for coloredink: "Among the Secret Things" (3/3)
2/3
Betrayal
On Friday night Sherlock is careful to be especially nice to John, although it requires walking the fine line between being amiable enough to ensure that their probably-last evening together is a perfect one, and not being so obliging that John’s suspicious instincts are aroused.
Sherlock ensures that they just happen to have the ingredients for John’s favourite dinner in the fridge, with a bottle of wine that John likes but never allows himself to buy because of the price, and during dinner Sherlock forces himself to smile and be witty, as though his heart isn’t heavy with grief.
After dinner he serenades John on the violin while John does the washing up. Sherlock closes his eyes and pours everything he has into his playing: his love for John, his sorrow at their impending separation, his regret at ever setting his feet on the path that brought them to this, until he hears John abandon the washing up and come to lean against the kitchen doorway to listen.
Sherlock finishes, holding the last note before lowering his bow in a graceful swooping arc, and opens his eyes to find John gazing at him in awe.
‘That was beautiful,’ John breathes. ‘I just… wow. You’re amazing, you know?’
‘Thank you.’ Sherlock smiles at him, striving to capture every detail of this moment in his memory, until John frowns slightly.
‘I know that song, though. I mean, it’s familiar, like I’ve heard it before somewhere. Did we go to a concert where they played it? Or is it on one of those CDs of obscure composers you have?’
Sherlock quirks a small smile at him and turns away, packing his violin away gently. ‘No.’
‘I do know it though,’ John persists, coming over to Sherlock. ‘Come on, help me out here. Who’s the composer?’
‘S Holmes,’ Sherlock says, not looking up as he loosens the tension on the bow before laying it in the case, and John’s hand settles in the small of his back.
‘You wrote that?’
It was your birthday present last year, Sherlock thinks, his throat constricting briefly, I wrote it for you, and thought that I was showing too much of myself, but you only called it lovely and then wandered off to do something else.
‘What is it?’ John’s hand - warm, strong - grips Sherlock’s elbow, forcing him to straighten up and turning him so that John can see his face. ‘There’s more, isn’t there? What aren’t you telling me?’
‘It’s yours,’ Sherlock says, undone by John’s concern, the small, lovely wrinkle between his brows. ‘I wrote it for you. For your birthday, last year.’
‘Oh.’ John’s face falls guiltily. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t-’
Sherlock is already shaking his head impatiently. ‘Don’t be stupid, it’s not your fault, you-’
‘All the same.’ John puts a hand on Sherlock’s waist and look at him searchingly. ‘That was before we got together, yes? Were you hoping, even then, that I’d… that we might…’
‘Yes.’ Sherlock looks away. ‘But it doesn’t matter now.’
‘Hmm.’ John’s other hand catches his chin and tips his head down for a kiss. ‘Better late than never, I suppose.’
Slowly John unfastens one of Sherlock’s shirt buttons and kisses him again; John’s mouth is soft and clinging and Sherlock clutches stupid handfuls of John’s shirt as his heart starts to pound. It oughtn’t to be possible that a few kisses from John still have the power to reduce him to this: heart racing, breath quickening, face heating at the memory of John’s hands on his body as his cock starts to thicken.
‘Come on.’ John pulls back slightly, with a last gentle nip to Sherlock’s lower lip that startles a moan out of him. ‘Let’s go to bed, and I’ll show you how marvellous I thought it was.’
----------
Despite Sherlock’s intentions, an evening of good food and wine followed by slow, positively knee-shaking sex means that Sherlock falls asleep soon after they’re done, wrapped around John.
He wakes early the following morning but instead of getting up he just lies there, one arm slung carelessly over John’s waist, breathing in the smell of him until John stirs and mutters.
‘Wha’ time is it?’
‘Quarter past nine,’ Sherlock murmurs, who has been watching the sliver of sky visible between curtains steadily lightening.
John grunts an acknowledgement and pets vaguely at Sherlock’s hair. John inhales a deep breath and stretches, clearly waking himself up preparatory to getting up, but when he rolls onto his back Sherlock curls closer and puts his head on John’s shoulder, wrapping an arm around John’s waist.
‘Hello.’ John’s hand settles on Sherlock’s hair. John sounds surprised and no wonder; if Sherlock isn’t already up by the time John wakes then he’s at least on his phone, and not inclined to linger unnecessarily. But this morning Sherlock wants to keep John here with him, soft and warm and affectionate, and he closes his eyes and tightens his arm as John strokes his hair.
‘You don’t want to get up?’
Sherlock merely tightens his hold further in lieu of stating the obvious, and John shifts in his grasp.
‘I’m afraid that I need to get up.’
‘Not for hours yet,’ Sherlock says, and John shifts again.
‘Um, no, right now, actually.’
Sherlock tenses his muscles and resists when John tries to lift Sherlock’s arm away from his waist, until John exclaims in exasperation ‘Only for a minute, Sherlock! I’ll be right back but I really, seriously have to piss.’
Sherlock removes his arm and flings himself onto his other side, turning his back on John, and hears John muttering to himself as he tugs on enough clothes to be decent before leaving. Sherlock rolls back over and buries his face in John’s pillow once he’s gone.
It smells like John, and Sherlock nuzzles it and inhales and wonders what the hell John is doing that’s taking so long, he should be back by now. It could be that he’s remembered about them and he’s not coming back; the chances are small that recall will now be triggered by surroundings he’s already seen dozens of times since coming home from the hospital, but not impossible-
‘I think the timer on the heating’s gone off again,’ John says, one foot prodding the door shut behind him. He sets a plate and a mug down on the bedside table and strips his clothes off before sliding under the covers again, and Sherlock reaches for him. ‘It’s a bit nippy out there.’
John’s feet are cold and Sherlock catches one between his own warmer ones; he tries to pull John down so Sherlock can put his head back on John’s shoulder but John resists, propping a pillow up against the headboard and half-sitting up against it.
‘D’you want some toast?’
‘No.’
Thwarted, Sherlock rests his head on the slope of John’s stomach and skates his palm over John’s ribs. The skin is smooth, the arches of bone as deceptively delicate as the ceiling vaults of a cathedral, and at John’s ticklish squirm Sherlock moves his hand lower, to touch John’s hipbone. His iliac crest is hard under the softness of his skin and Sherlock runs his thumb along it, greedy for the implicit permission to touch, this evidence that John’s personal space now extends to also enclose Sherlock.
Sherlock slides his hand over to trail the backs of his fingers along John’s penis, lying small and vulnerable against his thigh, but at this John inhales and reaches down under the covers to shift Sherlock’s hand lower, to rest on his thigh.
Sherlock stirs restively atop John, who calms him with a hand in his hair.
‘Don’t be like that: I’m just not used to someone groping me while I’m trying to eat my toast. Bit of an odd feeling.’
Sherlock stirs again; John murmurs ‘Here,’ and the next instant there’s a bite-sized piece of toast crust in front of his mouth. Sherlock leans forward to take it, chewing meditatively, and John’s fingers wind approvingly through his hair.
John gives him a few moments before his hand is back with another morsel of toast for Sherlock, and another, and after the third piece of crust Sherlock braces himself up on an elbow to grumble ‘At least give me something other than crusts.’
John’s eyes crinkle at him and he holds out his toast for Sherlock to bite, even as he says ‘But you should eat your crusts, they’re good for you. Makes your hair curl, you know.’
Sherlock glares at him, but admits to himself that the effect is probably spoiled when he sinks back down to nuzzle into the warm softness of John’s belly again.
John tugs the hair at his nape affectionately. ‘Although I’m starting to think your childhood might have been all crusts.’
With Sherlock’s ear pressed to John’s stomach, John’s voice echoes oddly in his head; Sherlock doesn’t reply to this and a short while later John shifts and stretches to put his plate down.
‘Tea?’ John offers, and Sherlock debates for a moment before deciding that yes, he does want tea, and he leans back up. John holds it for him while he drinks, and Sherlock lies back down to rest on John again. He’s warm, his stomach full, and he closes his eyes and drifts pleasantly until John sets his mug to one side.
‘Right,’ John says, his hands in Sherlock’s hair. ‘I’m all yours. What d’you want to do? Is there an experiment or something you need my help with?’
Sherlock shakes his head.
‘Okay. Um.’ John shifts a little. ‘Do you want to have sex?’
Sherlock shakes his head again. His inner thighs are still the slightest bit sore from John keeping his legs splayed wide as he fucked Sherlock last night; he feels sated, at least for the moment, and at John’s offer there’s only a mild flicker of interest rather than the gnawing, all-consuming hunger of the past several weeks.
‘Alright then.’ John sounds surprised, but not displeased. ‘We’ll just… lie here, then. Together.’
And Sherlock merely closes his eyes and rests a leg across John’s and holds on tight.
I wouldn’t have given up any of this, he thinks, even though I know how it’s going to end. I would rather have had a few months as your lover than all the rest of my life as only your friend.
----------
Towards lunchtime John grows restless and eventually chivvies Sherlock out of bed and through the shower and into clothes, and they go out for lunch in Speedy’s café. It’s clear to see that John expects Sherlock to refuse and so, just to be contrary, Sherlock dresses smartly and combs his hair into the artful disorder that always prompts John’s fingers to mess it further, and sweeps the café door open for John like an emperor’s guard.
John gives him a dry look at this but makes no comment, and Sherlock sits demurely, eats lunch, and murmurs deductions about the café’s other customers until John has to bite his lip not to laugh.
‘Come on, you,’ John says at last, fishing out his wallet to drop some notes on the table. ‘Stop teasing me before I end up laughing at some poor sod. You’re amazing, you know very well you are, but now I’ve got an idea of my own that I think you’ll find pretty amazing also.’
Sherlock knows that glint in John’s eye, and he follows John docilely out of the café and up the stairs to their flat and into the bedroom.
‘Now then,’ John says, turning to him and hooking a finger into Sherlock’s belt to pull him close. ‘Since we’ve nothing planned this afternoon…’
Sherlock can’t get out of his clothes fast enough, and John crowds him down onto the mattress and pushes Sherlock’s knees apart and puts his mouth on Sherlock, sucking him and teasing him until Sherlock grabs a pillow and presses his face into it and just wails with pleasure.
----------
They lie together for a long time afterwards in sweaty, half-drowsing silence, until at last John stirs and murmurs to Sherlock that he needs to leave if he’s to be on time at Harry’s. Sherlock tightens his hold momentarily before forcing himself to relax, to allow John to unwind his arms and get up and kiss Sherlock’s forehead, as though this isn’t very likely the last time they’ll ever lie together like that.
Sherlock lingers in bed while John showers and dresses, and John comes to sit on the edge of the bed and peel the covers away from Sherlock’s face and throat.
‘Are you feeling okay?’ he asks, with his dearly familiar look of concern. He touches Sherlock’s flushed cheek. ‘You don’t seem yourself.’
‘I’m fine,’ Sherlock says, forcing himself to sound unconcerned. ‘Nothing’s wrong.’
‘Hmm.’ John’s hand moves down and he tucks two fingers under Sherlock’s jaw, feigning a caress as he subtly checks Sherlock’s pulse. But subtle by John’s standards is as clear as a message in The Times personal ads to Sherlock, and he catches John’s wrist and kisses his palm before pushing John’s hand away.
‘Go on, be off with you,’ he mock-grumbles, but wraps an arm around John when John snorts at him and leans down to kiss him goodbye.
John tastes of mint toothpaste and smells of his shower gel, and Sherlock nuzzles his face into John’s shoulder and inhales deeply, wanting to imprint the scent of John’s clean skin on his brain.
‘I love you,’ he murmurs against John’s throat. He hadn’t intended John to hear but concern has obviously sharpened John’s hearing for he draws back.
‘I love you too,’ he says. ‘Sherlock, are you sure you’re okay?’
‘Can’t I be affectionate without you thinking I must be ill?’ Sherlock demands and John’s face crumples guiltily.
‘No, I mean yes, I mean.’ John blows out a breath. ‘Of course you can. Sorry.’
‘If you don’t leave soon you’ll not have time to stop at the Sainsbury’s near Harry’s flat to buy a baguette,’ Sherlock says, all careless brilliance.
It works. John’s concern vanishes and his mouth falls open. ‘How on earth did you know that was my plan?’
‘That would be telling,’ Sherlock says smugly, burrowing back under the blankets, and John makes an amused noise as he gets up, with a last fond pat to Sherlock’s stomach.
‘I’ll see you later, then, and you can explain it to me.’
Sherlock grunts in reply, and John leaves. If John returns from Harry’s in the same equable frame of mind then Sherlock will gladly tell him that, as well as anything else John demands of him.
----------
After the front door closes behind John, Sherlock stays in bed for a long time, wallowing in the comfort of John’s scent on his pillow, before making himself get up. If John returns from Harry’s in the sort of towering temper that Sherlock suspects he will, he’s going to want to leave immediately. And who could blame him?
John is usually a rigorously efficient packer, thanks to the Army, but in this instance he might be too distracted to remember everything he needs and so Sherlock knots a dressing gown around himself and, with a heavy heart, gets out John’s overnight bag from John’s old wardrobe upstairs. He puts a pair of trousers in the bottom of the bag, with John’s four favourite shirts laid lightly on top so they won’t crease. In go five pairs of socks and four of underwear, the chargers for his mobile and laptop, and his toiletries bag. Sherlock fetches John’s laptop from the living room - pausing to update the antivirus software, which John never bothers to do - and a new sleep T-shirt out of John’s side of the chest of drawers, selfishly deciding to keep the one stuffed under the pillow on John’s side of the bed that smells like him.
When Sherlock is finished he places the bag in his wardrobe and leaves the door open a crack, just enough to look natural. He’s suddenly aware of how very cold he feels; clearly John is right in saying that the heating is on the blink and Sherlock goes to take a shower. He turns the water up as hot as he can stand it and sinks down to sit on the floor of the shower, hiding his face against his drawn-up knees and pretending that the wetness on his cheeks is just water.
----------
Later, Sherlock sits in front of the television, a documentary about poisonous snakes of southeast Asia playing soothingly while he stares unseeingly at the screen. He’s put on his oldest, favourite pyjamas and his blue dressing gown but he’s still cold, and eventually he goes to dig out an old tartan blanket to wrap around himself.
There might be a grim sort of comfort in the knowledge that the deception would soon be over if, in fact, Sherlock could be certain that it would soon all be over. As it is there’s an outside chance that John might not tell Harry, or that his conviction may be enough to convince her that they’ve been together all along. John’s relationship with his sister is something of a fluctuating, imprecise quantity and it gnaws at Sherlock like a splinter under his skin. Hope is never crueller than when it’s uncertain.
Sherlock pulls his knees up to his chest and concentrates on the television: not thinking of the affection in John’s voice as he took his leave of Sherlock, or anticipating John’s return, but focusing solely on the here and now.
He’s not very successful, though, and when he finally hears John’s footsteps on the stars his heart begins a nervous tattoo against his ribs. John’s footsteps indicate that he’s annoyed but even so Sherlock must go carefully; John is often annoyed after phone calls or visits to Harry, if he thinks she sounds like she’s been drinking again, and so Sherlock deliberately doesn’t stir as John enters.
But there’s no kiss for his forehead, no inquiry as to what he’s watching, and John doesn’t sit on the sofa and leave space for Sherlock at his side.
Instead he just stands there, looking faintly ill, and says ‘Sherlock.’
‘Yes.’
John sits heavily in the other armchair, looking down at his hands.
John must know by now, he must do; if it were anything else he would have confided it to Sherlock already, but all the same it’s a struggle for Sherlock to clear his throat and force the words out.
‘She told you. About us.’
‘About how there was no us,’ John says. ‘Yes.’
Sherlock looks back at the television, where a swamp adder is gliding silently through some undergrowth. Abruptly he wishes that this whole conversation was over and done. There’s no possible outcome that doesn’t end with John leaving but Sherlock would give anything for it to be done quickly, like ripping off a plaster. Not this slow, drawn-out evisceration.
John gets up and turns the television off, standing in front of it with his arms crossed. Sherlock can’t look at him. His stomach flutters nauseously.
‘You lied to me,’ says John, his voice hard. Sherlock has heard that particular tone directed at criminals and NSY officers whose snide mutters of ‘Freak’ have been a little too audible for John’s liking, but he’s never heard it directed at him. ‘And it wasn’t just… this was not just any lie, Sherlock. You took advantage of my medical condition, which is horrendous, by the way, and took advantage of me. And that… that’s just… that’s beyond fucked up. That was wrong. And you had to have known that it was wrong, don’t give me this high-functioning sociopath bullshit.’
Good God, there hasn’t been a single moment of the past months that Sherlock hasn’t known himself for the worst sort of person. But telling John this won’t do anything to help and so Sherlock stays silent.
‘So how much of this was a lie? Huh? Did you lie to me about… about our favourite Chinese restaurant? About all your disguises? About-’
If John carries on down this track he’s going to finish by concluding that Sherlock doesn’t even love him but merely did this on a lark and Sherlock couldn’t bear that, because if there’s one thing he’s still certain of it’s that he’ll never love another living soul as much as he does John.
‘When you tell a lie, the world of your lie must be as concrete and complete as the world of the truth.’ Sherlock gets to his feet, unwinding himself from the blanket and dropping it onto the chair behind him. ‘Thus, when you construct a lie, it’s better to keep as many of the details as true as possible, so that there is less to remember when you’re questioned.’
‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’ John snarls. ‘Don’t give me riddles, I can’t-’
‘It means I never lied to you about anything important!’
‘Fucking… what do you mean important, as if lying to me about an entire relationship doesn’t mean anything-’
Sherlock seizes John’s hand. All his calm logic seems to be deserting him, and he clutches at John and says ‘You kissed me. Then. On the stairs. You kissed me.’
If John hadn’t offered then Sherlock wouldn’t have tried to coerce him no matter how much he wanted John; if Sherlock believes nothing else about his own morals, he has to hang onto that. True, the ongoing deception had come from Sherlock, but the first move had come from John.
John yanks his hand out of both of Sherlock’s. ‘Don’t blame this on me, don’t make this about me-’
‘It’s about you! It’s always been about you!’ Sherlock’s every waking thought has been for John, for weeks now, and seeing John’s hands curl into fists Sherlock tries desperately to make John understand. ‘You presented me with my heart’s fondest wish, and you expected me to resist? Why do I need to be perfect in order to satisfy you? I’m not a saint-’
‘That doesn’t require a saint!’ John shouts. ‘That only requires a good person!’
‘Well, I’m not one of those, either!’ Sherlock snarls at him, maddened, and grabs John’s shirtfront to kiss him. It’s desperate and frantic and horrible, and for a moment John kisses him back before he rears back and punches Sherlock in the face.
There’s no pulling of punches and Sherlock staggers back a few steps from the force of it, one hand flying to his face and the other bracing himself on the back of the chair so he doesn’t fall. He looks over at John who’s pale and shocked, his hands trembling.
‘Fuck. You,’ John says. ‘You think that makes it okay, like you can just-’
‘I’m not a good man.’ John had always had a misguided view of Sherlock, even before the Friesland; usually it inspired odd sensations of wanting to live up to John’s regard for him, but perhaps it’s time John faced the truth about him.
‘I won’t apologise,’ Sherlock says. His jaw is starting to throb. ‘I wouldn’t give any of those days back, even though I knew they’d end with this one.’
John backs away. ‘I’m leaving.’
Sherlock sinks back down to sit in his chair as John goes into their room, although it’s back to being only Sherlock’s room now. John finds the bag in the bottom of the wardrobe, where Sherlock left it, and he doesn’t look at Sherlock as he storms back through the living room, out the door, and down the stairs.
----------
Anger
The days following John’s departure are grey and soulless.
Sherlock retreats to his bedroom in the immediate aftermath and curls up in bed for the rest of the evening, trying desperately to escape into sleep. But sleeping with John the past week has ensured that he’s well-rested, and his treacherous body keeps him lying awake and staring at the ceiling, recalling John’s look of betrayal in distressingly perfect detail.
At last, when he’s seriously considering making use of the small packet behind the loose brick in his fireplace, he gets up and goes to the bathroom. In the aftermath of his return from Afghanistan John had been prescribed sleeping pills; he hadn’t liked them and sure enough the little bottle is still sitting in a corner of the mirrored cabinet above the sink. Sherlock swallows a tablet dry, studiously avoiding his own gaze in the mirror, and goes to bed, finally finding blessed oblivion.
----------
Mycroft comes to see him first. It’s the following morning and Sherlock hasn’t made it out of bed when he hears a familiar tread on the stairs and at his bedroom door, and shortly after a weight settles on the bed down by his feet. Sherlock stays silent and keeps his eyes closed, hoping that Mycroft will - for once in his life - take the hint without Sherlock needing to go through the tedious rigmarole of indicating that his presence is not required. There are a few moments of breathless silence, and then something lands with a thump on the pillow by Sherlock’s head. He peels the sheet away from his face enough to retrieve the lighter and packet of cigarettes, unwrap the cellophane, and flick the box open.
The first draw is delicious, the smoke stinging his throat perfectly, and Sherlock holds it until his lungs start to protest, exhaling in a great rush. Smoking in bed; such a disgusting habit, John would be furious. And that thought makes Sherlock take another draw at it, closing his eyes at the rush of nicotine.
‘“Nessun maggior dolore,”’ Mycorft says softly, putting a hand on Sherlock’s foot under the blankets, ‘“che ricordarsi del tempo felice nella miseria.”’
‘Shut up,’ Sherlock says on an exhale of smoke, still keeping his back turned to his brother. ‘Spare me your moralising, just say “I told you so” and piss off. Or better still, stay silent and fuck off.’
He’s deliberately vulgar, but Mycroft stays.
‘He has a quick temper,’ Mycroft says. The tip of his umbrella scuffs against the floor, at the edge of Sherlock’s hearing. ‘But also a kind heart. Give him time to cool off, and perhaps-’
Sherlock pulls his foot away from Mycroft’s hand, and extends an arm behind himself to tap the cigarette ash onto the floor. ‘I didn’t realise you’d added unnecessary cruelty to your list of sterling personal qualities.’
Mycroft exhales a tiny sigh through his nose. ‘As always, Sherlock, you delight in misunderstanding. I simply meant-’
‘Don’t.’ Sherlock’s voice wobbles a little. Indistinguishable to anyone else but clear as day to Mycroft and he buries his face in the pillow as his eyes start to sting. ‘Go away.’ Sherlock clears his throat, firms his voice. ‘For the love of God, go away.’
Mycroft hesitates for a long moment, as though he wants to speak again and Sherlock silently vows that if he does then Sherlock will kick him, cigarettes or no cigarettes. But Mycroft stays mercifully silent, and finally gets up and leaves with no further comment.
Mrs Hudson comes up to see him later that day; Sherlock hears her steps in the living room, light and hesitant, before she calls his name. He stays silent. He’s never not answered her before, even if all he does is grunt unhelpfully from his sprawl on the sofa while she frets about the state of the flat. But, just this once, please let her assume that he’s out; Sherlock can’t face her well-meaning sympathy any more than he could tolerate Mycroft’s.
In the end, it’s Lestrade who succeeds in getting him out of bed. He drops by the flat two days after John leaves - entirely expected, since Sherlock had hung up on his call earlier that day. Sherlock knows who it is as soon as he starts to climb the stairs: his steps are heavier than Mrs Hudson’s, more aggressive than Mycroft’s serpent glide.
‘Sherlock?’ Lestrade calls in the living room.
Sherlock doesn’t answer. Lestrade doesn’t repeat his call, but the next instant Sherlock’s mobile rings. He curses and grabs at it to silence it but the damage is done, and a second later his bedroom door opens.
‘Sherlock, why in hell aren’t you answering your- Christ.’
Lestrade begins coughing before he’s half a dozen steps into the room. Sherlock supposes that the atmosphere is a little thick; he’d got one of his homeless network to bring him more cigarettes when Mycroft’s were gone. Lestrade flings open the window and sticks his head out to gulp some fresh air before coming over to the bed and poking Sherlock in the middle of his back.
‘Are you ill?’
Sherlock twitches, like a horse trying to dislodge an irritating fly from its coat. ‘No.’
‘Why aren’t you answering your phone? What’s with the smoking? And where’s John?’
‘Gone.’
‘Gone? What the hell does that even… Here, turn over and look at me.’ Lestrade pulls hard at Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock flops over onto his back. ‘Gone as in gone to the shops, or-’
‘Gone as in gone.’
Sherlock’s breath is foul from too many cigarettes and not enough water, his hair unwashed. He must look an absolute fright, but he really can’t summon the energy to care.
‘He can’t be just gone,’ Lestrade says stupidly. Ignoring what’s in front of his eyes, as always, and Sherlock turns back over in lieu of arguing with such idiocy.
But he doesn’t get very far before Lestrade grabs his shoulder again.
‘Hey, no, wait a minute. Look, there’s a case.’
‘Obviously,’ Sherlock can’t help muttering. He may be sunk deep in misery but he’s not dead. ‘You’d hardly come here just to pass the time of day.’
‘No, you’re right, I suppose I wouldn’t.’ Lestrade’s voice is rueful. ‘Although now I’m wondering if I should have. What happened?’
Sherlock closes his eyes and doesn’t answer, and after a few moments Lestrade sighs.
‘Alright, fine. But this case… Sherlock, if I could afford to leave you be then I would but God help me, I need you there.’
Sherlock rolls away and puts his face in John’s pillow. Barring John’s return, there’s no earthly reason for him to leave this bed, until Lestrade starts describing the case and what his team have done so far. A locked room mystery, and not only that but the third in a series, and Lestrade hasn’t finished the recitation of Anderson’s incompetencies before Sherlock flings back the covers and snarls ‘Oh for fuck’s sake, it’s obvious. Has no-one thought of checking her shoes?’
‘No,’ Lestrade says, looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. ‘Why would we do that?’
‘You’re doing this deliberately. Good God, no-one could really be such an idiot,’ Sherlock growls.
‘You’d best come and show us the error of our ways, then,’ Lestrade says, as Sherlock sits up and glares at him with eyes that feel dry and slightly bloodshot. ‘Come on, get yourself into the shower. And for God’s sake, brush your teeth.’
He bullies Sherlock up the stairs and into the bathroom, and when Sherlock comes back downstairs to get dressed - still slightly shaky from too many cigarettes and too little food, but at least cleaner - Lestrade presses a mug of coffee and some biscuits into his hands.
‘Here, drink this while you dress. And order a Sainsbury’s delivery or something; you’ve nothing in the cupboards.’
The coffee is strong enough to make Sherlock’s toes curl appreciatively, and he quickly dresses while Lestrade recites the key facts of the case at him through his bedroom door.
‘Right.’ Sherlock leaves his bedroom. It feels profoundly wrong to be doing this without John, and he shrugs into his coat and puts on his scarf while trying to ignore the conspicuously empty space at his side.
‘You’ll do, I suppose.’ Lestrade looks at him critically, waiting by the door. ‘Although if you were a horse I’d send you to the knacker’s yard. You should get some fresh air, and try sleeping once in a while.’
Sherlock only glares at him, unable to summon the enthusiasm for a response, and Lestrade says quietly ‘Look, whatever it was, I’m sure it’ll pass. John’s a good bloke, he’s not the sort to-’
‘Don’t,’ Sherlock bites out, pushing past Lestrade to start down the stairs. ‘Just don’t.’
----------
The crime scene is, if anything, even worse. Sherlock is braced for sneers from Lestrade’s team when they see that he’s alone, but the reality is far more dreadful: pity. There are no snide comments, only a glance past his shoulder to look for John, and then a second, closer look at his face, and finally a thick, awkward silence.
Their pity is even more hateful than their mockery, and after a bare ten minutes with the body Sherlock is no longer able to bear the glances cast his way and the whispering and he snaps ‘I’m leaving.’
‘What?’ Lestrade stares at him, shocked. ‘You can’t, you’ve only just got here-’
‘Tough!’
Sherlock stands, drawing his coat around him, and Lestrade begins ‘Sherlock-’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, shut up! I’ve already given you more than enough to go on; look at the bloodstains on the floor beneath the rug, man! An odd sort of blood pool that soaks into the rug in one corner and then stains the floor in another corner entirely, wouldn’t you say?’
And he turns his back and stalks off before Lestrade can voice any further protest.
Back at Baker Street, Sherlock sheds his suit and shirt and puts his pyjamas back on. One day, presumably, he’ll have to get up and pick up the pieces of his life and carry on solving cases without John. He did it alone before and he can do it again, although it will be harder now he knows what he’s missing; after all, a fish doesn’t know it’s in water.
One day. But not today.
Sherlock draws the curtains against the obscenely bright sunshine outside, and crawls back into bed.
----------
After a week Sherlock starts to wonder whether he should box up the rest of John’s clothes. John is hardly going to return himself to collect them, surely he’ll send Harry instead. And the less she has to do when she gets here, the less Sherlock will have to listen to her anger at what he’s done. But he can’t quite bring himself to remove John’s things from their shared wardrobe and so they sit there, soft cardigans snugged up companionably against Sherlock’s crisp dress shirts.
Sherlock migrates from his bed to the sofa, and pokes listlessly at the forum posts on his website. They’re all so terribly tedious, although if John were here he’d doubtless prod Sherlock into taking one or two of them on for compassion’s sake.
Come on, Sherlock, he’d say, his eyes very blue and his chest warm against Sherlock’s back as he read over Sherlock’s shoulder. Look at this one here, it’s her grandmother’s necklace. Sentimental value.
And Sherlock would huff and sigh but agree, just to see John smile approvingly at him.
When Sherlock hears the faint noise of John’s footsteps on the stairs he honestly thinks he’s imagining them. Until they get louder and closer, and then suddenly John is standing in the living room.
Sherlock staggers to his feet, staring at him. ‘John.’
Could it… might it possibly be that John has calmed down and is ready to…
‘I, ah.’ John holds up his empty bag, the bag that Sherlock had completely failed to notice in his greedy examination of John’s face and clothes. ‘I came to get some more of my things.’
Ridiculous to have thought that perhaps John might be inclined to listen to anything Sherlock has to say, and Sherlock sinks back down to sit on the sofa. ‘Oh. Of course.’
Disappointment roars in his ears, and he doesn’t pay attention when John takes a couple of steps forward and says something. John’s silence indicates that a response is required and Sherlock lifts his head and gives him a blank look until John repeats himself: ‘You, er, you packed this bag for me, didn't you? Earlier.’
Why does John want to go over the memory of that horrible evening? Sherlock only nods and looks down at his hands, dangling between his knees.
‘Um. Why?’ John says.
‘I thought you'd want to leave quickly.’
‘Well, thanks,’ says John. ‘It was thoughtful of you.’
Sherlock only bows his head, and John turns away to Sherlock’s bedroom. The noises of him moving around - of him packing - are audible in the front room, and Sherlock curls himself tightly into a corner of the couch. John’s posture had been a little stiff; sleeping on Harry’s sofa was clearly paining his back and shoulder. How much longer would John be able to cope with it… a week? A fortnight? Then he’d start to look for a place of his own. He’d start to go out with a nice woman, someone pretty and calm and as utterly unlike Sherlock as it was possible to be. It wasn’t too late for children; John would make a wonderful father.
And Sherlock would stay here, left behind in Baker Street with his memories of how he’d ruined the best thing he ever had.
John’s steps come out to the sitting room but Sherlock doesn’t uncurl to face him. He can’t bring himself to watch as John says his goodbyes.
‘Well.’ There’s a rustle of clothing as John hefts the bag over his shoulder. His good shoulder, presumably; his bad shoulder is surely too sore to bear any weight. ‘Goodbye, then.’
Sherlock doesn’t move. His throat is tight, and he has the strange fancy that he’ll shatter into pieces if he moves. But as John turns to go Sherlock is up off the sofa almost before he knows he’s going to move.
John turns, looking startled.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sherlock says desperately.
‘I thought you weren't going to apologise,’ says John.
‘I’m not,’ Sherlock insists. ‘I’m only sorry that I didn't say something earlier. Before.’
If Sherlock died tomorrow then that would be the single biggest regret of his life: had he only had the courage to speak out earlier, before the Friesland, then all this might have been avoided.
‘Why didn’t you?’
Sherlock can’t look at John, even now giving Sherlock the benefit of the doubt. Anyone else wouldn’t even need to ask; it’s clear that Sherlock is far from being anyone’s ideal romantic prospect.
‘It didn’t seem likely that anything would come of it.’
John is silent for a long moment, and Sherlock looks at him. John’s beloved face is lined and tired-looking, and Sherlock notes each little detail and stores it in his memory, since he won’t be there to watch the patch of grey in John’s hair thicken and spread, or the laughter lines around his eyes grow deeper with the years.
John’s hand tightens on the strap of his bag. ‘You could say something now.’
Sherlock is struck dumb. Could it really be that simple? He’s gone over their parting words a hundred times in the last week, wondering if he could have said something that would have made John stay. It can’t be as simple as merely…
‘Please,’ says John.
‘Don’t go,’ Sherlock blurts. He’s standing on the coffee table and abruptly he stumbles down off it and closer to John. He hesitates before touching John; he’s forfeited that right and so Sherlock merely stands in front of him, hands clutching uselessly at each other like a penitent who’s renounced all hope of forgiveness or redemption. ‘Stay. I would… I would like it. That. We don't have to, have to do any of those things anymore, it can go back to the way it was before, that was fine, just…’ Just the thought of seeing John in 221B once more - making tea and watching his Bond films and teasing Sherlock over his ignorance of popular culture - renders Sherlock a babbling idiot, and he finishes uselessly ‘Please,’ with his heart in his throat.
John sighs and Sherlock flinches. He’s disappointed John; clearly such sentiments aren’t enough, how foolish to think that they might-
‘I hate you so much,’ John says, and before Sherlock can agree that yes, John has every right to do so, John walks over to him and takes Sherlock in his arms.
It’s utterly shocking, and for a long moment Sherlock can only stand stiff and frozen. It’s as though his body has forgotten how to be held by John, after only a week’s absence, and it’s only when John squeezes him tighter that Sherlock’s arms come up to hold him back. It makes no sense that, after all that’s happened, Sherlock’s heart picks this moment to feel as though it’s cracking in half, and it’s all he can do to keep upright and keep breathing.
John says nothing, merely holds Sherlock and pats his back gently, and for a long time there’s no sound in their sitting room except Sherlock’s ragged breaths.
----------
PURGATORIO
‘I’m still quite upset with you.’
Sherlock says nothing.
They had stood there for long minutes before Sherlock began to sway and John had said ‘God, lie down before you fall down, Sherlock, you look like a ghost,’ and guided them both over to the sofa.
Now they lie there, John on his back and Sherlock curled into John’s side with his face pressed to John’s warm, solid shoulder and clutching greedy handfuls of John’s shirt. He wants to crack John open, to crawl inside his ribcage and make a nest next to his heart and never, ever leave.
He can’t tell John that, though. John is still angry with him and so Sherlock only says tentatively ‘I love you.’
His voice is still thick with suppressed emotion, and John sighs, squeezes him comfortingly. ‘I know.’
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
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Betrayal
On Friday night Sherlock is careful to be especially nice to John, although it requires walking the fine line between being amiable enough to ensure that their probably-last evening together is a perfect one, and not being so obliging that John’s suspicious instincts are aroused.
Sherlock ensures that they just happen to have the ingredients for John’s favourite dinner in the fridge, with a bottle of wine that John likes but never allows himself to buy because of the price, and during dinner Sherlock forces himself to smile and be witty, as though his heart isn’t heavy with grief.
After dinner he serenades John on the violin while John does the washing up. Sherlock closes his eyes and pours everything he has into his playing: his love for John, his sorrow at their impending separation, his regret at ever setting his feet on the path that brought them to this, until he hears John abandon the washing up and come to lean against the kitchen doorway to listen.
Sherlock finishes, holding the last note before lowering his bow in a graceful swooping arc, and opens his eyes to find John gazing at him in awe.
‘That was beautiful,’ John breathes. ‘I just… wow. You’re amazing, you know?’
‘Thank you.’ Sherlock smiles at him, striving to capture every detail of this moment in his memory, until John frowns slightly.
‘I know that song, though. I mean, it’s familiar, like I’ve heard it before somewhere. Did we go to a concert where they played it? Or is it on one of those CDs of obscure composers you have?’
Sherlock quirks a small smile at him and turns away, packing his violin away gently. ‘No.’
‘I do know it though,’ John persists, coming over to Sherlock. ‘Come on, help me out here. Who’s the composer?’
‘S Holmes,’ Sherlock says, not looking up as he loosens the tension on the bow before laying it in the case, and John’s hand settles in the small of his back.
‘You wrote that?’
It was your birthday present last year, Sherlock thinks, his throat constricting briefly, I wrote it for you, and thought that I was showing too much of myself, but you only called it lovely and then wandered off to do something else.
‘What is it?’ John’s hand - warm, strong - grips Sherlock’s elbow, forcing him to straighten up and turning him so that John can see his face. ‘There’s more, isn’t there? What aren’t you telling me?’
‘It’s yours,’ Sherlock says, undone by John’s concern, the small, lovely wrinkle between his brows. ‘I wrote it for you. For your birthday, last year.’
‘Oh.’ John’s face falls guiltily. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t-’
Sherlock is already shaking his head impatiently. ‘Don’t be stupid, it’s not your fault, you-’
‘All the same.’ John puts a hand on Sherlock’s waist and look at him searchingly. ‘That was before we got together, yes? Were you hoping, even then, that I’d… that we might…’
‘Yes.’ Sherlock looks away. ‘But it doesn’t matter now.’
‘Hmm.’ John’s other hand catches his chin and tips his head down for a kiss. ‘Better late than never, I suppose.’
Slowly John unfastens one of Sherlock’s shirt buttons and kisses him again; John’s mouth is soft and clinging and Sherlock clutches stupid handfuls of John’s shirt as his heart starts to pound. It oughtn’t to be possible that a few kisses from John still have the power to reduce him to this: heart racing, breath quickening, face heating at the memory of John’s hands on his body as his cock starts to thicken.
‘Come on.’ John pulls back slightly, with a last gentle nip to Sherlock’s lower lip that startles a moan out of him. ‘Let’s go to bed, and I’ll show you how marvellous I thought it was.’
----------
Despite Sherlock’s intentions, an evening of good food and wine followed by slow, positively knee-shaking sex means that Sherlock falls asleep soon after they’re done, wrapped around John.
He wakes early the following morning but instead of getting up he just lies there, one arm slung carelessly over John’s waist, breathing in the smell of him until John stirs and mutters.
‘Wha’ time is it?’
‘Quarter past nine,’ Sherlock murmurs, who has been watching the sliver of sky visible between curtains steadily lightening.
John grunts an acknowledgement and pets vaguely at Sherlock’s hair. John inhales a deep breath and stretches, clearly waking himself up preparatory to getting up, but when he rolls onto his back Sherlock curls closer and puts his head on John’s shoulder, wrapping an arm around John’s waist.
‘Hello.’ John’s hand settles on Sherlock’s hair. John sounds surprised and no wonder; if Sherlock isn’t already up by the time John wakes then he’s at least on his phone, and not inclined to linger unnecessarily. But this morning Sherlock wants to keep John here with him, soft and warm and affectionate, and he closes his eyes and tightens his arm as John strokes his hair.
‘You don’t want to get up?’
Sherlock merely tightens his hold further in lieu of stating the obvious, and John shifts in his grasp.
‘I’m afraid that I need to get up.’
‘Not for hours yet,’ Sherlock says, and John shifts again.
‘Um, no, right now, actually.’
Sherlock tenses his muscles and resists when John tries to lift Sherlock’s arm away from his waist, until John exclaims in exasperation ‘Only for a minute, Sherlock! I’ll be right back but I really, seriously have to piss.’
Sherlock removes his arm and flings himself onto his other side, turning his back on John, and hears John muttering to himself as he tugs on enough clothes to be decent before leaving. Sherlock rolls back over and buries his face in John’s pillow once he’s gone.
It smells like John, and Sherlock nuzzles it and inhales and wonders what the hell John is doing that’s taking so long, he should be back by now. It could be that he’s remembered about them and he’s not coming back; the chances are small that recall will now be triggered by surroundings he’s already seen dozens of times since coming home from the hospital, but not impossible-
‘I think the timer on the heating’s gone off again,’ John says, one foot prodding the door shut behind him. He sets a plate and a mug down on the bedside table and strips his clothes off before sliding under the covers again, and Sherlock reaches for him. ‘It’s a bit nippy out there.’
John’s feet are cold and Sherlock catches one between his own warmer ones; he tries to pull John down so Sherlock can put his head back on John’s shoulder but John resists, propping a pillow up against the headboard and half-sitting up against it.
‘D’you want some toast?’
‘No.’
Thwarted, Sherlock rests his head on the slope of John’s stomach and skates his palm over John’s ribs. The skin is smooth, the arches of bone as deceptively delicate as the ceiling vaults of a cathedral, and at John’s ticklish squirm Sherlock moves his hand lower, to touch John’s hipbone. His iliac crest is hard under the softness of his skin and Sherlock runs his thumb along it, greedy for the implicit permission to touch, this evidence that John’s personal space now extends to also enclose Sherlock.
Sherlock slides his hand over to trail the backs of his fingers along John’s penis, lying small and vulnerable against his thigh, but at this John inhales and reaches down under the covers to shift Sherlock’s hand lower, to rest on his thigh.
Sherlock stirs restively atop John, who calms him with a hand in his hair.
‘Don’t be like that: I’m just not used to someone groping me while I’m trying to eat my toast. Bit of an odd feeling.’
Sherlock stirs again; John murmurs ‘Here,’ and the next instant there’s a bite-sized piece of toast crust in front of his mouth. Sherlock leans forward to take it, chewing meditatively, and John’s fingers wind approvingly through his hair.
John gives him a few moments before his hand is back with another morsel of toast for Sherlock, and another, and after the third piece of crust Sherlock braces himself up on an elbow to grumble ‘At least give me something other than crusts.’
John’s eyes crinkle at him and he holds out his toast for Sherlock to bite, even as he says ‘But you should eat your crusts, they’re good for you. Makes your hair curl, you know.’
Sherlock glares at him, but admits to himself that the effect is probably spoiled when he sinks back down to nuzzle into the warm softness of John’s belly again.
John tugs the hair at his nape affectionately. ‘Although I’m starting to think your childhood might have been all crusts.’
With Sherlock’s ear pressed to John’s stomach, John’s voice echoes oddly in his head; Sherlock doesn’t reply to this and a short while later John shifts and stretches to put his plate down.
‘Tea?’ John offers, and Sherlock debates for a moment before deciding that yes, he does want tea, and he leans back up. John holds it for him while he drinks, and Sherlock lies back down to rest on John again. He’s warm, his stomach full, and he closes his eyes and drifts pleasantly until John sets his mug to one side.
‘Right,’ John says, his hands in Sherlock’s hair. ‘I’m all yours. What d’you want to do? Is there an experiment or something you need my help with?’
Sherlock shakes his head.
‘Okay. Um.’ John shifts a little. ‘Do you want to have sex?’
Sherlock shakes his head again. His inner thighs are still the slightest bit sore from John keeping his legs splayed wide as he fucked Sherlock last night; he feels sated, at least for the moment, and at John’s offer there’s only a mild flicker of interest rather than the gnawing, all-consuming hunger of the past several weeks.
‘Alright then.’ John sounds surprised, but not displeased. ‘We’ll just… lie here, then. Together.’
And Sherlock merely closes his eyes and rests a leg across John’s and holds on tight.
I wouldn’t have given up any of this, he thinks, even though I know how it’s going to end. I would rather have had a few months as your lover than all the rest of my life as only your friend.
----------
Towards lunchtime John grows restless and eventually chivvies Sherlock out of bed and through the shower and into clothes, and they go out for lunch in Speedy’s café. It’s clear to see that John expects Sherlock to refuse and so, just to be contrary, Sherlock dresses smartly and combs his hair into the artful disorder that always prompts John’s fingers to mess it further, and sweeps the café door open for John like an emperor’s guard.
John gives him a dry look at this but makes no comment, and Sherlock sits demurely, eats lunch, and murmurs deductions about the café’s other customers until John has to bite his lip not to laugh.
‘Come on, you,’ John says at last, fishing out his wallet to drop some notes on the table. ‘Stop teasing me before I end up laughing at some poor sod. You’re amazing, you know very well you are, but now I’ve got an idea of my own that I think you’ll find pretty amazing also.’
Sherlock knows that glint in John’s eye, and he follows John docilely out of the café and up the stairs to their flat and into the bedroom.
‘Now then,’ John says, turning to him and hooking a finger into Sherlock’s belt to pull him close. ‘Since we’ve nothing planned this afternoon…’
Sherlock can’t get out of his clothes fast enough, and John crowds him down onto the mattress and pushes Sherlock’s knees apart and puts his mouth on Sherlock, sucking him and teasing him until Sherlock grabs a pillow and presses his face into it and just wails with pleasure.
----------
They lie together for a long time afterwards in sweaty, half-drowsing silence, until at last John stirs and murmurs to Sherlock that he needs to leave if he’s to be on time at Harry’s. Sherlock tightens his hold momentarily before forcing himself to relax, to allow John to unwind his arms and get up and kiss Sherlock’s forehead, as though this isn’t very likely the last time they’ll ever lie together like that.
Sherlock lingers in bed while John showers and dresses, and John comes to sit on the edge of the bed and peel the covers away from Sherlock’s face and throat.
‘Are you feeling okay?’ he asks, with his dearly familiar look of concern. He touches Sherlock’s flushed cheek. ‘You don’t seem yourself.’
‘I’m fine,’ Sherlock says, forcing himself to sound unconcerned. ‘Nothing’s wrong.’
‘Hmm.’ John’s hand moves down and he tucks two fingers under Sherlock’s jaw, feigning a caress as he subtly checks Sherlock’s pulse. But subtle by John’s standards is as clear as a message in The Times personal ads to Sherlock, and he catches John’s wrist and kisses his palm before pushing John’s hand away.
‘Go on, be off with you,’ he mock-grumbles, but wraps an arm around John when John snorts at him and leans down to kiss him goodbye.
John tastes of mint toothpaste and smells of his shower gel, and Sherlock nuzzles his face into John’s shoulder and inhales deeply, wanting to imprint the scent of John’s clean skin on his brain.
‘I love you,’ he murmurs against John’s throat. He hadn’t intended John to hear but concern has obviously sharpened John’s hearing for he draws back.
‘I love you too,’ he says. ‘Sherlock, are you sure you’re okay?’
‘Can’t I be affectionate without you thinking I must be ill?’ Sherlock demands and John’s face crumples guiltily.
‘No, I mean yes, I mean.’ John blows out a breath. ‘Of course you can. Sorry.’
‘If you don’t leave soon you’ll not have time to stop at the Sainsbury’s near Harry’s flat to buy a baguette,’ Sherlock says, all careless brilliance.
It works. John’s concern vanishes and his mouth falls open. ‘How on earth did you know that was my plan?’
‘That would be telling,’ Sherlock says smugly, burrowing back under the blankets, and John makes an amused noise as he gets up, with a last fond pat to Sherlock’s stomach.
‘I’ll see you later, then, and you can explain it to me.’
Sherlock grunts in reply, and John leaves. If John returns from Harry’s in the same equable frame of mind then Sherlock will gladly tell him that, as well as anything else John demands of him.
----------
After the front door closes behind John, Sherlock stays in bed for a long time, wallowing in the comfort of John’s scent on his pillow, before making himself get up. If John returns from Harry’s in the sort of towering temper that Sherlock suspects he will, he’s going to want to leave immediately. And who could blame him?
John is usually a rigorously efficient packer, thanks to the Army, but in this instance he might be too distracted to remember everything he needs and so Sherlock knots a dressing gown around himself and, with a heavy heart, gets out John’s overnight bag from John’s old wardrobe upstairs. He puts a pair of trousers in the bottom of the bag, with John’s four favourite shirts laid lightly on top so they won’t crease. In go five pairs of socks and four of underwear, the chargers for his mobile and laptop, and his toiletries bag. Sherlock fetches John’s laptop from the living room - pausing to update the antivirus software, which John never bothers to do - and a new sleep T-shirt out of John’s side of the chest of drawers, selfishly deciding to keep the one stuffed under the pillow on John’s side of the bed that smells like him.
When Sherlock is finished he places the bag in his wardrobe and leaves the door open a crack, just enough to look natural. He’s suddenly aware of how very cold he feels; clearly John is right in saying that the heating is on the blink and Sherlock goes to take a shower. He turns the water up as hot as he can stand it and sinks down to sit on the floor of the shower, hiding his face against his drawn-up knees and pretending that the wetness on his cheeks is just water.
----------
Later, Sherlock sits in front of the television, a documentary about poisonous snakes of southeast Asia playing soothingly while he stares unseeingly at the screen. He’s put on his oldest, favourite pyjamas and his blue dressing gown but he’s still cold, and eventually he goes to dig out an old tartan blanket to wrap around himself.
There might be a grim sort of comfort in the knowledge that the deception would soon be over if, in fact, Sherlock could be certain that it would soon all be over. As it is there’s an outside chance that John might not tell Harry, or that his conviction may be enough to convince her that they’ve been together all along. John’s relationship with his sister is something of a fluctuating, imprecise quantity and it gnaws at Sherlock like a splinter under his skin. Hope is never crueller than when it’s uncertain.
Sherlock pulls his knees up to his chest and concentrates on the television: not thinking of the affection in John’s voice as he took his leave of Sherlock, or anticipating John’s return, but focusing solely on the here and now.
He’s not very successful, though, and when he finally hears John’s footsteps on the stars his heart begins a nervous tattoo against his ribs. John’s footsteps indicate that he’s annoyed but even so Sherlock must go carefully; John is often annoyed after phone calls or visits to Harry, if he thinks she sounds like she’s been drinking again, and so Sherlock deliberately doesn’t stir as John enters.
But there’s no kiss for his forehead, no inquiry as to what he’s watching, and John doesn’t sit on the sofa and leave space for Sherlock at his side.
Instead he just stands there, looking faintly ill, and says ‘Sherlock.’
‘Yes.’
John sits heavily in the other armchair, looking down at his hands.
John must know by now, he must do; if it were anything else he would have confided it to Sherlock already, but all the same it’s a struggle for Sherlock to clear his throat and force the words out.
‘She told you. About us.’
‘About how there was no us,’ John says. ‘Yes.’
Sherlock looks back at the television, where a swamp adder is gliding silently through some undergrowth. Abruptly he wishes that this whole conversation was over and done. There’s no possible outcome that doesn’t end with John leaving but Sherlock would give anything for it to be done quickly, like ripping off a plaster. Not this slow, drawn-out evisceration.
John gets up and turns the television off, standing in front of it with his arms crossed. Sherlock can’t look at him. His stomach flutters nauseously.
‘You lied to me,’ says John, his voice hard. Sherlock has heard that particular tone directed at criminals and NSY officers whose snide mutters of ‘Freak’ have been a little too audible for John’s liking, but he’s never heard it directed at him. ‘And it wasn’t just… this was not just any lie, Sherlock. You took advantage of my medical condition, which is horrendous, by the way, and took advantage of me. And that… that’s just… that’s beyond fucked up. That was wrong. And you had to have known that it was wrong, don’t give me this high-functioning sociopath bullshit.’
Good God, there hasn’t been a single moment of the past months that Sherlock hasn’t known himself for the worst sort of person. But telling John this won’t do anything to help and so Sherlock stays silent.
‘So how much of this was a lie? Huh? Did you lie to me about… about our favourite Chinese restaurant? About all your disguises? About-’
If John carries on down this track he’s going to finish by concluding that Sherlock doesn’t even love him but merely did this on a lark and Sherlock couldn’t bear that, because if there’s one thing he’s still certain of it’s that he’ll never love another living soul as much as he does John.
‘When you tell a lie, the world of your lie must be as concrete and complete as the world of the truth.’ Sherlock gets to his feet, unwinding himself from the blanket and dropping it onto the chair behind him. ‘Thus, when you construct a lie, it’s better to keep as many of the details as true as possible, so that there is less to remember when you’re questioned.’
‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’ John snarls. ‘Don’t give me riddles, I can’t-’
‘It means I never lied to you about anything important!’
‘Fucking… what do you mean important, as if lying to me about an entire relationship doesn’t mean anything-’
Sherlock seizes John’s hand. All his calm logic seems to be deserting him, and he clutches at John and says ‘You kissed me. Then. On the stairs. You kissed me.’
If John hadn’t offered then Sherlock wouldn’t have tried to coerce him no matter how much he wanted John; if Sherlock believes nothing else about his own morals, he has to hang onto that. True, the ongoing deception had come from Sherlock, but the first move had come from John.
John yanks his hand out of both of Sherlock’s. ‘Don’t blame this on me, don’t make this about me-’
‘It’s about you! It’s always been about you!’ Sherlock’s every waking thought has been for John, for weeks now, and seeing John’s hands curl into fists Sherlock tries desperately to make John understand. ‘You presented me with my heart’s fondest wish, and you expected me to resist? Why do I need to be perfect in order to satisfy you? I’m not a saint-’
‘That doesn’t require a saint!’ John shouts. ‘That only requires a good person!’
‘Well, I’m not one of those, either!’ Sherlock snarls at him, maddened, and grabs John’s shirtfront to kiss him. It’s desperate and frantic and horrible, and for a moment John kisses him back before he rears back and punches Sherlock in the face.
There’s no pulling of punches and Sherlock staggers back a few steps from the force of it, one hand flying to his face and the other bracing himself on the back of the chair so he doesn’t fall. He looks over at John who’s pale and shocked, his hands trembling.
‘Fuck. You,’ John says. ‘You think that makes it okay, like you can just-’
‘I’m not a good man.’ John had always had a misguided view of Sherlock, even before the Friesland; usually it inspired odd sensations of wanting to live up to John’s regard for him, but perhaps it’s time John faced the truth about him.
‘I won’t apologise,’ Sherlock says. His jaw is starting to throb. ‘I wouldn’t give any of those days back, even though I knew they’d end with this one.’
John backs away. ‘I’m leaving.’
Sherlock sinks back down to sit in his chair as John goes into their room, although it’s back to being only Sherlock’s room now. John finds the bag in the bottom of the wardrobe, where Sherlock left it, and he doesn’t look at Sherlock as he storms back through the living room, out the door, and down the stairs.
----------
Anger
The days following John’s departure are grey and soulless.
Sherlock retreats to his bedroom in the immediate aftermath and curls up in bed for the rest of the evening, trying desperately to escape into sleep. But sleeping with John the past week has ensured that he’s well-rested, and his treacherous body keeps him lying awake and staring at the ceiling, recalling John’s look of betrayal in distressingly perfect detail.
At last, when he’s seriously considering making use of the small packet behind the loose brick in his fireplace, he gets up and goes to the bathroom. In the aftermath of his return from Afghanistan John had been prescribed sleeping pills; he hadn’t liked them and sure enough the little bottle is still sitting in a corner of the mirrored cabinet above the sink. Sherlock swallows a tablet dry, studiously avoiding his own gaze in the mirror, and goes to bed, finally finding blessed oblivion.
----------
Mycroft comes to see him first. It’s the following morning and Sherlock hasn’t made it out of bed when he hears a familiar tread on the stairs and at his bedroom door, and shortly after a weight settles on the bed down by his feet. Sherlock stays silent and keeps his eyes closed, hoping that Mycroft will - for once in his life - take the hint without Sherlock needing to go through the tedious rigmarole of indicating that his presence is not required. There are a few moments of breathless silence, and then something lands with a thump on the pillow by Sherlock’s head. He peels the sheet away from his face enough to retrieve the lighter and packet of cigarettes, unwrap the cellophane, and flick the box open.
The first draw is delicious, the smoke stinging his throat perfectly, and Sherlock holds it until his lungs start to protest, exhaling in a great rush. Smoking in bed; such a disgusting habit, John would be furious. And that thought makes Sherlock take another draw at it, closing his eyes at the rush of nicotine.
‘“Nessun maggior dolore,”’ Mycorft says softly, putting a hand on Sherlock’s foot under the blankets, ‘“che ricordarsi del tempo felice nella miseria.”’
‘Shut up,’ Sherlock says on an exhale of smoke, still keeping his back turned to his brother. ‘Spare me your moralising, just say “I told you so” and piss off. Or better still, stay silent and fuck off.’
He’s deliberately vulgar, but Mycroft stays.
‘He has a quick temper,’ Mycroft says. The tip of his umbrella scuffs against the floor, at the edge of Sherlock’s hearing. ‘But also a kind heart. Give him time to cool off, and perhaps-’
Sherlock pulls his foot away from Mycroft’s hand, and extends an arm behind himself to tap the cigarette ash onto the floor. ‘I didn’t realise you’d added unnecessary cruelty to your list of sterling personal qualities.’
Mycroft exhales a tiny sigh through his nose. ‘As always, Sherlock, you delight in misunderstanding. I simply meant-’
‘Don’t.’ Sherlock’s voice wobbles a little. Indistinguishable to anyone else but clear as day to Mycroft and he buries his face in the pillow as his eyes start to sting. ‘Go away.’ Sherlock clears his throat, firms his voice. ‘For the love of God, go away.’
Mycroft hesitates for a long moment, as though he wants to speak again and Sherlock silently vows that if he does then Sherlock will kick him, cigarettes or no cigarettes. But Mycroft stays mercifully silent, and finally gets up and leaves with no further comment.
Mrs Hudson comes up to see him later that day; Sherlock hears her steps in the living room, light and hesitant, before she calls his name. He stays silent. He’s never not answered her before, even if all he does is grunt unhelpfully from his sprawl on the sofa while she frets about the state of the flat. But, just this once, please let her assume that he’s out; Sherlock can’t face her well-meaning sympathy any more than he could tolerate Mycroft’s.
In the end, it’s Lestrade who succeeds in getting him out of bed. He drops by the flat two days after John leaves - entirely expected, since Sherlock had hung up on his call earlier that day. Sherlock knows who it is as soon as he starts to climb the stairs: his steps are heavier than Mrs Hudson’s, more aggressive than Mycroft’s serpent glide.
‘Sherlock?’ Lestrade calls in the living room.
Sherlock doesn’t answer. Lestrade doesn’t repeat his call, but the next instant Sherlock’s mobile rings. He curses and grabs at it to silence it but the damage is done, and a second later his bedroom door opens.
‘Sherlock, why in hell aren’t you answering your- Christ.’
Lestrade begins coughing before he’s half a dozen steps into the room. Sherlock supposes that the atmosphere is a little thick; he’d got one of his homeless network to bring him more cigarettes when Mycroft’s were gone. Lestrade flings open the window and sticks his head out to gulp some fresh air before coming over to the bed and poking Sherlock in the middle of his back.
‘Are you ill?’
Sherlock twitches, like a horse trying to dislodge an irritating fly from its coat. ‘No.’
‘Why aren’t you answering your phone? What’s with the smoking? And where’s John?’
‘Gone.’
‘Gone? What the hell does that even… Here, turn over and look at me.’ Lestrade pulls hard at Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock flops over onto his back. ‘Gone as in gone to the shops, or-’
‘Gone as in gone.’
Sherlock’s breath is foul from too many cigarettes and not enough water, his hair unwashed. He must look an absolute fright, but he really can’t summon the energy to care.
‘He can’t be just gone,’ Lestrade says stupidly. Ignoring what’s in front of his eyes, as always, and Sherlock turns back over in lieu of arguing with such idiocy.
But he doesn’t get very far before Lestrade grabs his shoulder again.
‘Hey, no, wait a minute. Look, there’s a case.’
‘Obviously,’ Sherlock can’t help muttering. He may be sunk deep in misery but he’s not dead. ‘You’d hardly come here just to pass the time of day.’
‘No, you’re right, I suppose I wouldn’t.’ Lestrade’s voice is rueful. ‘Although now I’m wondering if I should have. What happened?’
Sherlock closes his eyes and doesn’t answer, and after a few moments Lestrade sighs.
‘Alright, fine. But this case… Sherlock, if I could afford to leave you be then I would but God help me, I need you there.’
Sherlock rolls away and puts his face in John’s pillow. Barring John’s return, there’s no earthly reason for him to leave this bed, until Lestrade starts describing the case and what his team have done so far. A locked room mystery, and not only that but the third in a series, and Lestrade hasn’t finished the recitation of Anderson’s incompetencies before Sherlock flings back the covers and snarls ‘Oh for fuck’s sake, it’s obvious. Has no-one thought of checking her shoes?’
‘No,’ Lestrade says, looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. ‘Why would we do that?’
‘You’re doing this deliberately. Good God, no-one could really be such an idiot,’ Sherlock growls.
‘You’d best come and show us the error of our ways, then,’ Lestrade says, as Sherlock sits up and glares at him with eyes that feel dry and slightly bloodshot. ‘Come on, get yourself into the shower. And for God’s sake, brush your teeth.’
He bullies Sherlock up the stairs and into the bathroom, and when Sherlock comes back downstairs to get dressed - still slightly shaky from too many cigarettes and too little food, but at least cleaner - Lestrade presses a mug of coffee and some biscuits into his hands.
‘Here, drink this while you dress. And order a Sainsbury’s delivery or something; you’ve nothing in the cupboards.’
The coffee is strong enough to make Sherlock’s toes curl appreciatively, and he quickly dresses while Lestrade recites the key facts of the case at him through his bedroom door.
‘Right.’ Sherlock leaves his bedroom. It feels profoundly wrong to be doing this without John, and he shrugs into his coat and puts on his scarf while trying to ignore the conspicuously empty space at his side.
‘You’ll do, I suppose.’ Lestrade looks at him critically, waiting by the door. ‘Although if you were a horse I’d send you to the knacker’s yard. You should get some fresh air, and try sleeping once in a while.’
Sherlock only glares at him, unable to summon the enthusiasm for a response, and Lestrade says quietly ‘Look, whatever it was, I’m sure it’ll pass. John’s a good bloke, he’s not the sort to-’
‘Don’t,’ Sherlock bites out, pushing past Lestrade to start down the stairs. ‘Just don’t.’
----------
The crime scene is, if anything, even worse. Sherlock is braced for sneers from Lestrade’s team when they see that he’s alone, but the reality is far more dreadful: pity. There are no snide comments, only a glance past his shoulder to look for John, and then a second, closer look at his face, and finally a thick, awkward silence.
Their pity is even more hateful than their mockery, and after a bare ten minutes with the body Sherlock is no longer able to bear the glances cast his way and the whispering and he snaps ‘I’m leaving.’
‘What?’ Lestrade stares at him, shocked. ‘You can’t, you’ve only just got here-’
‘Tough!’
Sherlock stands, drawing his coat around him, and Lestrade begins ‘Sherlock-’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, shut up! I’ve already given you more than enough to go on; look at the bloodstains on the floor beneath the rug, man! An odd sort of blood pool that soaks into the rug in one corner and then stains the floor in another corner entirely, wouldn’t you say?’
And he turns his back and stalks off before Lestrade can voice any further protest.
Back at Baker Street, Sherlock sheds his suit and shirt and puts his pyjamas back on. One day, presumably, he’ll have to get up and pick up the pieces of his life and carry on solving cases without John. He did it alone before and he can do it again, although it will be harder now he knows what he’s missing; after all, a fish doesn’t know it’s in water.
One day. But not today.
Sherlock draws the curtains against the obscenely bright sunshine outside, and crawls back into bed.
----------
After a week Sherlock starts to wonder whether he should box up the rest of John’s clothes. John is hardly going to return himself to collect them, surely he’ll send Harry instead. And the less she has to do when she gets here, the less Sherlock will have to listen to her anger at what he’s done. But he can’t quite bring himself to remove John’s things from their shared wardrobe and so they sit there, soft cardigans snugged up companionably against Sherlock’s crisp dress shirts.
Sherlock migrates from his bed to the sofa, and pokes listlessly at the forum posts on his website. They’re all so terribly tedious, although if John were here he’d doubtless prod Sherlock into taking one or two of them on for compassion’s sake.
Come on, Sherlock, he’d say, his eyes very blue and his chest warm against Sherlock’s back as he read over Sherlock’s shoulder. Look at this one here, it’s her grandmother’s necklace. Sentimental value.
And Sherlock would huff and sigh but agree, just to see John smile approvingly at him.
When Sherlock hears the faint noise of John’s footsteps on the stairs he honestly thinks he’s imagining them. Until they get louder and closer, and then suddenly John is standing in the living room.
Sherlock staggers to his feet, staring at him. ‘John.’
Could it… might it possibly be that John has calmed down and is ready to…
‘I, ah.’ John holds up his empty bag, the bag that Sherlock had completely failed to notice in his greedy examination of John’s face and clothes. ‘I came to get some more of my things.’
Ridiculous to have thought that perhaps John might be inclined to listen to anything Sherlock has to say, and Sherlock sinks back down to sit on the sofa. ‘Oh. Of course.’
Disappointment roars in his ears, and he doesn’t pay attention when John takes a couple of steps forward and says something. John’s silence indicates that a response is required and Sherlock lifts his head and gives him a blank look until John repeats himself: ‘You, er, you packed this bag for me, didn't you? Earlier.’
Why does John want to go over the memory of that horrible evening? Sherlock only nods and looks down at his hands, dangling between his knees.
‘Um. Why?’ John says.
‘I thought you'd want to leave quickly.’
‘Well, thanks,’ says John. ‘It was thoughtful of you.’
Sherlock only bows his head, and John turns away to Sherlock’s bedroom. The noises of him moving around - of him packing - are audible in the front room, and Sherlock curls himself tightly into a corner of the couch. John’s posture had been a little stiff; sleeping on Harry’s sofa was clearly paining his back and shoulder. How much longer would John be able to cope with it… a week? A fortnight? Then he’d start to look for a place of his own. He’d start to go out with a nice woman, someone pretty and calm and as utterly unlike Sherlock as it was possible to be. It wasn’t too late for children; John would make a wonderful father.
And Sherlock would stay here, left behind in Baker Street with his memories of how he’d ruined the best thing he ever had.
John’s steps come out to the sitting room but Sherlock doesn’t uncurl to face him. He can’t bring himself to watch as John says his goodbyes.
‘Well.’ There’s a rustle of clothing as John hefts the bag over his shoulder. His good shoulder, presumably; his bad shoulder is surely too sore to bear any weight. ‘Goodbye, then.’
Sherlock doesn’t move. His throat is tight, and he has the strange fancy that he’ll shatter into pieces if he moves. But as John turns to go Sherlock is up off the sofa almost before he knows he’s going to move.
John turns, looking startled.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sherlock says desperately.
‘I thought you weren't going to apologise,’ says John.
‘I’m not,’ Sherlock insists. ‘I’m only sorry that I didn't say something earlier. Before.’
If Sherlock died tomorrow then that would be the single biggest regret of his life: had he only had the courage to speak out earlier, before the Friesland, then all this might have been avoided.
‘Why didn’t you?’
Sherlock can’t look at John, even now giving Sherlock the benefit of the doubt. Anyone else wouldn’t even need to ask; it’s clear that Sherlock is far from being anyone’s ideal romantic prospect.
‘It didn’t seem likely that anything would come of it.’
John is silent for a long moment, and Sherlock looks at him. John’s beloved face is lined and tired-looking, and Sherlock notes each little detail and stores it in his memory, since he won’t be there to watch the patch of grey in John’s hair thicken and spread, or the laughter lines around his eyes grow deeper with the years.
John’s hand tightens on the strap of his bag. ‘You could say something now.’
Sherlock is struck dumb. Could it really be that simple? He’s gone over their parting words a hundred times in the last week, wondering if he could have said something that would have made John stay. It can’t be as simple as merely…
‘Please,’ says John.
‘Don’t go,’ Sherlock blurts. He’s standing on the coffee table and abruptly he stumbles down off it and closer to John. He hesitates before touching John; he’s forfeited that right and so Sherlock merely stands in front of him, hands clutching uselessly at each other like a penitent who’s renounced all hope of forgiveness or redemption. ‘Stay. I would… I would like it. That. We don't have to, have to do any of those things anymore, it can go back to the way it was before, that was fine, just…’ Just the thought of seeing John in 221B once more - making tea and watching his Bond films and teasing Sherlock over his ignorance of popular culture - renders Sherlock a babbling idiot, and he finishes uselessly ‘Please,’ with his heart in his throat.
John sighs and Sherlock flinches. He’s disappointed John; clearly such sentiments aren’t enough, how foolish to think that they might-
‘I hate you so much,’ John says, and before Sherlock can agree that yes, John has every right to do so, John walks over to him and takes Sherlock in his arms.
It’s utterly shocking, and for a long moment Sherlock can only stand stiff and frozen. It’s as though his body has forgotten how to be held by John, after only a week’s absence, and it’s only when John squeezes him tighter that Sherlock’s arms come up to hold him back. It makes no sense that, after all that’s happened, Sherlock’s heart picks this moment to feel as though it’s cracking in half, and it’s all he can do to keep upright and keep breathing.
John says nothing, merely holds Sherlock and pats his back gently, and for a long time there’s no sound in their sitting room except Sherlock’s ragged breaths.
----------
PURGATORIO
‘I’m still quite upset with you.’
Sherlock says nothing.
They had stood there for long minutes before Sherlock began to sway and John had said ‘God, lie down before you fall down, Sherlock, you look like a ghost,’ and guided them both over to the sofa.
Now they lie there, John on his back and Sherlock curled into John’s side with his face pressed to John’s warm, solid shoulder and clutching greedy handfuls of John’s shirt. He wants to crack John open, to crawl inside his ribcage and make a nest next to his heart and never, ever leave.
He can’t tell John that, though. John is still angry with him and so Sherlock only says tentatively ‘I love you.’
His voice is still thick with suppressed emotion, and John sighs, squeezes him comfortingly. ‘I know.’
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