Re: Fill: Welcome Back 5/?revolution25January 2 2011, 20:08:24 UTC
6 January To: JHWatson@yahoo.co.uk From: SH@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk Subject: (No Subject)
Every time I write you a message what I’m really doing is trying to delete you from my contact list. I never do.
SH
12 February To: JHWatson@yahoo.co.uk From: SH@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk Subject: (No Subject)
I know you’ve moved on, I get that. I just need to understand why? Can’t you just give me some closure? It’s the last thing I’ll ever ask of you.
SH
24 February To: JHWatson@yahoo.co.uk From: SH@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk Subject: (No Subject)
Mycroft says you’re being invalided home. I don’t know what to do.
Will your new boyfriend take care of you? I hope he leaves you.
I hope you’re all alone. Like me. I hope you feel half of what I’ve felt all these years.
SH
26 February To: JHWatson@yahoo.co.uk From: SH@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk Subject: (No Subject)
Mycroft gave me your address in London in a sealed envelope. I should go over there, just to shove in your face that I’m extremely successful, and I have a new flat you’ll never get to see.
I’ll bring your things and throw them on the street in front of your apartment, then watch your pathetic attempts to pick them up before they get run over.
SH
2 March To: JHWatson@yahoo.co.uk From: SH@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk Subject: (No Subject)
I burnt the envelope.
SH
3 March To: JHWatson@yahoo.co.uk From: SH@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk Subject: (No Subject)
I’m deleting you from my contacts. This will be my last message.
I’m sorry. Whatever went wrong with us, whatever I did on my part to make you go away, I’m sorry.
I’ll never bother you again.
I honestly hope that whatever you do in future, you’ll be happy. Because no matter how hard I try I still love you, and I want what’s best for you.
That’s obviously not me.
Sherlock Holmes
TBC A/N: That ends the e-mails. Again, next part will go up soon.
Re: Fill: Welcome Back 5/?revolution25January 2 2011, 22:56:41 UTC
This is heartbreaking indeed. (Although since they started out using yahoo and yahoo emails are universally flagged as spam by my ISP, the thought that all Sherlock's emails had landed in John's spam-trap crossed my mind and I had to lol)
Re: Fill: Welcome Back 5/?margi_lynnJanuary 3 2011, 04:10:12 UTC
That would be so horrible! I had this happen (thankfully not with something as important) and now I religiously check my spam folders too. Though that would seem to be redundant, LOL.
OP anon hererevolution25January 3 2011, 17:28:49 UTC
First of all, let me just tell you that I literally squeed (is that even a word? lol) with glee when I saw that this had been filled. This is absolutely fantastic! And my heart got progressively more achey as I read Sherlock's messages. Oh my God, what could have happened? Poor Sherlock. I love that you've made him so devoted and literally unable to erase John from his life. Oh, let's hope John has a good explanation for it all. I'm in love with this, dear author. Thank you very much! Will now be checking obsessively for updates.
P.S. Sorry for the late response. RL has been impossibly hectic since the start of the new year and this was the first chance I had to get on the computer.
Re: Fill: Welcome Back 6/?revolution25January 7 2011, 09:57:16 UTC
A/N: Sorry about the long wait guys. The morning after I posted this I got the flu. I’m still sick, but luckily I’m able to focus and finish this. *
The day Sherlock’s first e-mail came started off with an explosion. They were next to some buildings that looked like they had been blown up twenty years ago and unoccupied ever since when it all started.
Lainker was walking away from everyone else; he thought he saw some movement, when he stepped on a mine. It was then that they started to get fired on, they couldn’t tell where it came from it seemed to surround them, and that’s when the screaming started. Lainker was still alive, but both of his legs had been blown completely off. John tried to get over to him, but there was no cover.
It took ten minutes of screaming for Lainker to die.
That night they were told that the internet was finally set up and they could contact their families. When John got on and saw the e-mail from Sherlock he smiled. He wanted to write back but nothing seemed right. ‘I just watched someone die today,’ is not something you tell your boyfriend. He wanted to say he was fine, but that would be a lie wouldn’t it? Could Sherlock, even through thousands of miles and a computer screen, see how much of a lie it really was?
He didn’t reply but he did print it out so he could look at it anytime he wanted to.
The more and more time that went by, the more and more John felt like he wasn’t human anymore.
The kids were the worst. A kid getting caught in the crossfire, or one that stepped on a land mine became a regular occurrence. Their tiny bodies, not close to fully forming were broken and mangled.
He took out one of Sherlock’s e-mails and read it for the thousandth time. Sherlock deserved better, he needs a real person to love him.
He knew this was going to happen before he left, knew that this war was going to change him so much Sherlock wouldn’t recognize him.
It was better this way.
When it was time to finally go home John didn’t recognize himself, he was weak from getting pneumonia when he was in hospital. He very nearly died from that which he found darkly funny considering getting shot, which put him there in the first place, was not as life threatening.
He was home for a few weeks, had even found a place to stay, when he read the newspaper article about three suicides being connected. The DI that was on the case John remembered from Sherlock’s e-mail. He smiled and wondered if connecting the suicides was all Sherlock’s doing.
It was dark when he hailed a taxi. He got in and mumbled his address as he began to read the article. A few seconds later the cabbie’s mobile rang out and John looked up as the old man silenced the pink phone.
Re: Fill: Welcome Back 7/?revolution25January 7 2011, 09:58:51 UTC
The first time Lestrade had met Sherlock he seemed a lot happier. He once told the girl in the Morgue that he was engaged.
He never brought it up ever again. As the years went by Lestrade noticed that he was ruder, more impatient with them being ‘so stupid.’
Lestrade wondered what had happened to his fiancé, did she die? Did she leave him for someone else? She must have been the reason he was acting the way he was.
Lestrade began obsessing on what Sherlock might have been like when he was in love. Kinder surely, he may have even smiled when there wasn’t a dead body in front of him.
Lestrade never thought he’d ever see the inner-workings of Sherlock’s mind, but once on January 6th he did.
He got a call that Sherlock was drunk in public and was about to be charged unless he got over there right away. He decided as fun as it would be to book Sherlock Holmes he definitely did not want the consulting detective angry with him.
When Lestrade got there he saw Sherlock arguing with a bouncer outside of the club.
He flashed his badge at the bouncer and dragged Sherlock to his car as quickly as possible. He had him buckled in before Sherlock had even realized it was him.
Sherlock gave a wide fake grin which would have been unnerving if he could have held his head straight up.
“Today is my birthday,” Sherlock giggled.
Lestrade was staggered but still able to say a quick, “Happy birthday.”
“Never again. Never will be happy. Not anymore. Did I ever tell you I was going to get married?”
“No,” Lestrade said.
“He went to go fight for Queen and country, in Afghanistan.”
At that Lestrade nearly crashed the car. He had no idea Sherlock was gay, or that his fiancé died in Afghanistan.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Lestrade said unable to say anything that actually meant something.
“He’s not dead. Just didn’t want me anymore. And why would he, an unemployed ex drug addict. He’s a doctor, and a soldier. I realized he’d figure it out before he left; I tried to make him marry me so he’d have no choice but to stay. He wouldn’t.” Sherlock stopped for a moment to pat Lestrade on the shoulder the most physical contact he’s ever had with the man, if you don’t include the pick-pocketing, “He was so good, he made me want to be better. Now I just want to be worse so he can see what he’s done.”
Lestrade was instantly angry with this man, for leaving Sherlock to become like this.
Re: Fill: Welcome Back 8/?revolution25January 7 2011, 10:00:22 UTC
Sherlock watched from the back of the cab as they turned off to a school with two identical buildings.
“Roland-Kerr Further Education College,” The cabbie said to indicate they had reached their destination. Sherlock handed him the money as Lestrade opened the cab door from the outside.
“I don’t know what to make of this.” Lestrade said as Sherlock stood out of the cab.
“The killer?” Sherlock asked.
“Dead,” Sherlock gave him a strange look and Lestrade continued as they walked towards the ambulance, “Apparently. His intended victim killed him. Or he could be the killer, I don’t know. The man just died before we got here with that lead you gave us, followed the woman’s phone.”
“You think he quickly killed his next victim and tried to appear as the one who had been attacked.”
“Makes sense. Man’s military, and the dead guy’s just a funny little cabbie, the cabbie sounds more like the random victim. Who would make a soldier his next victim?”
Sherlock rounded the corner to the second building and was finally able to see from a distance the suspect.
Sherlock’s knees gave out as his arse bumped against the pavement.
“What’s wrong,” Lestrade sounded panicked as he tried to lift Sherlock up to his feet.
“John,” Sherlock said not moving from his spot.
“Yeah, Doctor John Watson, do you know him?” Lestrade looked from the man in the ambulance that was oblivious as to what was going on behind him, to Sherlock.
“My John.” Sherlock whispered.
“You mean…”
Sherlock didn’t pay any attention to whatever Lestrade said next all he could do was catalogue the differences between the old John and this new John.
This new John was far too thin, he looked sickly. He looked like he had been in hospital for some time, probably due to an infection or a fever, maybe even pneumonia. His skin was deeply tanned, but not above the wrists or below the neck so he’d been out in the sun a lot with his duties. He had a cane; it was fairly new but looked used, like he had a severe limp. His lips were in a thin line and he blinked repeatedly as the constable talked to him, he was obviously tired of hearing whatever this man had to say. Sherlock gave the man a quick glance, not really wanting to take his eyes off of John and found the reason John didn’t want to hear what this man had to say. He was in the TA’s and was trying to swap stories with John. Sherlock wanted to laugh, but couldn’t find the energy to.
“Sherlock,” Lestrade finally got his attention, “You should go, you obviously can’t-“
Before Lestrade could say more pointless things Sherlock stood up, and steadied himself. He had to show John he was fine without him, better in fact. Scotland Yard couldn’t move without a consultation from him.
Trying to imitate Mycroft’s impersonal tone he spoke, “What happened here?”
John nearly broke his neck with the force he turned to look at Sherlock. His back was already ramrod straight, but when he saw Sherlock his entire body seemed to freeze.
Re: Fill: Welcome Back 9/?revolution25January 7 2011, 10:01:43 UTC
“I need the details. Scotland Yard would like to think you’re a killer, I’d like all the evidence before I make my conclusions.”
John looked at Sherlock for a long time, his eyes trying to fit the pieces together.
When he spoke, it was detached, like he was giving a report, “I got into the cab, asked to be driven to my flat. The cabbie took me here. When he told me to get out I could see his hand on what I believed to be a gun in his pocket, the butt of the weapon was clearly visible. We went inside the school and sat down across from each other. He gave me two bottles, each with a pill in it, to choose from. He said whatever one I chose he would take the other. I then asked him what if I decided I didn’t want either one of them and he shoved his weapon in my face. It was at that point that I realized what he had wasn’t a handgun, but a lighter. I tried to wrestle it away from him, and when he fell he hit his head on the corner of the table.”
Sherlock pretended to think about what he had said for some time, then turned to Lestrade and said, “He’s telling the truth, you don’t have to arrest him.”
Sherlock then made a show of leaving the scene, not bothered by John’s presence at all. He got into the taxi and went a block down the road before he had the driver stop and he got out and found a hiding place. From his new vantage point he could see John clearly, but John couldn’t see him hiding in the shadows.
He didn’t know why he decided to follow John, maybe it was because he had burned the envelope from Mycroft and he was rather curious to see where he lived. Maybe he was just going to become John’s stalker, giving up his life as a consulting detective to follow the man that rejected him everywhere he went.
John answered every question that was asked of him, but kept turning behind him, as if he thought someone would be there. Ten minutes later he stopped looking over his shoulder and just looked at the ground in front of him. He didn’t even look up when the officers asked him questions.
When they finally released John, he gingerly got down from the ambulance and walked with a limp that had him supporting himself on his cane quite a lot. He quickly found a cab and Sherlock followed (his cabbie apparently delighted to hear the words ‘follow that cab’).
Sherlock hadn’t really expected anything, but the place the cabbie stopped floored him. They were outside his old apartment. The apartment John always hated. It was there that John had gotten a chemical burn on his arm knocking over one of Sherlock’s experiments accidentally. Every time he crossed the threshold John always muttered, ‘far too small.’
Re: Fill: Welcome Back 10/?revolution25January 7 2011, 10:02:56 UTC
A moment later John limped out and into his old apartment not locking the door behind him.
Sherlock quickly paid the cabbie and went for the door before John had the ability to remember that he should shut it.
Following an ex in a cab was one thing entirely, something anyone would find creepy and obsessive. But going into his ex’s flat, uninvited, was something even Mycroft might have trouble clearing up legally. As much as his brain was telling him to stop, he just couldn’t. He had to see John. It had been so long, he had to memorize every new line on his face, every new idiosyncrasy John had obtained while he was away.
Quietly as he could he stepped into the small hallway and moved to the left where John couldn’t see him from the living room. He had barely settled into his corner before he heard John.
He craned his neck to see John’s usual chair, but he wasn’t there. Sherlock finally set eyes on him in his chair.
John was crying.
It took a lot to make John cry like that, the only other time Sherlock saw him like that was when his parents died. Sherlock tried to think of what happened that night to cause this reaction.
Shooting a killer wouldn’t affect him like this; he would have been desensitized to violence in Afghanistan.
Could it be seeing him? Sherlock took a quick look around the apartment and noticed what he should have noticed the moment he stepped inside, most of the items were things he left behind when he moved out. Junk he thought.
And it was junk really; burnt out beakers, calcified test tubes, furniture that had springs sticking out of them. But every single thing he left behind was here, where John now lived.
Air seemed like it wasn’t enough, he didn’t know exactly what he was feeling but he didn’t need to break down in the hallway where he wasn’t supposed to be.
When he left he made sure he was as quiet as he could be, but once he was out of the flat he ran.
He didn’t stop once until he shut the door behind him at 221b Baker St.
Re: Fill: Welcome Back 11/?revolution25January 7 2011, 10:04:11 UTC
He didn’t understand John, and at that moment he couldn’t understand his own feelings.
If Sherlock had really meant nothing to John why would all of his stuff be there? Why would he allow the clutter that he always hated so much to stick around?
He knew his old landlord had put all of those things in storage, in case he ever wanted to pick them up, so the flat itself had been cleared for new renters. John had bought all of those things off of the landlord, then set it up as it had been before he left England.
Was that it? He wanted to mentally return to a time before he went to war? Sherlock himself was inconsequential, but his things helped restore the order that once was.
No, that couldn’t be it. There was an answer that had been twisting around in the back of his head, but he never wanted to concentrate on it because he couldn’t stand it if it wasn’t true.
’John loves me.’
No, he would have said something to Sherlock. He had years to talk to him; to just e-mail the word ‘sorry’ and all would have been forgiven. John stayed silent, which meant he never had cared for Sherlock, or if he did it died in the desert.
John was crying like he had lost someone he loved dearly, he hadn’t imagined that, it was something real he could hold onto.
He had to know.
He texted Mycroft not wanting to hear his brother’s remarks on his love life, or lack there of.
Re: Fill: Welcome Back 12/?revolution25January 7 2011, 10:05:22 UTC
When John woke up crying it wasn’t because of a dream about the war, it was Sherlock.
John had killed someone and Sherlock appeared out of nowhere sounding cold, detached, and far too much like Mycroft for John’s taste.
It had been a nightmare, but as much as he wanted to just throw it away as such he knew it had, at least in part, happened only a few hours earlier.
He sat up once he was able to stop the tears from forming, and looked at his mobile to see if there were any new messages.
Just one and it was from Sherlock. He said that the police needed him for further questioning and he had to come to 221b Baker St. sometime today.
Why it needed to be Baker St. instead of the police station was not said, but Sherlock never would say anything helpful like that.
It was odd interacting with Sherlock again, even if it was at a distance. He was used to thinking of him more like an ideal, what life could have been if he hadn’t gone away. To see that he had been real, a tie to what John was before made him human again.
John didn’t know what to think, what to do about these newfound feelings. Of course when the case with the cabbie was over he probably would never see Sherlock again. So it was all pointless, he just had to keep calm and wait it out.
He decided to wait until later in the afternoon to go over to Baker St. just in case Sherlock was there.
* * *
Sherlock’s heart had been going crazy all day. He had expected that John would come early in the morning, he was in fact a ‘morning person’ something Sherlock was still a little unsure of what it meant but he knew he never could classify himself as one. But John didn’t come. He was going to text him again, but he realized if he texted him once he would be compelled to text him ten times and that would give away the element of surprise.
So he stood in front of the window and waited. Each cab that turned down the street made his palms sweat, each pedestrian that turned the corner made his leg twitch.
It was 4:30 when he finally saw John exit the cab in front of 221b. He tried to breathe normally, tried to remember to seem as if he was unaffected by John’s presence, it was all he could do not to bound for the door.
Luckily Mrs. Hudson got the door, which meant that Sherlock could pretend that he hadn’t been waiting all day. He sat down in the chair next to the fire facing the door and grabbed some old files and pretended to casually look over them.
To: JHWatson@yahoo.co.uk
From: SH@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk
Subject: (No Subject)
Every time I write you a message what I’m really doing is trying to delete you from my contact list. I never do.
SH
12 February
To: JHWatson@yahoo.co.uk
From: SH@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk
Subject: (No Subject)
I know you’ve moved on, I get that. I just need to understand why? Can’t you just give me some closure? It’s the last thing I’ll ever ask of you.
SH
24 February
To: JHWatson@yahoo.co.uk
From: SH@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk
Subject: (No Subject)
Mycroft says you’re being invalided home. I don’t know what to do.
Will your new boyfriend take care of you? I hope he leaves you.
I hope you’re all alone. Like me. I hope you feel half of what I’ve felt all these years.
SH
26 February
To: JHWatson@yahoo.co.uk
From: SH@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk
Subject: (No Subject)
Mycroft gave me your address in London in a sealed envelope. I should go over there, just to shove in your face that I’m extremely successful, and I have a new flat you’ll never get to see.
I’ll bring your things and throw them on the street in front of your apartment, then watch your pathetic attempts to pick them up before they get run over.
SH
2 March
To: JHWatson@yahoo.co.uk
From: SH@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk
Subject: (No Subject)
I burnt the envelope.
SH
3 March
To: JHWatson@yahoo.co.uk
From: SH@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk
Subject: (No Subject)
I’m deleting you from my contacts. This will be my last message.
I’m sorry. Whatever went wrong with us, whatever I did on my part to make you go away, I’m sorry.
I’ll never bother you again.
I honestly hope that whatever you do in future, you’ll be happy. Because no matter how hard I try I still love you, and I want what’s best for you.
That’s obviously not me.
Sherlock Holmes
TBC
A/N: That ends the e-mails. Again, next part will go up soon.
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P.S. Sorry for the late response. RL has been impossibly hectic since the start of the new year and this was the first chance I had to get on the computer.
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Im hurting for Sherlock!
A million times please continue... this is perfect and beautiful and heartbreaking.
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*
The day Sherlock’s first e-mail came started off with an explosion. They were next to some buildings that looked like they had been blown up twenty years ago and unoccupied ever since when it all started.
Lainker was walking away from everyone else; he thought he saw some movement, when he stepped on a mine. It was then that they started to get fired on, they couldn’t tell where it came from it seemed to surround them, and that’s when the screaming started. Lainker was still alive, but both of his legs had been blown completely off. John tried to get over to him, but there was no cover.
It took ten minutes of screaming for Lainker to die.
That night they were told that the internet was finally set up and they could contact their families. When John got on and saw the e-mail from Sherlock he smiled. He wanted to write back but nothing seemed right. ‘I just watched someone die today,’ is not something you tell your boyfriend. He wanted to say he was fine, but that would be a lie wouldn’t it? Could Sherlock, even through thousands of miles and a computer screen, see how much of a lie it really was?
He didn’t reply but he did print it out so he could look at it anytime he wanted to.
The more and more time that went by, the more and more John felt like he wasn’t human anymore.
The kids were the worst. A kid getting caught in the crossfire, or one that stepped on a land mine became a regular occurrence. Their tiny bodies, not close to fully forming were broken and mangled.
He took out one of Sherlock’s e-mails and read it for the thousandth time. Sherlock deserved better, he needs a real person to love him.
He knew this was going to happen before he left, knew that this war was going to change him so much Sherlock wouldn’t recognize him.
It was better this way.
When it was time to finally go home John didn’t recognize himself, he was weak from getting pneumonia when he was in hospital. He very nearly died from that which he found darkly funny considering getting shot, which put him there in the first place, was not as life threatening.
He was home for a few weeks, had even found a place to stay, when he read the newspaper article about three suicides being connected. The DI that was on the case John remembered from Sherlock’s e-mail. He smiled and wondered if connecting the suicides was all Sherlock’s doing.
It was dark when he hailed a taxi. He got in and mumbled his address as he began to read the article. A few seconds later the cabbie’s mobile rang out and John looked up as the old man silenced the pink phone.
* * *
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He never brought it up ever again. As the years went by Lestrade noticed that he was ruder, more impatient with them being ‘so stupid.’
Lestrade wondered what had happened to his fiancé, did she die? Did she leave him for someone else? She must have been the reason he was acting the way he was.
Lestrade began obsessing on what Sherlock might have been like when he was in love. Kinder surely, he may have even smiled when there wasn’t a dead body in front of him.
Lestrade never thought he’d ever see the inner-workings of Sherlock’s mind, but once on January 6th he did.
He got a call that Sherlock was drunk in public and was about to be charged unless he got over there right away. He decided as fun as it would be to book Sherlock Holmes he definitely did not want the consulting detective angry with him.
When Lestrade got there he saw Sherlock arguing with a bouncer outside of the club.
He flashed his badge at the bouncer and dragged Sherlock to his car as quickly as possible. He had him buckled in before Sherlock had even realized it was him.
Sherlock gave a wide fake grin which would have been unnerving if he could have held his head straight up.
“Today is my birthday,” Sherlock giggled.
Lestrade was staggered but still able to say a quick, “Happy birthday.”
“Never again. Never will be happy. Not anymore. Did I ever tell you I was going to get married?”
“No,” Lestrade said.
“He went to go fight for Queen and country, in Afghanistan.”
At that Lestrade nearly crashed the car. He had no idea Sherlock was gay, or that his fiancé died in Afghanistan.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Lestrade said unable to say anything that actually meant something.
“He’s not dead. Just didn’t want me anymore. And why would he, an unemployed ex drug addict. He’s a doctor, and a soldier. I realized he’d figure it out before he left; I tried to make him marry me so he’d have no choice but to stay. He wouldn’t.” Sherlock stopped for a moment to pat Lestrade on the shoulder the most physical contact he’s ever had with the man, if you don’t include the pick-pocketing, “He was so good, he made me want to be better. Now I just want to be worse so he can see what he’s done.”
Lestrade was instantly angry with this man, for leaving Sherlock to become like this.
* * *
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“Roland-Kerr Further Education College,” The cabbie said to indicate they had reached their destination. Sherlock handed him the money as Lestrade opened the cab door from the outside.
“I don’t know what to make of this.” Lestrade said as Sherlock stood out of the cab.
“The killer?” Sherlock asked.
“Dead,” Sherlock gave him a strange look and Lestrade continued as they walked towards the ambulance, “Apparently. His intended victim killed him. Or he could be the killer, I don’t know. The man just died before we got here with that lead you gave us, followed the woman’s phone.”
“You think he quickly killed his next victim and tried to appear as the one who had been attacked.”
“Makes sense. Man’s military, and the dead guy’s just a funny little cabbie, the cabbie sounds more like the random victim. Who would make a soldier his next victim?”
Sherlock rounded the corner to the second building and was finally able to see from a distance the suspect.
Sherlock’s knees gave out as his arse bumped against the pavement.
“What’s wrong,” Lestrade sounded panicked as he tried to lift Sherlock up to his feet.
“John,” Sherlock said not moving from his spot.
“Yeah, Doctor John Watson, do you know him?” Lestrade looked from the man in the ambulance that was oblivious as to what was going on behind him, to Sherlock.
“My John.” Sherlock whispered.
“You mean…”
Sherlock didn’t pay any attention to whatever Lestrade said next all he could do was catalogue the differences between the old John and this new John.
This new John was far too thin, he looked sickly. He looked like he had been in hospital for some time, probably due to an infection or a fever, maybe even pneumonia. His skin was deeply tanned, but not above the wrists or below the neck so he’d been out in the sun a lot with his duties. He had a cane; it was fairly new but looked used, like he had a severe limp. His lips were in a thin line and he blinked repeatedly as the constable talked to him, he was obviously tired of hearing whatever this man had to say. Sherlock gave the man a quick glance, not really wanting to take his eyes off of John and found the reason John didn’t want to hear what this man had to say. He was in the TA’s and was trying to swap stories with John. Sherlock wanted to laugh, but couldn’t find the energy to.
“Sherlock,” Lestrade finally got his attention, “You should go, you obviously can’t-“
Before Lestrade could say more pointless things Sherlock stood up, and steadied himself. He had to show John he was fine without him, better in fact. Scotland Yard couldn’t move without a consultation from him.
Trying to imitate Mycroft’s impersonal tone he spoke, “What happened here?”
John nearly broke his neck with the force he turned to look at Sherlock. His back was already ramrod straight, but when he saw Sherlock his entire body seemed to freeze.
“Sher-“
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John looked at Sherlock for a long time, his eyes trying to fit the pieces together.
When he spoke, it was detached, like he was giving a report, “I got into the cab, asked to be driven to my flat. The cabbie took me here. When he told me to get out I could see his hand on what I believed to be a gun in his pocket, the butt of the weapon was clearly visible. We went inside the school and sat down across from each other. He gave me two bottles, each with a pill in it, to choose from. He said whatever one I chose he would take the other. I then asked him what if I decided I didn’t want either one of them and he shoved his weapon in my face. It was at that point that I realized what he had wasn’t a handgun, but a lighter. I tried to wrestle it away from him, and when he fell he hit his head on the corner of the table.”
Sherlock pretended to think about what he had said for some time, then turned to Lestrade and said, “He’s telling the truth, you don’t have to arrest him.”
Sherlock then made a show of leaving the scene, not bothered by John’s presence at all. He got into the taxi and went a block down the road before he had the driver stop and he got out and found a hiding place. From his new vantage point he could see John clearly, but John couldn’t see him hiding in the shadows.
He didn’t know why he decided to follow John, maybe it was because he had burned the envelope from Mycroft and he was rather curious to see where he lived. Maybe he was just going to become John’s stalker, giving up his life as a consulting detective to follow the man that rejected him everywhere he went.
John answered every question that was asked of him, but kept turning behind him, as if he thought someone would be there. Ten minutes later he stopped looking over his shoulder and just looked at the ground in front of him. He didn’t even look up when the officers asked him questions.
When they finally released John, he gingerly got down from the ambulance and walked with a limp that had him supporting himself on his cane quite a lot. He quickly found a cab and Sherlock followed (his cabbie apparently delighted to hear the words ‘follow that cab’).
Sherlock hadn’t really expected anything, but the place the cabbie stopped floored him. They were outside his old apartment. The apartment John always hated. It was there that John had gotten a chemical burn on his arm knocking over one of Sherlock’s experiments accidentally. Every time he crossed the threshold John always muttered, ‘far too small.’
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Sherlock quickly paid the cabbie and went for the door before John had the ability to remember that he should shut it.
Following an ex in a cab was one thing entirely, something anyone would find creepy and obsessive. But going into his ex’s flat, uninvited, was something even Mycroft might have trouble clearing up legally. As much as his brain was telling him to stop, he just couldn’t. He had to see John. It had been so long, he had to memorize every new line on his face, every new idiosyncrasy John had obtained while he was away.
Quietly as he could he stepped into the small hallway and moved to the left where John couldn’t see him from the living room. He had barely settled into his corner before he heard John.
He craned his neck to see John’s usual chair, but he wasn’t there. Sherlock finally set eyes on him in his chair.
John was crying.
It took a lot to make John cry like that, the only other time Sherlock saw him like that was when his parents died. Sherlock tried to think of what happened that night to cause this reaction.
Shooting a killer wouldn’t affect him like this; he would have been desensitized to violence in Afghanistan.
Could it be seeing him? Sherlock took a quick look around the apartment and noticed what he should have noticed the moment he stepped inside, most of the items were things he left behind when he moved out. Junk he thought.
And it was junk really; burnt out beakers, calcified test tubes, furniture that had springs sticking out of them. But every single thing he left behind was here, where John now lived.
Air seemed like it wasn’t enough, he didn’t know exactly what he was feeling but he didn’t need to break down in the hallway where he wasn’t supposed to be.
When he left he made sure he was as quiet as he could be, but once he was out of the flat he ran.
He didn’t stop once until he shut the door behind him at 221b Baker St.
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If Sherlock had really meant nothing to John why would all of his stuff be there? Why would he allow the clutter that he always hated so much to stick around?
He knew his old landlord had put all of those things in storage, in case he ever wanted to pick them up, so the flat itself had been cleared for new renters. John had bought all of those things off of the landlord, then set it up as it had been before he left England.
Was that it? He wanted to mentally return to a time before he went to war? Sherlock himself was inconsequential, but his things helped restore the order that once was.
No, that couldn’t be it. There was an answer that had been twisting around in the back of his head, but he never wanted to concentrate on it because he couldn’t stand it if it wasn’t true.
’John loves me.’
No, he would have said something to Sherlock. He had years to talk to him; to just e-mail the word ‘sorry’ and all would have been forgiven. John stayed silent, which meant he never had cared for Sherlock, or if he did it died in the desert.
John was crying like he had lost someone he loved dearly, he hadn’t imagined that, it was something real he could hold onto.
He had to know.
He texted Mycroft not wanting to hear his brother’s remarks on his love life, or lack there of.
The number to John’s mobile.
SH
* * *
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John had killed someone and Sherlock appeared out of nowhere sounding cold, detached, and far too much like Mycroft for John’s taste.
It had been a nightmare, but as much as he wanted to just throw it away as such he knew it had, at least in part, happened only a few hours earlier.
He sat up once he was able to stop the tears from forming, and looked at his mobile to see if there were any new messages.
Just one and it was from Sherlock. He said that the police needed him for further questioning and he had to come to 221b Baker St. sometime today.
Why it needed to be Baker St. instead of the police station was not said, but Sherlock never would say anything helpful like that.
It was odd interacting with Sherlock again, even if it was at a distance. He was used to thinking of him more like an ideal, what life could have been if he hadn’t gone away. To see that he had been real, a tie to what John was before made him human again.
John didn’t know what to think, what to do about these newfound feelings. Of course when the case with the cabbie was over he probably would never see Sherlock again. So it was all pointless, he just had to keep calm and wait it out.
He decided to wait until later in the afternoon to go over to Baker St. just in case Sherlock was there.
* * *
Sherlock’s heart had been going crazy all day. He had expected that John would come early in the morning, he was in fact a ‘morning person’ something Sherlock was still a little unsure of what it meant but he knew he never could classify himself as one. But John didn’t come. He was going to text him again, but he realized if he texted him once he would be compelled to text him ten times and that would give away the element of surprise.
So he stood in front of the window and waited. Each cab that turned down the street made his palms sweat, each pedestrian that turned the corner made his leg twitch.
It was 4:30 when he finally saw John exit the cab in front of 221b. He tried to breathe normally, tried to remember to seem as if he was unaffected by John’s presence, it was all he could do not to bound for the door.
Luckily Mrs. Hudson got the door, which meant that Sherlock could pretend that he hadn’t been waiting all day. He sat down in the chair next to the fire facing the door and grabbed some old files and pretended to casually look over them.
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