battle Hymns
Author: heavenlyxbodies
Pairing: John/Sherlock (mostly pre-slash)
Rating: R (for disturbing imagery)
Spoilers: general S2
Feedback: Makes me happy, just play nice
Disclaimer(s) can be found here
Beta: phnx_reader, any remaining mistakes are mine, and probably me ignoring her advice.
Warnings/Squicks (nota bene- some of these warnings are for things only mentioned in passing, but as the entire work may contain triggers I wanted to try to cover everything): may contain triggers, disturbing imagery, torture, PTSD, flashbacks, mentions/description of death of non-canon characters
Summary: Sherlock returns, whole, but battered and not just on the outside. There are things he's done, things he's discovered that he can't tell John. But the signs are there and it's only a matter of time before those secrets come out. Deals with Sherlock and what happened in those three years and how he copes with it now (mainly the latter), and how John copes with him.
Written for johnlockbigbang 2012
~~~~~~~~~
The body beneath him ripped and tore unnaturally. His arms elbow deep in viscera and blood; he continued to wrench and rend, the sound of flesh separating and bones giving way cracking and squelching in his ears. He had to make certain he was dead, this monster who dared to threaten the only people he cared about, the one person he cared about most. He looked down at his handiwork- nothing more than a sack of mush, now- and screamed. The face, lifeless and twisted with anguish, stared at him through empty blue eyes. John. He looked at his own blood-drenched hands in horror. John. He’d done this to John, even in death he had killed him. So much blood. It dripped in streams down his arms; something that looked like it had once been a heart- John’s heart, his heart- lay crumpled in his right hand. No, it couldn’t be, not John, anyone but John. Sherlock screamed a deep guttural sound, a growl and roar all at once.
John ran down the stairs from his bedroom, not quite tripping on the fifth step- after the first week of Sherlock’s screams John had become incredibly adept at navigating his stairs in the dark at speeds he normally reserved for chasing the lunatic across the streets, rooftops, and back alleys of London.
“Sherlock? Sherlock?” He began yelling before he even reached the closed door. He knew Sherlock wouldn’t answer him, or if he did it would be to yell and demand that John leave him alone. One day soon, John was going to ignore Sherlock’s abuse and charge into his room and make Sherlock tell him what had him screaming every night- those nights he slept, which seemed to be even fewer than before. Sure enough, Sherlock bellowed for John to leave him in peace. ‘Peace,’ John thought ironically. Peace was the one thing Sherlock had none of right now. It gave John so many sleepless nights wondering what happened in those three long years. The memory of their fight was still fresh in his mind. He’d been so angry and hurt- betrayed. And he’d taken it all out on Sherlock, not that he didn’t deserve it, but he should have thought about it first. John often wondered if he’d handled it differently, if Sherlock wouldn’t keep hiding this from him. He hated this feeling of helplessness. He wasn’t sure how much more he could handle.
He trudged back upstairs to get his dressing gown. He knew he wouldn’t get anymore sleep tonight, he never did when Sherlock had one of his night terrors, John’s own imagination was too vivid, throwing up bright Technicolor images of every conceivable variant, and several not so conceivable ones, of what could possibly shake Sherlock Holmes so badly.
Sherlock sat in his bed, willing the images of his dream away as he listened to John settle into the living room. With John out there he couldn’t leave his room, seeing John would be dangerous when he was like this. He had learnt from experience that in this state he would say things he would regret. So he stayed, trapped in his room with his memories and his mind. It was worse than anything he’d been through while he was away.
*********
It had been three weeks since Sherlock’s first fitful sleep and despite his training, which taught him never to second guess- a doctor who wasn’t sure of his own decisions had no business practising medicine to begin with- John was regretting his decision to wait for Sherlock to come to him about the things that had him screaming in the night. He knew, of course, that letting Sherlock go through this in his own time was medically the right thing to do, but that didn’t keep him from worrying or lessen the pain and helplessness he felt. Then again, this was Sherlock, and with Sherlock rules seldom applied. So it was almost a relief when Mycroft paid him one of his visits.
“Ah, John, thank you for coming.”
“Well, it’s not like I had much of a choice.”
“John, you always have a choice.”
“Umm, yes, well, coming sort of willingly versus getting picked up by your goons.” He jerked his chin in a half shake of his head. “Not much of a choice there.”
Mycroft inclined his head, conceding the point. After his last encounter with the good doctor he wasn’t prone to arguing with him. He subconsciously clenched his jaw and John chuckled.
Shaking the memory of Mycroft’s stunned face from his mind, he turned serious. “This is about Sherlock.” It was always about Sherlock, but this was different and they both knew it.
“When isn’t it?’ Mycroft said, giving voice to John’s thoughts.
“What do you want, Mycroft?’
“He’s not well.”
“Really?! How’d you come to that astounding conclusion? Was it the fact that he wakes up screaming every time he sleeps, when he sleeps? Or just that he looks like a dead man walking?”
“John, please.” Mycroft’s tone was condescending at best.
John turned angrily as if to walk away then spun around clenching his fist, itching to clock Mycroft again. “You did this to him. You are aware of that? That mammoth brain of yours can comprehend that this is all your doing?”
Mycroft lowered his eyes, watching his umbrella as he absently twisted it on the dusty warehouse floor. “I do. And I understand your frustration.” He raised his eyes back to John, and said in a steady voice, “I don’t expect forgiveness, nor do I seek it. What I do expect is that my brother’s welfare will let us move past my… indiscretions.”
“‘Indiscretions,’ nice.”
Mycroft rolled his eye dramatically. “For his sake,” he finished.
John sighed. Mycroft knew damn well he’d do anything for Sherlock and there was no use denying it. “Fine. What do you want me to do?”
“Only what you do best. You’re a doctor. You’ve seen this kind of thing. What’s your prognosis, given your patient’s nature?”
“You think I should push him,” John stated simply; it wasn’t as if the thought was foreign to him.
“If anyone can get through to him it’s you, John. We both know it. You have to do something about it.”
“So, what, you just want me to barge into his room and demand answers?”
“If that’s what’s necessary, yes.”
John shook his head, “Unbelievable,” and turned away, this time intent on leaving Mycroft behind like a bad memory.
“He needs you, John. I trust you will do what needs to be done,” Mycroft’s voice trailed after him.
---
John took his time getting back to Baker street. He had to handle this carefully. Sherlock wouldn’t react well to being openly confronted. John hated to think this way, but his best chance would be to wait for Sherlock to be vulnerable, which meant waiting for another gut-wrenching scream in the night. What’s more, Sherlock would know. He wouldn’t say anything, but he’d know. He’d know his brother had carried John off to some horrid empty building to have a chat and he’d know that Mycroft expected John to do something about the state his brother was in. Mycroft always did that, always expected John to take care of Sherlock, not that John really minded; John just minded Mycroft’s abuse of that knowledge.
“Evening,” John greeted when he entered the flat.
Sherlock looked up from his microscope, cocked his head minutely, and asked, “What did Mycroft want?”
John didn’t bat an eye just grabbed the paper and sat down in his chair. “Same thing he always does.”
“He’s worried.”
“Yes,” came John’s clipped and honest response.
“He shouldn’t be.”
“You tell him that.” John had to smile into the paper knowing the look of bewilderment Sherlock would have on his face.
“John?” Sherlock let the name hang for a moment, pretending to turn his attention back to his slides. “Are you worried?” he finally asked, getting to the crux of the matter.
“I’m not even going to bother answering that, Sherlock.”
“You shouldn’t be,” he lied.
“Hmm,” John hummed in reply.
“John, I’m fine.” Sherlock hoped if he said it enough times it would sound less hollow in his own ears. He knew he wasn’t fine, he was anything but fine. He couldn’t shake the dreams. And if he couldn’t shake the dreams then he couldn’t sleep- he couldn’t let John know. He’d always been good at denying his body lesser things like food and sleep when necessary, but even he had his limits. And it seemed with the lack of true sleep those limits were getting shorter and shorter.
*********
Sherlock watched from the shadows as the man was cut and beaten. His name was Marcus, and Sherlock shuddered as he remembered what he had planned to do, how he’d spoken to him in soft tones telling him exactly what he had in store for the man Sherlock held dear, what he would then do to Mrs. Hudson simply because he enjoyed it. He watched as the man was beaten past death and he could feel nothing but warm satisfaction in knowing he would never touch the people he cared for. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t the one to end the world of Marcus, the name seethed in his mind. He could smell the copper in the air, feel it weighing on his skin as blood and other less recognizable excretions spewed from the body- things that couldn’t, and would never be able to, popped and spurted the length of the empty room. Marcus was nothing but a pulpy mess by the time his killer finished with him. As his nightmares went this was blessed peace, even if part of him recoiled from whoever had done this. He couldn’t regret the man’s death, however cold and brutal. That tenuous peace was shattered when the man’s killer turned around with Sherlock’s name on his lips, dripping in the comforting tones that had always anchored him.
Sherlock’s blood ran cold- icy daggers in his veins that ripped him apart as real as any knife. John stood before him, covered in blood and gore and smiling the most unnatural smile he’d ever seen. He tried to block out the image replacing it with memories of what had really happened to Marcus despite their own gruesomeness. Blood had covered the walls in some childish, almost demonic interpretation of Pollock, sprays and splashes of monotone colour on floor and ceiling; he’d hit an artery, messy. And most importantly, John wasn’t there, he hadn’t done those things, he hadn’t seen them, he didn’t know about the darkness in him. John had been safe, back here at home, in Baker Street when it had happened. This couldn’t be. It was everything he’d fought against. It was why John still didn’t know what had happened, all he’d been forced to do. He wouldn’t let John take on any of his personal horrors. His stomach churned and lurched violently at the thought of getting John sullied by any of his actions, John had been through too much already. But the John in his dream wouldn’t leave; he just stood there smiling manically at him. Sherlock backed away from the nightmarish vision, gravel and refuse crunching and crushing beneath his feet, insisting that this entire re-enactment was real; every smell and sound lending itself to the drama like an expertly executed play. Sherlock heard his own voice, tired and coarse, chanting, ‘No. No, no, no, no! You’re not John. He wasn’t there. He doesn’t know.’ The nightmare John kept smiling, edging closer and closer as if intent on blotting out any sight but his blood covered, smiling face.
“JOHN.” Sherlock shot bolt upright out of bed, John’s name still lingering in the air and on his lips. He waited for the familiar footfalls outside his door, wondering if tonight would be the night he finally broke down and gave John the answers he wanted and ones he didn’t.
“Sherlock?” John’s soft, warm voice asked through the door.
The door muffled his words, but they were still clear in Sherlock’s ears. John’s voice would always be clear to him. He’d kept it with him through everything the past three years. Every word John had spoken to him and the ones that he never did, though he’d wanted to. More than once he’d heard John’s voice in his head, talking to him, bringing his own kind of clarity to impossible situations. Hearing his voice again, getting home to John was the thing that drove him. It was probably why the dreams were so vivid, so terrifying.
“Sherlock?”
The question was stronger now, the knob on his door turning slowly as the door opened casting John’s shadow across his floor.
“I’m fine,” Sherlock snapped. And now that he’d seen and not just heard his friend’s voice, he thought for the moment he was. John was safe, so Sherlock was fine.
“You sure? You didn’t sound fine,” John said, worried as he always was when Sherlock had one of these dreams or whatever they were that caused Sherlock to scream his name.
“Go away!” he hissed. He threw himself back onto his bed and turned away from the reassuring form in the doorway. “Leave me alone,” he growled, though the heat was directed at himself, rather than John.
Sighing, John backed out of the room. “I’m here if you need anything, Sherlock.” He said that every night, every time Sherlock woke screaming in the night.
The door clicked closed and Sherlock let out an angry sound that lesser men might call a sob. Apparently tonight was not the night for revelations, something Sherlock both blessed and cursed. He couldn’t, just couldn’t, let John in. It would make it all too real, and neither of them needed that. Things were slowly getting back to normal between them. John’s bitterness had faded almost completely in the face of having Sherlock back, and Sherlock was not ready to risk that on tales of what he’d done. Quietly he cursed Mycroft and his meddling; at least John hadn’t forced the issue, though he knew it was only a matter of time.
Lestrade stepped back from the corpse lying curled in on itself on pristine white sheets. “How is he?” he asked John as he sidled up to him.
John gave a little shrug, more with his head than his shoulders. “He’s Sherlock.”
“Yeah, but how is he?”
John shot a glance at Sherlock still hunched over the body, then back up at Lestrade with a loaded look in his eyes that said more than words could.
The D.I. sighed. He was still shaken by Sherlock’s display weeks before; it was not the kind of thing you easily forgot. “If there’s anything…”
John quirked his lips in a soft smile. “You might regret that.”
Lestrade grew more serious. “No, I won’t.” It was a simple statement of fact, more certain than one of Sherlock’s grand deductions. “John, anything,” he repeated.
“For God’s sake, if you must have this conversation- leave.”
John chuckled and Lestrade straightened himself up subconsciously.
“Thank you,” Sherlock snapped. He spent his life with people talking about him, usually behind his back or in hushed, conspiratorial whispers; it was something he lived with. He knew what Lestrade and John were talking about- namely him- and knew rationally it was nothing like those secret conversations, but for whatever reason it still riled him to think of John in the same light, even erroneously. He knew he was overreacting, being irrational, and was disgusted with himself for it. He took one last look at the pillow next to the body, stood, and began to alternately questioning and spouting deductions at the detective.
------
“You were a bit short with Lestrade, earlier,” John said conversationally, once they were back at the flat. Sherlock had requested some samples be sent to Bart’s, but they would be awhile in coming and John, at least, preferred to spend the time in the comfort of their own home, rather than the bowels of the hospital. He knew Bart’s would always be a second home of sorts to Sherlock, but he still had trouble being there, after what happened- especially if it involved waiting. It was too much like that day, no matter how cheerful or busy the hospital was. PTSD had strange effects on people. John’s skin began to crawl and it felt like spindly knives were crawling along his spine every time he let Sherlock out of touching distance whenever they were in the hospital; he needed to be able to feel him close by, even if he never took the opportunity to touch. If Sherlock noticed he never said anything. In fact, if it had been anyone else, John would think he went out of his way to make sure he stayed close, but this was Sherlock and demanding that John answer his phone when it was in his pocket or hand him a beaker that was sitting next to his palm was nothing new and John knew better than to romanticise it. Sherlock was just being Sherlock.
“Was I? Hadn’t noticed,” Sherlock said, unconvincingly, tapping away at his phone.
John recognized the too swift, too direct tone, it was the way he answered anything he didn’t want to deal with or didn’t understand. John chuckled quietly to himself. “So… why were you so short with him?” he encouraged.
“Pfft,” Sherlock waved his hand as if waving an imaginary fly out of his vision. “They’re idiots, always are.”
“Of course, that’s why you actually like Greg,” John said, settling back in his chair by the fireplace.
Sherlock hummed. “Well, there’s always the exception.”
John ran his fingers thoughtfully across his mouth, barely concealing a smile. “Hmm,” John agreed. A beat and a half passed in silence. “Are you going to tell me?”
The tapping on Sherlock’s phone stopped. This was yet another conversation he didn’t want to have, but John was tenacious when something got under his skin and he knew his silence on… other matters would only add to his curiosity. He started speaking slowly, with a touch of annoyed admonishment. “Your incessant chatter was disturbing me,” he admitted. No one said he had to explain why it disturbed him.
“Uh-huh,” John said, not mentioning that Sherlock had worked around much more and louder distractions, even Anderson. “Sorry.”
Sherlock grunted and resumed tapping at his phone, considering the matter dropped, if not closed.
John sat back and looked at Sherlock, his mind whirling, trying to put pieces together. He might not have Sherlock’s quick computer of a brain, but he could still extrapolate. It was true, Sherlock preferred to work in silence, but he and Lestrade had always been, if not full exceptions, then at least, tolerable background noise. So it wasn’t their presence that had upset him. Oh. “It was because we were talking about you,” John said matter-of-factly.
Sherlock looked at John over his phone, his eyes stony.
‘Got it in one,’ John thought with no small amount satisfaction, but that lead to a further question- why?
“Yes, John. Brilliant deduction as always,” Sherlock said putting as much icy sarcasm as he could into the words. John was too close; he was always too close. His phone vibrated and he checked the message.
John was already standing, handing Sherlock his coat, and dutifully ignoring his scathing remarks by the time Sherlock had pocketed his phone. It only meant that he had touched on a truth that made Sherlock uncomfortable, probably something that made him feel more human. There were a lot of things that got that reaction from him these days. But now there was work to be done and John was willing to let it slide for the moment; he tucked it away, another piece of the puzzle of the last three years, and another weight against the floodgates that were already strained almost to bursting. Sherlock’s walls were close to crumbling, and John only hoped he was prepared for the oncoming storms. He slipped into his own jacket and followed his friend down the stairs into the chilly London night.
*********
John spent a lot of time watching Sherlock, looking for any hints of what he’d been up to in the years he was away. There were things that were obvious, like his new found tolerance for Anderson and Donavon- something he himself had yet to muster, he had never, and likely would never, forgive them for their part in what had happened that day. There were other things, as well, more subtle things and more disturbing for their subtlety; Sherlock was never subtle, it wasn’t in his nature. These were the things John tried to understand. He had theories and generalizations. The way Sherlock would go glassy eyed and freeze with only his fingers on his right hand absently rubbing together in little circles, it was the movement that caught John’s attention. When Sherlock was just lost in thought he never moved, he was perfectly still, almost frighteningly so. That one little movement told John volumes- Sherlock was having flashbacks, but he still hadn’t figured out what triggered them. Or why Sherlock’s favourite dressing gown had yet to leave the closet in the weeks he’d been back; John was afraid of the answer to that particular conundrum and he didn’t like it. Sherlock went to great pains since he’d been back to be covered at all times, a far cry from his haphazard concept of decency in the past. It made John’s gut churn to think of what might lay beneath those layers of clothing. He was fairly certain if he ever saw what Sherlock so defiantly tried to keep concealed he’d see marks, scars maybe, things that Sherlock didn’t want seen or to discuss. John understood that better than most, but he would’ve hoped that Sherlock trusted him enough not to hide, but then seeing would mean knowing and Sherlock had made it abundantly clear he did not want John knowing anything about what had happened. Unfortunately, Sherlock seemed to have forgotten how tenacious and persistent John could be, when he wanted to be. He’d had to be to keep up with Sherlock, and keep from killing him. Then there was the eating. Before if John placed food in front of him when he was working, even just one of his experiments, at best, Sherlock would push it about the plate in an effort to humour him, now, he actually ate it. John had ideas about that, too, but they were too many and too vague to begin to guess at. He smirked, thinking how Sherlock would chastise him for even thinking about ‘guessing’. He looked over at the man in question, glad that Sherlock could actually chastise him.
Sherlock looked up from his papers and gave John a quick quirk of his lips. He found himself doing that more and more; he would have been perturbed by it if he wasn’t so relieved to see John every time- a simple reassurance that he’d beaten Moriarty and his network.
John wondered if Sherlock could deduce his thoughts just from that look. He gave a quiet, depreciating chuckle and shook his head, of course he could, if he put his mind to it; the question then became did Sherlock want to. When John turned his attention back to Sherlock, he was engrossed in his files.
As if in answer to John’s thoughts, Sherlock asked, “What’s got you so preoccupied, John?”
“Hmm?” he answered as nonchalantly as he could.
“You haven’t turned the page in over fifteen minutes, you’ve barely looked at the article at all, so something must be on your mind,” Sherlock explained with more calm than he felt. He wondered if John knew he had the upper hand in this situation. It didn’t take the world’s only consulting detective to work out John was thinking about him and the last three years. It was only a matter of what he was thinking about within those parameters. Sherlock doubted it was about his being gone, John tended to tense when that time, when Sherlock had left him alone, was on his mind- years in the military having ingrained a defensive stoicism in him- which meant it was something more specific, something John could distance himself from.
John smiled at him. “You’ve already worked it out; you don’t need me to tell you.”
“Humour me.”
John looked off as if he was considering Sherlock’s request. He snapped his magazine, determined to read the article this time. “Mmm, no.”
Sherlock set his papers down, weighing the value of taking up John’s challenge to deduce him and his thoughts or letting it lie. He laced his fingers together as he thought on how to proceed; how to answer John’s question without giving too much of himself away. “You’re wondering what I was doing.” Keep it simple and he could remain in control of the conversation.
John met Sherlock’s eyes, giving him a curt nod, neither was going to pretend that the ‘when’ he was referring to was now. “Sharp as ever.”
Sherlock took a deep breath, quelling the desire to leave or change the subject; better still drop it altogether. “John, it’s not-”
“I know, Sherlock, you’ve said.”
“Then why do you insist on dwelling on it?”
“Why? Seriously?” He almost choked on the bitter chuckle he bit back. He knew, knowing Sherlock like he did, he shouldn’t be shocked by anything Sherlock said, especially in regards to emotions, but at times he still surprised him. “Maybe because my best friend disappeared for three years, let me think he was dead, and, God help me, I still care.” ‘…more than I should,’ his mind added wearily.
Sherlock’s brow furrowed and he looked curiously at John, his discomfort momentarily pushed to the side. “Why?”
“Because that’s what friends do.”
Sherlock continued to stare at John with his impenetrable gaze.
“You know what, forget it. And for the record, I wasn’t asking. You want to keep your secrets; that’s fine, but you may want to remember some of us mere mortals do actually care about you.”
Sherlock wanted to apologize, but the words stuck in his throat. Even if he did get them out they would likely give John more cause for concern than comfort. He didn’t want to add yet more strange behaviour to the ever growing list.
In his chair, John let out a heavy breath. Dealing with Sherlock was trying on the best of days, but sometimes, like this, when he’d been so close to learning more, it was even more frustrating. Mainly because it always left him feeling like throwing Sherlock against a wall until he told him everything. For the fifth time he opened up the article he had been failing to read, this time knowing full well he wouldn’t get a word read.
*********
The acrid smell of urine and stale beer and less reputable substances filled the condemned building. Discarded syringes, cans, and condom wrappers crunching beneath his feet made silence nearly impossible. Every now and then a bottle would go skittering across the floor, kicked to the side when it got in his way. Staying still was worse. Standing still allowed his mind to wander. For all that he normally welcomed quiet stillness when he thought, he couldn’t stand it now. He needed to do something, anything that would allow him to stay focused on the gruelling task at hand and keep thoughts of London and Baker Street pushed far back in his subconscious. He took another loud crunching step, willing his thoughts back to Moriarty’s men and the limited information Mycroft had provided.
Slowly the grating noise became an almost rhythmic background as he paced the same path crushing the offending refuse into silence. Something snapped sharply under his feet and he fell to the floor. A rotten, decaying bone lay in front of him; putrefying muscle and sinew clinging to it, like some twisted party favour. He tried to back away scrambling across the floor heedless of glass and needles, only to be stopped by the firm jab of bone at his back. He looked around him, at the floor now covered in jutting bits of broken and dismembered bone. He swallowed back a scream, it would be of no use; the house was empty and the only occupants lifeless and unable to appreciate the terror they’d caused. There were heads bobbing about like crests of waves on a perverted sea of corpse flesh. The faces, ones he’d only seen in passing, crime scene photos, morgue slabs, still warm only just having left the world of the living, yet somehow burnt with photo precision into his brain. There was no way to save these people, for most there never had been. Even Sherlock Holmes had limits. At least the heads weren’t talking, some nights they did that, or eyed him with accusatory glares through swollen, distended eyeballs dangling along lifeless cheeks.
He tried to wake up, he always tried. It was like being stuck on some ceaseless loop of nightmarish memories and hallucinations. A merry-go-round you couldn’t get off, and he knew he’d stay caught going ‘round and ‘round until something in him broke, breaking through his closed off subconscious until his screams called John down and into his room, yet again. It was a vicious cycle and he didn’t know how much longer either of them could stand it.
Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, taking in the familiar ceiling, trying to catch his ragged breath. It had been a dream, just a dream, one of the numerous ones he’d had since his return. Though in truth that was a lie; he’d been having the dreams almost since he left. They’d changed of course. What started out as half memories of John’s face, of the hurt that radiated from him, of the pain he knew he’d caused, turned to desperation and highlights of the horrors of the things he had seen- John almost always taking centre stage in his memories. Tonight, thankfully, John had not been the focal point, but even among the dreams without John in the leading role it had been one of the worst.
He closed his eyes and listened. The flat was quiet. For a moment he thought he was still dreaming, afraid that if he got up to check he’d find no trace of John as if he hadn’t been there in years, as if Moriarty had won, as if Sherlock couldn’t save him. He steadied himself, reminding himself that John was fine, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, too. He was in fact in Baker Street and had been for nearly two months. Climbing out of bed, he slipped into his dressing gown and went into the living room. A quick look around reaffirmed what he already knew, still he went to the stairs leading up to John’s bedroom and, after a moment’s hesitation, began to climb them. There was no light coming from under the door and he silently turned the handle. It was only after he opened the door that his heart finally slowed and his nerves began to relax. John was in bed, asleep. Sherlock closed the door and quickly returned downstairs. John might be asleep but he was a military man and Sherlock knew it wouldn’t take much to rouse him and he doubted he’d take well to waking to find Sherlock hovering over him. Downstairs, he picked up his violin and moved to the window. Outside it was calm, the air held the slightest chill and a light wind whistled softly along the window pane. He sighed and pulled the instrument to his chin and began playing- soft, almost mournful, notes that somehow together held him comfortably. There would be no more sleep tonight, thankfully.
---
John waited until he heard Sherlock settle in downstairs, the soft strands from his violin winding their way up to him, before he dared to open his eyes. The notes were mournful in a way that he’d rarely heard from Sherlock. He supposed it was a way that he could allow himself to let the visions that plagued his nights come to the surface and escape. He toyed with going down to check on him, but quickly decided against it. If Sherlock knew he’d heard him, it was likely that he would become even more guarded, and John didn’t want to run the risk of taking this one outlet from him, so he stayed in bed listening to the most heart-wrenching music he’d ever heard and wishing Sherlock would let him be there for him; maybe it was time.
Soft sounds pulled John from the pages of his journal. They were not the calm murmur of gentle words or even the quiet noises of a restful sleep. These noises were the exact opposite. John set the magazine down and waited. He’d bided his time. He knew the moment had to be perfect; he’d only have one chance to help Sherlock. He’d had to be patient. One always had to be patient when dealing with Sherlock. But this was a different kind of patience. The kind you used when dealing with a wounded animal, or more to the point a wounded psyche. John had seen it too often in the army; soldiers who pushed themselves, or were pushed, too hard, too fast. It was never pretty. Some things couldn’t be rushed, even by those experiencing it. He wouldn’t risk doing that to Sherlock, he was too important. John held no illusions, he was no psychologist, but he knew Sherlock better than anyone, probably cared for him more than anyone. And, damn him, Mycroft had been right, he was probably the only one who could help him. He was still afraid he’d be pushing Sherlock too soon, but he had to do something. So when he saw the signs- the light shaking of Sherlock’s hands, not enough to be noticeable to the casual observer- of course, John was far from the casual observer- the circles that no longer hung beneath his eyes, but ringed them completely, the exaggerated annoyance that any normal person would have suffered days before, and the yawns that he could no longer stifle- he’d all but forced Sherlock to bed, something that caused guilt to twinge inside him. He was supposed to be helping Sherlock, not driving him into the arms of the horrors that haunted his sporadic sleep, but he knew it had to be done. In that frightened and shaken state was the only chance John would have to get at the truth and be able to help Sherlock begin to heal. The sounds from the bedroom clawed at John’s heart. He’d never been so close when Sherlock’s dreams took him. He’d always been upstairs, usually asleep. He suspected Sherlock had intentionally made sure he was already asleep before he attempted to sleep himself. At first, the noises were soft little half groans that gradually grew to whimpers and scattered mumbled words, ‘no’ and ‘John’ the clearest and most prominent. They were followed by the eerie utter silence one associates with a church or ancient catacombs. John felt himself tense; he knew what was to come. Worse, he knew what he had to do.
It took almost an hour, each minute drawn out to seem interminably long, before it finally happened. The scream. Sherlock’s voice was deep and rough, thick with sleep, but John’s name was still clear and unmistakeable. That was John’s cue. He was up and at Sherlock’s door before another sound escaped his room. Sherlock seldom cried out more than once, the effort of forcing his voice into function usually enough to jar him into full consciousness, but on occasion John had caught little aftershocks of sound, words sometimes murmured in the bare moments before wakefulness, sometimes chastising himself for calling out. He didn’t knock. He didn’t breathe. He just took the handle and pushed open the door, allowing his silhouette to be outlined by the light from their living room.
Sherlock looked at the apparition in his doorway and rubbed his eyes wearily. He quickly dispelled ideas that he was still dreaming despite John’s near instantaneous appearance. John had been waiting. He realized what that meant, he’d finally run out of time. A small part of him sagged in relief that this fight was finally over, just as another recoiled at exactly what that meant.
“Haven’t you ever heard of privacy, John? At the very least one could hope the art of knocking shouldn’t be too much of a stretch for you,” Sherlock barked, snappishly, bringing John once again to mind of an injured animal on the defensive- pained and scared and pushing away the one person who could help.
With the practised calm of a wartime surgeon, John replied, “Of course it isn’t,” and made no move to leave.
Sherlock ground down on his teeth, how dare John be so insufferably calm? He wasn’t ready for this, he wasn’t sure he ever would be. “Well then- get out!” he roared.
Pointedly ignoring his friend’s protests, John moved into the room, stopping next to the bed with his arms folded across his chest. “Sherlock, this has to stop.”
“Agreed. Now, leave!”
“No.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, as haunting as they were haunted, and glared.
John shook off the disturbing effect. “Not until you talk to me.”
“Good evening. How’s the weather? Bit cool for my tastes,” he rattled off in quick succession. “There, we’ve talked. Happy?”
“Sherlock.”
And there it was, more pronounced whenever John was trying to sooth or coax Sherlock into something, that warmth that had carved its way into Sherlock’s brain and caused his breath and heart to be ripped from him night after night. His mind threw up its walls like a steel door slamming down- NO, he wasn’t going to break, not now. Not now.
He must’ve screwed his eyes shut because he felt the bed dip and a weight settle next to him.
“Sherlock,” John whispered, gently placing a hand on Sherlock’s bowed head. “You can tell me. Whatever it is, you can tell me.”
“I can’t. Don’t you see. I can’t. If I tell you it will make it real, really real.”
The panic in Sherlock’s face and quiver in his words scared John, scared him more than watching him fall to his death. “Sherlock, Sherlock. Whatever it is, we can deal with it. You’re home, you’re safe; anything else we can get through.” The way Sherlock was acting just made every single horror he’d managed to imagine his friend having gone through that much more vivid, more likely- it was killing him.
Sherlock’s tear-filled eyes pleaded with John to just go and leave him or maybe they begged him to stay; he didn’t know anymore. All he knew was that John was here, too close. Too bloody close. He had to go, he had to get John away from him before his body and voice betrayed him.
“Sherlock, you might as well tell me. I’m not leaving you like this for another night.” John sighed and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “You can think of it as my own selfish reasons, if it helps. You know I can’t sleep after one of your night terrors.”
Sherlock’s head snapped up at that. John wasn’t supposed to know that, they were just nightmares as far as he knew.
“Oh, don’t give me that. I’m a doctor. A doctor with intimate experience with PTSD, I know the difference between a night mare and a night terror. I know what it’s like to not be able to escape the images in your mind as they go ‘round and ‘round building until they literally burst out of you. And I’ve heard enough to know that’s what these are.”
“Show off.”
“No, I’ll leave that to you. And don’t try to change the subject, it’s beneath you- it’s boring.”
“No fair.”
John chuckled. “If there’s one thing you’ve taught me, which, let’s be honest, you’ve taught me a lot more than one thing. But, if there’s one thing you taught me, it’s that everything’s fair if it gets the data you need.”
A wry chuckle came from the once again bowed head.
They sat in silence for a while, John stroking Sherlock’s hair as the other man’s breathing began to slow. If not for the tension still in his body, John would have entertained the possibility that Sherlock was dozing. As it was he moved to sit closer to Sherlock, pushing himself up to lean back against the headboard. He hoped he could at least ease Sherlock back against the pillows even if he refused to talk- John was not going to leave Sherlock alone tonight, whether Sherlock liked it or not.
Almost subconsciously it seemed, Sherlock shuffled back to press himself against John’s side. Just when John thought he’d lost Sherlock to pure adrenaline exhaustion, the words came. Quiet and small, nothing like the boisterous and confident sounds his friend usually made, but words nonetheless. “They were wrong,” Sherlock whispered into John’s shoulder. “I don’t like leaving the bodies.”
Sherlock knew what Donavon said behind his back, what she’d said to John the first time they met, that one day he’d be the one leaving a trail of bodies. It was just one of the reasons it had been so easy for her to believe Moriarty’s twisted tale. But he also knew now that he did have that darkness in him. In all of his cases, all the times his life and the life of others had been threatened, he’d never killed. Maimed and broken when necessary, but never killed.
John had noticed of course. Even back when they had first met, Donovan had said Sherlock would leave bodies, but it was he who had made a kill shot not twelve hours later leaving a very dead serial killer on the floor of an empty classroom, and it was Sherlock who had worried about him.
John’s mouth went dry as he resisted the urge to pull Sherlock into a hug and tell him that he knew, had always known they were wrong, but he knew Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate it. Still he found himself whispering, “I know.”
“They deserved it. I know they did, Mycroft knew they did. I’d do it again, but I won’t ever like it.”
“It’s okay. We all do things we’d rather not when people we care about are on the line.”
Sherlock quieted once again, letting himself enjoy the feel of John next to him. Of John’s steady breathing. Of his hand rubbing slowly over his arm.
“Are you going to tell me how you got these?” He traced a set of barely there lines around Sherlock’s bicep.
Sherlock tensed.
“Should I tell you what I think?”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Sherlock told him.
“Then tell me. I’ve seen a lot, Sherlock, and I don’t need to imagine most of the things that could have caused these.”
“It was in Ukraine about two years ago, I… it seems I lost a couple of months there. He liked the cutting. He fancied himself a doctor of sorts, studying the effects of viruses and infection first hand. He was rather good at his craft.”
John stifled a growl.
“John? You know I don’t associate you with him just because of a self-given title.”
John pulled Sherlock a little closer.
They both took a few moments to simply breathe. Sherlock adjusting to having finally let that secret fall. John taking in the enormity of what he’d learnt. Once he’d calmed, he felt out another set of scars fresher, and deeper. Needles if he wasn’t mistaken.
“They’re not mine, if that’s what you’re wondering.” He shuddered at the memory; the forced detox had been worse than any torture- drugs warring in his system, demanding things his body couldn’t offer and playing havoc with his mind. He often wondered if his mind had been irrevocably damaged by it, if that was why the nightmares were so real, and why he couldn’t escape them. But that would have been easy. That would have been something he could explain, something rational; much less messy than the truth. He supposed he should be a little thankful for the experience. It had been the image of John’s death playing before his eyes, in ever increasingly vivid and terrible ways, that had spurred him into action, forcing him to fight through the delirium and drug spawned phantoms. And it had been the information he’d garnered from his captors that had finally brought him home.
John gave a sad little smile and squeezed Sherlock’s arm where he’d been circling the marks. “I wasn’t.”
“When I… left… I had to. I had to find the men he had here, watching you. Mycroft handled them; he said it would be too messy if he let me deal with them.”
John smiled softly at the hint of sourness in Sherlock’s voice. It was comforting to hear his disdain for Mycroft coming through, although he suspected the bitterness was more from being denied his prey than their ever-growing brotherly feud.
“But there were more. So many more.” A lonely sadness softened the words.
John spent the next few hours, well into dawn, listening to Sherlock, and pulling him closer with every horror and every tale of how he came close to truly losing the man he loved- a knife wound in a back ally in Lisbon, a near miss with a bullet in Pilsen, being captured following up leads in Rivne (the cuts on his arms) and again more recently in Satu Mare, countless other encounters that could’ve and should’ve resulted in his death- until Sherlock’s head rested on his chest, just above John’s heart, and his arm was wrapped defensively around John as if making sure he was there and would stay there.
Finally, the words stopped. Three years of stored up fear and tension later and Sherlock was a boneless mess in his arms. John’s fingers were almost raw with the continual combing through Sherlock’s hair, but he wasn’t about to stop. His chin rested on Sherlock’s head, occasionally turning to rub his cheek against the soft hair. It was only when Sherlock moved the arm held protectively around his waist to touch his cheek, a meek, “I’m sorry,” on his lips, that John even realized he was crying. He’d almost lost Sherlock so many times over the last years and he would never have known. It was strange that the thought hurt him so much considering he’d thought the man dead at the time already, but it did.
“I…” Sherlock started.
“I know,” John breathed quietly. “But you’re home.”
“Home.” Sherlock played with the word in his mind, taking in all the connotations and repercussions of the word- theidea. Sherlock knew the power of an idea, it was what lead him to his ‘death’ and separation from John for three long, painful years in the first place.
John chuckled softly. “Yes, Sherlock, home- that place where the people you care about most are; where the people who love you are.”
“Where you are,” Sherlock whispered into John’s jumper, exhausted and losing the battle for consciousness.
“Yes.” John placed a kiss on the top of Sherlock’s head. “Where you are,” he agreed.
---
When John woke up it was late afternoon and he was alone. A light blanket had been thrown over him at some point- probably by Sherlock when he got up. He silently chastised himself for sleeping through it, but last night had been trying for both of them, emotions that had been festering much longer than the few months Sherlock had been back brought to the surface and exposed. John stretched as he sat up; muscles stiff from sleep and the death-grip he’d had on Sherlock when he’d finally fallen asleep pulled themselves out with a satisfying ache. Last night, this morning had been interesting to say the least. After Sherlock had fallen asleep, John had lain awake thinking and taking it all in. John knew what it cost Sherlock to confess those things; he knew how much they’d weighed on him, too. These weren’t the things that would be driven away by one night of restful sleep- not that Sherlock’s sleep had been particularly restful, John knew of two instances before he’d allowed himself to sleep and another that had woken him, but there were no screams and a few softly spoken words and a gentle tightening of his arms, which Sherlock invariably duplicated seemed to be enough to calm him- or by simply being exposed, but it was a start.
He wasn’t sure what to expect, how Sherlock would react to everything that had happened last night, but from the other room he could hear Sherlock playing his violin. It was soft and beautiful. There was still pain in those notes, but there was hope, too. Maybe it was wishful thinking on his part, but the more he listen the more vivid the impression became. It gave him hope.
He was smiling when he entered the kitchen, stopping to put the kettle on and pull two mugs down from the cupboard. He wanted to make sure Sherlock knew nothing had changed, well, nothing had changed for the worse. Realistically, he knew the idea was a futile one. Sherlock read people as a part of his living and John wasn’t just people.
Sherlock’s music died down and faded out completely by the time the water was ready and he’d folded himself into one end of the sofa.
John came over and set one of the mugs on the table in front of Sherlock, expecting nothing more than the ghost of a reaction as Sherlock seemed to be on his way to one of his thinking sessions. John sometimes wondered if he’d even notice if the flat was on fire when he got like that.
Instead, Sherlock grabbed John’s wrist lightly and said, “Thank you.”
John smiled and twisted his hand around until he could squeeze Sherlock’s arm reassuringly. He turned to go to his chair by the fireplace and leave Sherlock to his thoughts.
Sherlock’s hand tightened around John’s wrist and tugged gently at him.
Wordlessly, John set his tea on the table and sat next to Sherlock on the sofa. He turned and studied Sherlock. He was still pale, he was always pale, but his eyes were clear and the dark circles a little lighter, and he wore his pale blue dressing gown, the fabric worn soft with age until it seemed more a smooth comforting cotton than fine silk. He looked down to where their hands lay, still holding onto each other, and couldn’t help but smile.
“Oh, don’t look so pleased with yourself.” Sherlock chided in a soft, affectionate voice when he finally spoke.
John let out a breathy snort and shook his head. His eyes once again travelled down to their hands and he gave Sherlock’s wrist another affectionate squeeze, a gentle reminder of John’s presence and the turn their relationship was on the cusp of taking.
Sherlock’s lips curled into a quick smile. “It won’t be easy. I won’t be easy,” he said solemnly.
John chuckled. “Nothing ever is with you,” he pointed out.
Sherlock smiled again, quick, but full of mirth. Sherlock hadn’t smiled like that since he came back and John virtually basked in the warmth of it. “Thank you,” he said warmly, mimicking Sherlock’s earlier words “-for telling me; you didn’t have to.”
“Yes, I did and we both know it,” Sherlock said honestly.
John gave a small nod. “Yeah.” He nodded at the cup on the table. “Drink your tea.”
Part I
Master Post: Fic
Master Post: Art
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Author: heavenlyxbodies
Pairing: John/Sherlock (mostly pre-slash)
Rating: R (for disturbing imagery)
Spoilers: general S2
Feedback: Makes me happy, just play nice
Disclaimer(s) can be found here
Beta: phnx_reader, any remaining mistakes are mine, and probably me ignoring her advice.
Warnings/Squicks (nota bene- some of these warnings are for things only mentioned in passing, but as the entire work may contain triggers I wanted to try to cover everything): may contain triggers, disturbing imagery, torture, PTSD, flashbacks, mentions/description of death of non-canon characters
Summary: Sherlock returns, whole, but battered and not just on the outside. There are things he's done, things he's discovered that he can't tell John. But the signs are there and it's only a matter of time before those secrets come out. Deals with Sherlock and what happened in those three years and how he copes with it now (mainly the latter), and how John copes with him.
Written for johnlockbigbang 2012
~~~~~~~~~
The body beneath him ripped and tore unnaturally. His arms elbow deep in viscera and blood; he continued to wrench and rend, the sound of flesh separating and bones giving way cracking and squelching in his ears. He had to make certain he was dead, this monster who dared to threaten the only people he cared about, the one person he cared about most. He looked down at his handiwork- nothing more than a sack of mush, now- and screamed. The face, lifeless and twisted with anguish, stared at him through empty blue eyes. John. He looked at his own blood-drenched hands in horror. John. He’d done this to John, even in death he had killed him. So much blood. It dripped in streams down his arms; something that looked like it had once been a heart- John’s heart, his heart- lay crumpled in his right hand. No, it couldn’t be, not John, anyone but John. Sherlock screamed a deep guttural sound, a growl and roar all at once.
John ran down the stairs from his bedroom, not quite tripping on the fifth step- after the first week of Sherlock’s screams John had become incredibly adept at navigating his stairs in the dark at speeds he normally reserved for chasing the lunatic across the streets, rooftops, and back alleys of London.
“Sherlock? Sherlock?” He began yelling before he even reached the closed door. He knew Sherlock wouldn’t answer him, or if he did it would be to yell and demand that John leave him alone. One day soon, John was going to ignore Sherlock’s abuse and charge into his room and make Sherlock tell him what had him screaming every night- those nights he slept, which seemed to be even fewer than before. Sure enough, Sherlock bellowed for John to leave him in peace. ‘Peace,’ John thought ironically. Peace was the one thing Sherlock had none of right now. It gave John so many sleepless nights wondering what happened in those three long years. The memory of their fight was still fresh in his mind. He’d been so angry and hurt- betrayed. And he’d taken it all out on Sherlock, not that he didn’t deserve it, but he should have thought about it first. John often wondered if he’d handled it differently, if Sherlock wouldn’t keep hiding this from him. He hated this feeling of helplessness. He wasn’t sure how much more he could handle.
He trudged back upstairs to get his dressing gown. He knew he wouldn’t get anymore sleep tonight, he never did when Sherlock had one of his night terrors, John’s own imagination was too vivid, throwing up bright Technicolor images of every conceivable variant, and several not so conceivable ones, of what could possibly shake Sherlock Holmes so badly.
Sherlock sat in his bed, willing the images of his dream away as he listened to John settle into the living room. With John out there he couldn’t leave his room, seeing John would be dangerous when he was like this. He had learnt from experience that in this state he would say things he would regret. So he stayed, trapped in his room with his memories and his mind. It was worse than anything he’d been through while he was away.
*********
It had been three weeks since Sherlock’s first fitful sleep and despite his training, which taught him never to second guess- a doctor who wasn’t sure of his own decisions had no business practising medicine to begin with- John was regretting his decision to wait for Sherlock to come to him about the things that had him screaming in the night. He knew, of course, that letting Sherlock go through this in his own time was medically the right thing to do, but that didn’t keep him from worrying or lessen the pain and helplessness he felt. Then again, this was Sherlock, and with Sherlock rules seldom applied. So it was almost a relief when Mycroft paid him one of his visits.
“Ah, John, thank you for coming.”
“Well, it’s not like I had much of a choice.”
“John, you always have a choice.”
“Umm, yes, well, coming sort of willingly versus getting picked up by your goons.” He jerked his chin in a half shake of his head. “Not much of a choice there.”
Mycroft inclined his head, conceding the point. After his last encounter with the good doctor he wasn’t prone to arguing with him. He subconsciously clenched his jaw and John chuckled.
Shaking the memory of Mycroft’s stunned face from his mind, he turned serious. “This is about Sherlock.” It was always about Sherlock, but this was different and they both knew it.
“When isn’t it?’ Mycroft said, giving voice to John’s thoughts.
“What do you want, Mycroft?’
“He’s not well.”
“Really?! How’d you come to that astounding conclusion? Was it the fact that he wakes up screaming every time he sleeps, when he sleeps? Or just that he looks like a dead man walking?”
“John, please.” Mycroft’s tone was condescending at best.
John turned angrily as if to walk away then spun around clenching his fist, itching to clock Mycroft again. “You did this to him. You are aware of that? That mammoth brain of yours can comprehend that this is all your doing?”
Mycroft lowered his eyes, watching his umbrella as he absently twisted it on the dusty warehouse floor. “I do. And I understand your frustration.” He raised his eyes back to John, and said in a steady voice, “I don’t expect forgiveness, nor do I seek it. What I do expect is that my brother’s welfare will let us move past my… indiscretions.”
“‘Indiscretions,’ nice.”
Mycroft rolled his eye dramatically. “For his sake,” he finished.
John sighed. Mycroft knew damn well he’d do anything for Sherlock and there was no use denying it. “Fine. What do you want me to do?”
“Only what you do best. You’re a doctor. You’ve seen this kind of thing. What’s your prognosis, given your patient’s nature?”
“You think I should push him,” John stated simply; it wasn’t as if the thought was foreign to him.
“If anyone can get through to him it’s you, John. We both know it. You have to do something about it.”
“So, what, you just want me to barge into his room and demand answers?”
“If that’s what’s necessary, yes.”
John shook his head, “Unbelievable,” and turned away, this time intent on leaving Mycroft behind like a bad memory.
“He needs you, John. I trust you will do what needs to be done,” Mycroft’s voice trailed after him.
---
John took his time getting back to Baker street. He had to handle this carefully. Sherlock wouldn’t react well to being openly confronted. John hated to think this way, but his best chance would be to wait for Sherlock to be vulnerable, which meant waiting for another gut-wrenching scream in the night. What’s more, Sherlock would know. He wouldn’t say anything, but he’d know. He’d know his brother had carried John off to some horrid empty building to have a chat and he’d know that Mycroft expected John to do something about the state his brother was in. Mycroft always did that, always expected John to take care of Sherlock, not that John really minded; John just minded Mycroft’s abuse of that knowledge.
“Evening,” John greeted when he entered the flat.
Sherlock looked up from his microscope, cocked his head minutely, and asked, “What did Mycroft want?”
John didn’t bat an eye just grabbed the paper and sat down in his chair. “Same thing he always does.”
“He’s worried.”
“Yes,” came John’s clipped and honest response.
“He shouldn’t be.”
“You tell him that.” John had to smile into the paper knowing the look of bewilderment Sherlock would have on his face.
“John?” Sherlock let the name hang for a moment, pretending to turn his attention back to his slides. “Are you worried?” he finally asked, getting to the crux of the matter.
“I’m not even going to bother answering that, Sherlock.”
“You shouldn’t be,” he lied.
“Hmm,” John hummed in reply.
“John, I’m fine.” Sherlock hoped if he said it enough times it would sound less hollow in his own ears. He knew he wasn’t fine, he was anything but fine. He couldn’t shake the dreams. And if he couldn’t shake the dreams then he couldn’t sleep- he couldn’t let John know. He’d always been good at denying his body lesser things like food and sleep when necessary, but even he had his limits. And it seemed with the lack of true sleep those limits were getting shorter and shorter.
*********
Sherlock watched from the shadows as the man was cut and beaten. His name was Marcus, and Sherlock shuddered as he remembered what he had planned to do, how he’d spoken to him in soft tones telling him exactly what he had in store for the man Sherlock held dear, what he would then do to Mrs. Hudson simply because he enjoyed it. He watched as the man was beaten past death and he could feel nothing but warm satisfaction in knowing he would never touch the people he cared for. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t the one to end the world of Marcus, the name seethed in his mind. He could smell the copper in the air, feel it weighing on his skin as blood and other less recognizable excretions spewed from the body- things that couldn’t, and would never be able to, popped and spurted the length of the empty room. Marcus was nothing but a pulpy mess by the time his killer finished with him. As his nightmares went this was blessed peace, even if part of him recoiled from whoever had done this. He couldn’t regret the man’s death, however cold and brutal. That tenuous peace was shattered when the man’s killer turned around with Sherlock’s name on his lips, dripping in the comforting tones that had always anchored him.
Sherlock’s blood ran cold- icy daggers in his veins that ripped him apart as real as any knife. John stood before him, covered in blood and gore and smiling the most unnatural smile he’d ever seen. He tried to block out the image replacing it with memories of what had really happened to Marcus despite their own gruesomeness. Blood had covered the walls in some childish, almost demonic interpretation of Pollock, sprays and splashes of monotone colour on floor and ceiling; he’d hit an artery, messy. And most importantly, John wasn’t there, he hadn’t done those things, he hadn’t seen them, he didn’t know about the darkness in him. John had been safe, back here at home, in Baker Street when it had happened. This couldn’t be. It was everything he’d fought against. It was why John still didn’t know what had happened, all he’d been forced to do. He wouldn’t let John take on any of his personal horrors. His stomach churned and lurched violently at the thought of getting John sullied by any of his actions, John had been through too much already. But the John in his dream wouldn’t leave; he just stood there smiling manically at him. Sherlock backed away from the nightmarish vision, gravel and refuse crunching and crushing beneath his feet, insisting that this entire re-enactment was real; every smell and sound lending itself to the drama like an expertly executed play. Sherlock heard his own voice, tired and coarse, chanting, ‘No. No, no, no, no! You’re not John. He wasn’t there. He doesn’t know.’ The nightmare John kept smiling, edging closer and closer as if intent on blotting out any sight but his blood covered, smiling face.
“JOHN.” Sherlock shot bolt upright out of bed, John’s name still lingering in the air and on his lips. He waited for the familiar footfalls outside his door, wondering if tonight would be the night he finally broke down and gave John the answers he wanted and ones he didn’t.
“Sherlock?” John’s soft, warm voice asked through the door.
The door muffled his words, but they were still clear in Sherlock’s ears. John’s voice would always be clear to him. He’d kept it with him through everything the past three years. Every word John had spoken to him and the ones that he never did, though he’d wanted to. More than once he’d heard John’s voice in his head, talking to him, bringing his own kind of clarity to impossible situations. Hearing his voice again, getting home to John was the thing that drove him. It was probably why the dreams were so vivid, so terrifying.
“Sherlock?”
The question was stronger now, the knob on his door turning slowly as the door opened casting John’s shadow across his floor.
“I’m fine,” Sherlock snapped. And now that he’d seen and not just heard his friend’s voice, he thought for the moment he was. John was safe, so Sherlock was fine.
“You sure? You didn’t sound fine,” John said, worried as he always was when Sherlock had one of these dreams or whatever they were that caused Sherlock to scream his name.
“Go away!” he hissed. He threw himself back onto his bed and turned away from the reassuring form in the doorway. “Leave me alone,” he growled, though the heat was directed at himself, rather than John.
Sighing, John backed out of the room. “I’m here if you need anything, Sherlock.” He said that every night, every time Sherlock woke screaming in the night.
The door clicked closed and Sherlock let out an angry sound that lesser men might call a sob. Apparently tonight was not the night for revelations, something Sherlock both blessed and cursed. He couldn’t, just couldn’t, let John in. It would make it all too real, and neither of them needed that. Things were slowly getting back to normal between them. John’s bitterness had faded almost completely in the face of having Sherlock back, and Sherlock was not ready to risk that on tales of what he’d done. Quietly he cursed Mycroft and his meddling; at least John hadn’t forced the issue, though he knew it was only a matter of time.
Lestrade stepped back from the corpse lying curled in on itself on pristine white sheets. “How is he?” he asked John as he sidled up to him.
John gave a little shrug, more with his head than his shoulders. “He’s Sherlock.”
“Yeah, but how is he?”
John shot a glance at Sherlock still hunched over the body, then back up at Lestrade with a loaded look in his eyes that said more than words could.
The D.I. sighed. He was still shaken by Sherlock’s display weeks before; it was not the kind of thing you easily forgot. “If there’s anything…”
John quirked his lips in a soft smile. “You might regret that.”
Lestrade grew more serious. “No, I won’t.” It was a simple statement of fact, more certain than one of Sherlock’s grand deductions. “John, anything,” he repeated.
“For God’s sake, if you must have this conversation- leave.”
John chuckled and Lestrade straightened himself up subconsciously.
“Thank you,” Sherlock snapped. He spent his life with people talking about him, usually behind his back or in hushed, conspiratorial whispers; it was something he lived with. He knew what Lestrade and John were talking about- namely him- and knew rationally it was nothing like those secret conversations, but for whatever reason it still riled him to think of John in the same light, even erroneously. He knew he was overreacting, being irrational, and was disgusted with himself for it. He took one last look at the pillow next to the body, stood, and began to alternately questioning and spouting deductions at the detective.
------
“You were a bit short with Lestrade, earlier,” John said conversationally, once they were back at the flat. Sherlock had requested some samples be sent to Bart’s, but they would be awhile in coming and John, at least, preferred to spend the time in the comfort of their own home, rather than the bowels of the hospital. He knew Bart’s would always be a second home of sorts to Sherlock, but he still had trouble being there, after what happened- especially if it involved waiting. It was too much like that day, no matter how cheerful or busy the hospital was. PTSD had strange effects on people. John’s skin began to crawl and it felt like spindly knives were crawling along his spine every time he let Sherlock out of touching distance whenever they were in the hospital; he needed to be able to feel him close by, even if he never took the opportunity to touch. If Sherlock noticed he never said anything. In fact, if it had been anyone else, John would think he went out of his way to make sure he stayed close, but this was Sherlock and demanding that John answer his phone when it was in his pocket or hand him a beaker that was sitting next to his palm was nothing new and John knew better than to romanticise it. Sherlock was just being Sherlock.
“Was I? Hadn’t noticed,” Sherlock said, unconvincingly, tapping away at his phone.
John recognized the too swift, too direct tone, it was the way he answered anything he didn’t want to deal with or didn’t understand. John chuckled quietly to himself. “So… why were you so short with him?” he encouraged.
“Pfft,” Sherlock waved his hand as if waving an imaginary fly out of his vision. “They’re idiots, always are.”
“Of course, that’s why you actually like Greg,” John said, settling back in his chair by the fireplace.
Sherlock hummed. “Well, there’s always the exception.”
John ran his fingers thoughtfully across his mouth, barely concealing a smile. “Hmm,” John agreed. A beat and a half passed in silence. “Are you going to tell me?”
The tapping on Sherlock’s phone stopped. This was yet another conversation he didn’t want to have, but John was tenacious when something got under his skin and he knew his silence on… other matters would only add to his curiosity. He started speaking slowly, with a touch of annoyed admonishment. “Your incessant chatter was disturbing me,” he admitted. No one said he had to explain why it disturbed him.
“Uh-huh,” John said, not mentioning that Sherlock had worked around much more and louder distractions, even Anderson. “Sorry.”
Sherlock grunted and resumed tapping at his phone, considering the matter dropped, if not closed.
John sat back and looked at Sherlock, his mind whirling, trying to put pieces together. He might not have Sherlock’s quick computer of a brain, but he could still extrapolate. It was true, Sherlock preferred to work in silence, but he and Lestrade had always been, if not full exceptions, then at least, tolerable background noise. So it wasn’t their presence that had upset him. Oh. “It was because we were talking about you,” John said matter-of-factly.
Sherlock looked at John over his phone, his eyes stony.
‘Got it in one,’ John thought with no small amount satisfaction, but that lead to a further question- why?
“Yes, John. Brilliant deduction as always,” Sherlock said putting as much icy sarcasm as he could into the words. John was too close; he was always too close. His phone vibrated and he checked the message.
John was already standing, handing Sherlock his coat, and dutifully ignoring his scathing remarks by the time Sherlock had pocketed his phone. It only meant that he had touched on a truth that made Sherlock uncomfortable, probably something that made him feel more human. There were a lot of things that got that reaction from him these days. But now there was work to be done and John was willing to let it slide for the moment; he tucked it away, another piece of the puzzle of the last three years, and another weight against the floodgates that were already strained almost to bursting. Sherlock’s walls were close to crumbling, and John only hoped he was prepared for the oncoming storms. He slipped into his own jacket and followed his friend down the stairs into the chilly London night.
*********
John spent a lot of time watching Sherlock, looking for any hints of what he’d been up to in the years he was away. There were things that were obvious, like his new found tolerance for Anderson and Donavon- something he himself had yet to muster, he had never, and likely would never, forgive them for their part in what had happened that day. There were other things, as well, more subtle things and more disturbing for their subtlety; Sherlock was never subtle, it wasn’t in his nature. These were the things John tried to understand. He had theories and generalizations. The way Sherlock would go glassy eyed and freeze with only his fingers on his right hand absently rubbing together in little circles, it was the movement that caught John’s attention. When Sherlock was just lost in thought he never moved, he was perfectly still, almost frighteningly so. That one little movement told John volumes- Sherlock was having flashbacks, but he still hadn’t figured out what triggered them. Or why Sherlock’s favourite dressing gown had yet to leave the closet in the weeks he’d been back; John was afraid of the answer to that particular conundrum and he didn’t like it. Sherlock went to great pains since he’d been back to be covered at all times, a far cry from his haphazard concept of decency in the past. It made John’s gut churn to think of what might lay beneath those layers of clothing. He was fairly certain if he ever saw what Sherlock so defiantly tried to keep concealed he’d see marks, scars maybe, things that Sherlock didn’t want seen or to discuss. John understood that better than most, but he would’ve hoped that Sherlock trusted him enough not to hide, but then seeing would mean knowing and Sherlock had made it abundantly clear he did not want John knowing anything about what had happened. Unfortunately, Sherlock seemed to have forgotten how tenacious and persistent John could be, when he wanted to be. He’d had to be to keep up with Sherlock, and keep from killing him. Then there was the eating. Before if John placed food in front of him when he was working, even just one of his experiments, at best, Sherlock would push it about the plate in an effort to humour him, now, he actually ate it. John had ideas about that, too, but they were too many and too vague to begin to guess at. He smirked, thinking how Sherlock would chastise him for even thinking about ‘guessing’. He looked over at the man in question, glad that Sherlock could actually chastise him.
Sherlock looked up from his papers and gave John a quick quirk of his lips. He found himself doing that more and more; he would have been perturbed by it if he wasn’t so relieved to see John every time- a simple reassurance that he’d beaten Moriarty and his network.
John wondered if Sherlock could deduce his thoughts just from that look. He gave a quiet, depreciating chuckle and shook his head, of course he could, if he put his mind to it; the question then became did Sherlock want to. When John turned his attention back to Sherlock, he was engrossed in his files.
As if in answer to John’s thoughts, Sherlock asked, “What’s got you so preoccupied, John?”
“Hmm?” he answered as nonchalantly as he could.
“You haven’t turned the page in over fifteen minutes, you’ve barely looked at the article at all, so something must be on your mind,” Sherlock explained with more calm than he felt. He wondered if John knew he had the upper hand in this situation. It didn’t take the world’s only consulting detective to work out John was thinking about him and the last three years. It was only a matter of what he was thinking about within those parameters. Sherlock doubted it was about his being gone, John tended to tense when that time, when Sherlock had left him alone, was on his mind- years in the military having ingrained a defensive stoicism in him- which meant it was something more specific, something John could distance himself from.
John smiled at him. “You’ve already worked it out; you don’t need me to tell you.”
“Humour me.”
John looked off as if he was considering Sherlock’s request. He snapped his magazine, determined to read the article this time. “Mmm, no.”
Sherlock set his papers down, weighing the value of taking up John’s challenge to deduce him and his thoughts or letting it lie. He laced his fingers together as he thought on how to proceed; how to answer John’s question without giving too much of himself away. “You’re wondering what I was doing.” Keep it simple and he could remain in control of the conversation.
John met Sherlock’s eyes, giving him a curt nod, neither was going to pretend that the ‘when’ he was referring to was now. “Sharp as ever.”
Sherlock took a deep breath, quelling the desire to leave or change the subject; better still drop it altogether. “John, it’s not-”
“I know, Sherlock, you’ve said.”
“Then why do you insist on dwelling on it?”
“Why? Seriously?” He almost choked on the bitter chuckle he bit back. He knew, knowing Sherlock like he did, he shouldn’t be shocked by anything Sherlock said, especially in regards to emotions, but at times he still surprised him. “Maybe because my best friend disappeared for three years, let me think he was dead, and, God help me, I still care.” ‘…more than I should,’ his mind added wearily.
Sherlock’s brow furrowed and he looked curiously at John, his discomfort momentarily pushed to the side. “Why?”
“Because that’s what friends do.”
Sherlock continued to stare at John with his impenetrable gaze.
“You know what, forget it. And for the record, I wasn’t asking. You want to keep your secrets; that’s fine, but you may want to remember some of us mere mortals do actually care about you.”
Sherlock wanted to apologize, but the words stuck in his throat. Even if he did get them out they would likely give John more cause for concern than comfort. He didn’t want to add yet more strange behaviour to the ever growing list.
In his chair, John let out a heavy breath. Dealing with Sherlock was trying on the best of days, but sometimes, like this, when he’d been so close to learning more, it was even more frustrating. Mainly because it always left him feeling like throwing Sherlock against a wall until he told him everything. For the fifth time he opened up the article he had been failing to read, this time knowing full well he wouldn’t get a word read.
*********
The acrid smell of urine and stale beer and less reputable substances filled the condemned building. Discarded syringes, cans, and condom wrappers crunching beneath his feet made silence nearly impossible. Every now and then a bottle would go skittering across the floor, kicked to the side when it got in his way. Staying still was worse. Standing still allowed his mind to wander. For all that he normally welcomed quiet stillness when he thought, he couldn’t stand it now. He needed to do something, anything that would allow him to stay focused on the gruelling task at hand and keep thoughts of London and Baker Street pushed far back in his subconscious. He took another loud crunching step, willing his thoughts back to Moriarty’s men and the limited information Mycroft had provided.
Slowly the grating noise became an almost rhythmic background as he paced the same path crushing the offending refuse into silence. Something snapped sharply under his feet and he fell to the floor. A rotten, decaying bone lay in front of him; putrefying muscle and sinew clinging to it, like some twisted party favour. He tried to back away scrambling across the floor heedless of glass and needles, only to be stopped by the firm jab of bone at his back. He looked around him, at the floor now covered in jutting bits of broken and dismembered bone. He swallowed back a scream, it would be of no use; the house was empty and the only occupants lifeless and unable to appreciate the terror they’d caused. There were heads bobbing about like crests of waves on a perverted sea of corpse flesh. The faces, ones he’d only seen in passing, crime scene photos, morgue slabs, still warm only just having left the world of the living, yet somehow burnt with photo precision into his brain. There was no way to save these people, for most there never had been. Even Sherlock Holmes had limits. At least the heads weren’t talking, some nights they did that, or eyed him with accusatory glares through swollen, distended eyeballs dangling along lifeless cheeks.
He tried to wake up, he always tried. It was like being stuck on some ceaseless loop of nightmarish memories and hallucinations. A merry-go-round you couldn’t get off, and he knew he’d stay caught going ‘round and ‘round until something in him broke, breaking through his closed off subconscious until his screams called John down and into his room, yet again. It was a vicious cycle and he didn’t know how much longer either of them could stand it.
Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, taking in the familiar ceiling, trying to catch his ragged breath. It had been a dream, just a dream, one of the numerous ones he’d had since his return. Though in truth that was a lie; he’d been having the dreams almost since he left. They’d changed of course. What started out as half memories of John’s face, of the hurt that radiated from him, of the pain he knew he’d caused, turned to desperation and highlights of the horrors of the things he had seen- John almost always taking centre stage in his memories. Tonight, thankfully, John had not been the focal point, but even among the dreams without John in the leading role it had been one of the worst.
He closed his eyes and listened. The flat was quiet. For a moment he thought he was still dreaming, afraid that if he got up to check he’d find no trace of John as if he hadn’t been there in years, as if Moriarty had won, as if Sherlock couldn’t save him. He steadied himself, reminding himself that John was fine, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, too. He was in fact in Baker Street and had been for nearly two months. Climbing out of bed, he slipped into his dressing gown and went into the living room. A quick look around reaffirmed what he already knew, still he went to the stairs leading up to John’s bedroom and, after a moment’s hesitation, began to climb them. There was no light coming from under the door and he silently turned the handle. It was only after he opened the door that his heart finally slowed and his nerves began to relax. John was in bed, asleep. Sherlock closed the door and quickly returned downstairs. John might be asleep but he was a military man and Sherlock knew it wouldn’t take much to rouse him and he doubted he’d take well to waking to find Sherlock hovering over him. Downstairs, he picked up his violin and moved to the window. Outside it was calm, the air held the slightest chill and a light wind whistled softly along the window pane. He sighed and pulled the instrument to his chin and began playing- soft, almost mournful, notes that somehow together held him comfortably. There would be no more sleep tonight, thankfully.
---
John waited until he heard Sherlock settle in downstairs, the soft strands from his violin winding their way up to him, before he dared to open his eyes. The notes were mournful in a way that he’d rarely heard from Sherlock. He supposed it was a way that he could allow himself to let the visions that plagued his nights come to the surface and escape. He toyed with going down to check on him, but quickly decided against it. If Sherlock knew he’d heard him, it was likely that he would become even more guarded, and John didn’t want to run the risk of taking this one outlet from him, so he stayed in bed listening to the most heart-wrenching music he’d ever heard and wishing Sherlock would let him be there for him; maybe it was time.
Soft sounds pulled John from the pages of his journal. They were not the calm murmur of gentle words or even the quiet noises of a restful sleep. These noises were the exact opposite. John set the magazine down and waited. He’d bided his time. He knew the moment had to be perfect; he’d only have one chance to help Sherlock. He’d had to be patient. One always had to be patient when dealing with Sherlock. But this was a different kind of patience. The kind you used when dealing with a wounded animal, or more to the point a wounded psyche. John had seen it too often in the army; soldiers who pushed themselves, or were pushed, too hard, too fast. It was never pretty. Some things couldn’t be rushed, even by those experiencing it. He wouldn’t risk doing that to Sherlock, he was too important. John held no illusions, he was no psychologist, but he knew Sherlock better than anyone, probably cared for him more than anyone. And, damn him, Mycroft had been right, he was probably the only one who could help him. He was still afraid he’d be pushing Sherlock too soon, but he had to do something. So when he saw the signs- the light shaking of Sherlock’s hands, not enough to be noticeable to the casual observer- of course, John was far from the casual observer- the circles that no longer hung beneath his eyes, but ringed them completely, the exaggerated annoyance that any normal person would have suffered days before, and the yawns that he could no longer stifle- he’d all but forced Sherlock to bed, something that caused guilt to twinge inside him. He was supposed to be helping Sherlock, not driving him into the arms of the horrors that haunted his sporadic sleep, but he knew it had to be done. In that frightened and shaken state was the only chance John would have to get at the truth and be able to help Sherlock begin to heal. The sounds from the bedroom clawed at John’s heart. He’d never been so close when Sherlock’s dreams took him. He’d always been upstairs, usually asleep. He suspected Sherlock had intentionally made sure he was already asleep before he attempted to sleep himself. At first, the noises were soft little half groans that gradually grew to whimpers and scattered mumbled words, ‘no’ and ‘John’ the clearest and most prominent. They were followed by the eerie utter silence one associates with a church or ancient catacombs. John felt himself tense; he knew what was to come. Worse, he knew what he had to do.
It took almost an hour, each minute drawn out to seem interminably long, before it finally happened. The scream. Sherlock’s voice was deep and rough, thick with sleep, but John’s name was still clear and unmistakeable. That was John’s cue. He was up and at Sherlock’s door before another sound escaped his room. Sherlock seldom cried out more than once, the effort of forcing his voice into function usually enough to jar him into full consciousness, but on occasion John had caught little aftershocks of sound, words sometimes murmured in the bare moments before wakefulness, sometimes chastising himself for calling out. He didn’t knock. He didn’t breathe. He just took the handle and pushed open the door, allowing his silhouette to be outlined by the light from their living room.
Sherlock looked at the apparition in his doorway and rubbed his eyes wearily. He quickly dispelled ideas that he was still dreaming despite John’s near instantaneous appearance. John had been waiting. He realized what that meant, he’d finally run out of time. A small part of him sagged in relief that this fight was finally over, just as another recoiled at exactly what that meant.
“Haven’t you ever heard of privacy, John? At the very least one could hope the art of knocking shouldn’t be too much of a stretch for you,” Sherlock barked, snappishly, bringing John once again to mind of an injured animal on the defensive- pained and scared and pushing away the one person who could help.
With the practised calm of a wartime surgeon, John replied, “Of course it isn’t,” and made no move to leave.
Sherlock ground down on his teeth, how dare John be so insufferably calm? He wasn’t ready for this, he wasn’t sure he ever would be. “Well then- get out!” he roared.
Pointedly ignoring his friend’s protests, John moved into the room, stopping next to the bed with his arms folded across his chest. “Sherlock, this has to stop.”
“Agreed. Now, leave!”
“No.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, as haunting as they were haunted, and glared.
John shook off the disturbing effect. “Not until you talk to me.”
“Good evening. How’s the weather? Bit cool for my tastes,” he rattled off in quick succession. “There, we’ve talked. Happy?”
“Sherlock.”
And there it was, more pronounced whenever John was trying to sooth or coax Sherlock into something, that warmth that had carved its way into Sherlock’s brain and caused his breath and heart to be ripped from him night after night. His mind threw up its walls like a steel door slamming down- NO, he wasn’t going to break, not now. Not now.
He must’ve screwed his eyes shut because he felt the bed dip and a weight settle next to him.
“Sherlock,” John whispered, gently placing a hand on Sherlock’s bowed head. “You can tell me. Whatever it is, you can tell me.”
“I can’t. Don’t you see. I can’t. If I tell you it will make it real, really real.”
The panic in Sherlock’s face and quiver in his words scared John, scared him more than watching him fall to his death. “Sherlock, Sherlock. Whatever it is, we can deal with it. You’re home, you’re safe; anything else we can get through.” The way Sherlock was acting just made every single horror he’d managed to imagine his friend having gone through that much more vivid, more likely- it was killing him.
Sherlock’s tear-filled eyes pleaded with John to just go and leave him or maybe they begged him to stay; he didn’t know anymore. All he knew was that John was here, too close. Too bloody close. He had to go, he had to get John away from him before his body and voice betrayed him.
“Sherlock, you might as well tell me. I’m not leaving you like this for another night.” John sighed and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “You can think of it as my own selfish reasons, if it helps. You know I can’t sleep after one of your night terrors.”
Sherlock’s head snapped up at that. John wasn’t supposed to know that, they were just nightmares as far as he knew.
“Oh, don’t give me that. I’m a doctor. A doctor with intimate experience with PTSD, I know the difference between a night mare and a night terror. I know what it’s like to not be able to escape the images in your mind as they go ‘round and ‘round building until they literally burst out of you. And I’ve heard enough to know that’s what these are.”
“Show off.”
“No, I’ll leave that to you. And don’t try to change the subject, it’s beneath you- it’s boring.”
“No fair.”
John chuckled. “If there’s one thing you’ve taught me, which, let’s be honest, you’ve taught me a lot more than one thing. But, if there’s one thing you taught me, it’s that everything’s fair if it gets the data you need.”
A wry chuckle came from the once again bowed head.
They sat in silence for a while, John stroking Sherlock’s hair as the other man’s breathing began to slow. If not for the tension still in his body, John would have entertained the possibility that Sherlock was dozing. As it was he moved to sit closer to Sherlock, pushing himself up to lean back against the headboard. He hoped he could at least ease Sherlock back against the pillows even if he refused to talk- John was not going to leave Sherlock alone tonight, whether Sherlock liked it or not.
Almost subconsciously it seemed, Sherlock shuffled back to press himself against John’s side. Just when John thought he’d lost Sherlock to pure adrenaline exhaustion, the words came. Quiet and small, nothing like the boisterous and confident sounds his friend usually made, but words nonetheless. “They were wrong,” Sherlock whispered into John’s shoulder. “I don’t like leaving the bodies.”
Sherlock knew what Donavon said behind his back, what she’d said to John the first time they met, that one day he’d be the one leaving a trail of bodies. It was just one of the reasons it had been so easy for her to believe Moriarty’s twisted tale. But he also knew now that he did have that darkness in him. In all of his cases, all the times his life and the life of others had been threatened, he’d never killed. Maimed and broken when necessary, but never killed.
John had noticed of course. Even back when they had first met, Donovan had said Sherlock would leave bodies, but it was he who had made a kill shot not twelve hours later leaving a very dead serial killer on the floor of an empty classroom, and it was Sherlock who had worried about him.
John’s mouth went dry as he resisted the urge to pull Sherlock into a hug and tell him that he knew, had always known they were wrong, but he knew Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate it. Still he found himself whispering, “I know.”
“They deserved it. I know they did, Mycroft knew they did. I’d do it again, but I won’t ever like it.”
“It’s okay. We all do things we’d rather not when people we care about are on the line.”
Sherlock quieted once again, letting himself enjoy the feel of John next to him. Of John’s steady breathing. Of his hand rubbing slowly over his arm.
“Are you going to tell me how you got these?” He traced a set of barely there lines around Sherlock’s bicep.
Sherlock tensed.
“Should I tell you what I think?”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Sherlock told him.
“Then tell me. I’ve seen a lot, Sherlock, and I don’t need to imagine most of the things that could have caused these.”
“It was in Ukraine about two years ago, I… it seems I lost a couple of months there. He liked the cutting. He fancied himself a doctor of sorts, studying the effects of viruses and infection first hand. He was rather good at his craft.”
John stifled a growl.
“John? You know I don’t associate you with him just because of a self-given title.”
John pulled Sherlock a little closer.
They both took a few moments to simply breathe. Sherlock adjusting to having finally let that secret fall. John taking in the enormity of what he’d learnt. Once he’d calmed, he felt out another set of scars fresher, and deeper. Needles if he wasn’t mistaken.
“They’re not mine, if that’s what you’re wondering.” He shuddered at the memory; the forced detox had been worse than any torture- drugs warring in his system, demanding things his body couldn’t offer and playing havoc with his mind. He often wondered if his mind had been irrevocably damaged by it, if that was why the nightmares were so real, and why he couldn’t escape them. But that would have been easy. That would have been something he could explain, something rational; much less messy than the truth. He supposed he should be a little thankful for the experience. It had been the image of John’s death playing before his eyes, in ever increasingly vivid and terrible ways, that had spurred him into action, forcing him to fight through the delirium and drug spawned phantoms. And it had been the information he’d garnered from his captors that had finally brought him home.
John gave a sad little smile and squeezed Sherlock’s arm where he’d been circling the marks. “I wasn’t.”
“When I… left… I had to. I had to find the men he had here, watching you. Mycroft handled them; he said it would be too messy if he let me deal with them.”
John smiled softly at the hint of sourness in Sherlock’s voice. It was comforting to hear his disdain for Mycroft coming through, although he suspected the bitterness was more from being denied his prey than their ever-growing brotherly feud.
“But there were more. So many more.” A lonely sadness softened the words.
John spent the next few hours, well into dawn, listening to Sherlock, and pulling him closer with every horror and every tale of how he came close to truly losing the man he loved- a knife wound in a back ally in Lisbon, a near miss with a bullet in Pilsen, being captured following up leads in Rivne (the cuts on his arms) and again more recently in Satu Mare, countless other encounters that could’ve and should’ve resulted in his death- until Sherlock’s head rested on his chest, just above John’s heart, and his arm was wrapped defensively around John as if making sure he was there and would stay there.
Finally, the words stopped. Three years of stored up fear and tension later and Sherlock was a boneless mess in his arms. John’s fingers were almost raw with the continual combing through Sherlock’s hair, but he wasn’t about to stop. His chin rested on Sherlock’s head, occasionally turning to rub his cheek against the soft hair. It was only when Sherlock moved the arm held protectively around his waist to touch his cheek, a meek, “I’m sorry,” on his lips, that John even realized he was crying. He’d almost lost Sherlock so many times over the last years and he would never have known. It was strange that the thought hurt him so much considering he’d thought the man dead at the time already, but it did.
“I…” Sherlock started.
“I know,” John breathed quietly. “But you’re home.”
“Home.” Sherlock played with the word in his mind, taking in all the connotations and repercussions of the word- theidea. Sherlock knew the power of an idea, it was what lead him to his ‘death’ and separation from John for three long, painful years in the first place.
John chuckled softly. “Yes, Sherlock, home- that place where the people you care about most are; where the people who love you are.”
“Where you are,” Sherlock whispered into John’s jumper, exhausted and losing the battle for consciousness.
“Yes.” John placed a kiss on the top of Sherlock’s head. “Where you are,” he agreed.
---
When John woke up it was late afternoon and he was alone. A light blanket had been thrown over him at some point- probably by Sherlock when he got up. He silently chastised himself for sleeping through it, but last night had been trying for both of them, emotions that had been festering much longer than the few months Sherlock had been back brought to the surface and exposed. John stretched as he sat up; muscles stiff from sleep and the death-grip he’d had on Sherlock when he’d finally fallen asleep pulled themselves out with a satisfying ache. Last night, this morning had been interesting to say the least. After Sherlock had fallen asleep, John had lain awake thinking and taking it all in. John knew what it cost Sherlock to confess those things; he knew how much they’d weighed on him, too. These weren’t the things that would be driven away by one night of restful sleep- not that Sherlock’s sleep had been particularly restful, John knew of two instances before he’d allowed himself to sleep and another that had woken him, but there were no screams and a few softly spoken words and a gentle tightening of his arms, which Sherlock invariably duplicated seemed to be enough to calm him- or by simply being exposed, but it was a start.
He wasn’t sure what to expect, how Sherlock would react to everything that had happened last night, but from the other room he could hear Sherlock playing his violin. It was soft and beautiful. There was still pain in those notes, but there was hope, too. Maybe it was wishful thinking on his part, but the more he listen the more vivid the impression became. It gave him hope.
He was smiling when he entered the kitchen, stopping to put the kettle on and pull two mugs down from the cupboard. He wanted to make sure Sherlock knew nothing had changed, well, nothing had changed for the worse. Realistically, he knew the idea was a futile one. Sherlock read people as a part of his living and John wasn’t just people.
Sherlock’s music died down and faded out completely by the time the water was ready and he’d folded himself into one end of the sofa.
John came over and set one of the mugs on the table in front of Sherlock, expecting nothing more than the ghost of a reaction as Sherlock seemed to be on his way to one of his thinking sessions. John sometimes wondered if he’d even notice if the flat was on fire when he got like that.
Instead, Sherlock grabbed John’s wrist lightly and said, “Thank you.”
John smiled and twisted his hand around until he could squeeze Sherlock’s arm reassuringly. He turned to go to his chair by the fireplace and leave Sherlock to his thoughts.
Sherlock’s hand tightened around John’s wrist and tugged gently at him.
Wordlessly, John set his tea on the table and sat next to Sherlock on the sofa. He turned and studied Sherlock. He was still pale, he was always pale, but his eyes were clear and the dark circles a little lighter, and he wore his pale blue dressing gown, the fabric worn soft with age until it seemed more a smooth comforting cotton than fine silk. He looked down to where their hands lay, still holding onto each other, and couldn’t help but smile.
“Oh, don’t look so pleased with yourself.” Sherlock chided in a soft, affectionate voice when he finally spoke.
John let out a breathy snort and shook his head. His eyes once again travelled down to their hands and he gave Sherlock’s wrist another affectionate squeeze, a gentle reminder of John’s presence and the turn their relationship was on the cusp of taking.
Sherlock’s lips curled into a quick smile. “It won’t be easy. I won’t be easy,” he said solemnly.
John chuckled. “Nothing ever is with you,” he pointed out.
Sherlock smiled again, quick, but full of mirth. Sherlock hadn’t smiled like that since he came back and John virtually basked in the warmth of it. “Thank you,” he said warmly, mimicking Sherlock’s earlier words “-for telling me; you didn’t have to.”
“Yes, I did and we both know it,” Sherlock said honestly.
John gave a small nod. “Yeah.” He nodded at the cup on the table. “Drink your tea.”
Part I
Master Post: Fic
Master Post: Art
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