Baby Please Don't Go - Part 3a
anonymous
March 28 2011, 13:30:37 UTC
Sherlock reached for the box resting next to the sofa and slapped another patch on his arm. He was going to solve this, dammit, or die trying, most likely from nicotine poisoning.
The vaguely unsettling feeling that had settled upon him from the moment John had told him he was leaving had only intensified with time. Now, the day before John was getting on a plane, Sherlock was a mess. He hadn’t slept in four days, and although he suspected he’d had a cup of tea and a biscuit at some point in the last 48 hours, he wouldn’t testify to it under oath. He was currently on four nicotine patches.
Why was this bothering him so much? Yes, John was his friend, and yes, he liked having someone along on cases, an extra pair of eyes and skilled hands, someone who still, after four years, thought what he did was brilliant. Yes, he would miss John, he’d be foolish not to.
Yet he was still filled with the overwhelming impression that he was missing something, something vital. It was in the way he would catch John looking at him almost wistfully, in the half-begun sentences, “Sherlock, I...” that John never, ever finished. In that stupid conversation he’d heard between John and Lestrade, in the look in John’s face as he said he couldn’t wait forever. Wait for what?
Growling in frustration, Sherlock leapt off the sofa. He stalked up and down the living room, his hands in his hair, willing himself to understand.
Was John sad to be leaving? Sometimes Sherlock thought yes, which seemed ridiculous, because John didn’t have to leave. No one was making him. But John would get this look on his face, whenever Sherlock did or said something particularly brilliant, or cutting, or just weird that plainly said he was going to miss this, miss Sherlock. John’s face was almost as expressive as his voice, his emotions clearly displayed for everyone to see. Sherlock could tell that leaving was upsetting him; John had been wandering around the flat morosely as he packed, sighing as he tucked away the little pieces of his life into boxes.
The living room felt strange now, empty and incomplete. Four years living together had been more than enough time for them each to impress parts of themselves upon the room; devoid of John’s, it suddenly felt different and wrong, not altogether like 221b Baker Street anymore.
The thought of finding another flatmate was completely repulsive. Sherlock had actually shuddered when John had asked him about it. Thankfully, recent success and John’s budgeting abilities meant that Sherlock had more than enough money to live there alone now. He could probably buy the flat, if he were so inclined. So a new flatmate was out.
But even the idea of living here on his own was foreign, uncomfortable. Sherlock, for all his powers of the mind, simply couldn’t imagine what it would be like without John; his puttering in the kitchen, his jumpers strewn around the living room, his godawful two-fingered typing in the background.
Sighing, Sherlock flung himself back onto the sofa, curling up and pulling his dressing gown around him. What did it all mean? John’s sad eyes, Sherlock’s own inability to imagine what his life was going to be like after tomorrow, the confused and almost judgemental look in Lestrade’s eyes when he’d told John he’d look after Sherlock?
Brow furrowed, he unpeeled another patch and stuck it on his other forearm. This was clearly a five patch problem.
Baby Please Don't Go - Part 3b
anonymous
March 28 2011, 13:32:10 UTC
When John returned from the pub three hours later (a little farewell do put on by his colleagues), Sherlock was still curled up on the sofa. He stared hazily at John as he took off his coat and hung it up, making his way into the kitchen, blowing on his hands. He glanced over at Sherlock.
“Tea?” he asked, already reaching for the kettle.
“Please.”
Sherlock studied John carefully as he made the tea. He looked at his nondescript hair, his strong, solid, compact frame and his dark blue eyes. He watched his familiar, practiced moves around their kitchen. John was slightly tense, Sherlock could see it in the set of his shoulders. And still Sherlock couldn’t work it out.
Sherlock loved mysteries. He loved puzzles. But this one wasn’t fun, there was no thrill of deduction, no joy of epiphany; only the dull, cold ache of uncertainty. Of doubt. Because Sherlock had no idea, no fucking idea, what the answer was.
John set the tea down in front of him, and moved to sit in his own armchair, facing Sherlock. He frowned when Sherlock sat up and pushed up his sleeves, reaching for his tea.
“Sherlock, how many patches have you got on?”
Sherlock shrugged and took a sip. “Not important.”
“You’re wearing five, aren’t you?”
Sherlock didn’t resond. John sighed.
“You know, you’ll miss me nagging you,” he said, letting out an odd half-laugh.
He would miss it, Sherlock realized, if only because no one else in his life cared about him enough to nag him.
“Yes,” he said. “I suppose I will.” He offered John a tentative smile, and was rewarded with one in return. John suddenly leaned forward.
“It’s been good, though, right?” he asked, his voice unusually urgent and his body unnaturally still. “The last four years, I mean. Me, you, this flat, everything.”
“Yes,” Sherlock replied slowly, not entirely sure what John was getting at. There was a strange, loaded undercurrent to his words that Sherlock didn’t quite understand.
“I don’t really want to leave, Sherlock,” John said quietly. He was looking at the floor now, and fiddling with a tiny hole in the knee of his jeans.
“Then why are you?” Sherlock snapped. What the fuck was John playing at? Nothing in Sherlock’s life had made sense for the last three weeks, nothing, but this absolutely took the cake.
Baby Please Don't Go - Part 3c
anonymous
March 28 2011, 13:34:39 UTC
John’s eyes snapped up, and he stared at Sherlock, a mixture of shame and anger and hurt on his face.
“I have to, Sherlock. I just do.”
“But why?” asked Sherlock, wincing at just how pleading it sounded.
John sighed again, the anger draining from his body until he just looked sad. He dropped his head into his hands.
“I can’t just...I need something else in my life? Here, this...us...it’s too much sometimes, y’know? I feel like I could spend the rest of my life just...waiting. Waiting for...” John looked up, straight into Sherlock’s eyes, as if trying to communicate some unspeakable truth.
“For what?” Sherlock was feeling impatient now. Damn John and his inability to finish a sentence.
“If I have to explain it to you, it clearly doesn’t matter that much,” John snapped. “I just have to do something on my own, do you get it?
“No, I don’t. I don’t get any of it. You said you were leaving, that you had this great opportunity, and I was happy for you, but nothing makes sense now, and you’re talking like this is something being forced on you, and it doesn’t make any fucking sense!”
John laughed, a hollow, bitter sound.
“God, you really don’t, you complete idiot,” he snarled at Sherlock. “ I can’t believe I’ve been waiting all this time for you to... You know, for such a fucking genius, you really have trouble seeing what’s right in front of you, don’t you?”
“It’s not my fault , not when you’re being so cryptic, when you never finish a thought, when you never just tell me what’s wrong! I’m a genius, John, not a mind reader, for fuck’s sake!”
All the fight went out of John, and he slumped back into his chair. Minutes ticked by, stretching out thin and taut between them. Sherlock watched John as he composed himself, slowing his breathing and calming his shaking hands. He’d never been so lost for words.
“John, I -” he began, but John held up his hand in a silent plea for silence.
“I’m going to bed,” John said after a moment, standing. “I have to be up early to catch my flight. Goodnight.”
As he made his way slowly to the door, Sherlock noticed that for the first time in four years, two months and three days, John Watson was limping.
*********** A/N: I have no idea where all the angst came from, seriously. I'm sorry! Should be two more parts, both full of cheesy romantic comedy tropes (oh, how I love them!)
Re: Baby Please Don't Go - OP HERE!
anonymous
March 28 2011, 15:51:04 UTC
No I LOVE the angst! We neeeed the angst first before the happily ever after. I'm really glad you are making it serious and not at all cracky. Gah! This is so good! Poor John limping again. Come on, Sherlock, figure it out!
The vaguely unsettling feeling that had settled upon him from the moment John had told him he was leaving had only intensified with time. Now, the day before John was getting on a plane, Sherlock was a mess. He hadn’t slept in four days, and although he suspected he’d had a cup of tea and a biscuit at some point in the last 48 hours, he wouldn’t testify to it under oath. He was currently on four nicotine patches.
Why was this bothering him so much? Yes, John was his friend, and yes, he liked having someone along on cases, an extra pair of eyes and skilled hands, someone who still, after four years, thought what he did was brilliant. Yes, he would miss John, he’d be foolish not to.
Yet he was still filled with the overwhelming impression that he was missing something, something vital. It was in the way he would catch John looking at him almost wistfully, in the half-begun sentences, “Sherlock, I...” that John never, ever finished. In that stupid conversation he’d heard between John and Lestrade, in the look in John’s face as he said he couldn’t wait forever. Wait for what?
Growling in frustration, Sherlock leapt off the sofa. He stalked up and down the living room, his hands in his hair, willing himself to understand.
Was John sad to be leaving? Sometimes Sherlock thought yes, which seemed ridiculous, because John didn’t have to leave. No one was making him. But John would get this look on his face, whenever Sherlock did or said something particularly brilliant, or cutting, or just weird that plainly said he was going to miss this, miss Sherlock. John’s face was almost as expressive as his voice, his emotions clearly displayed for everyone to see. Sherlock could tell that leaving was upsetting him; John had been wandering around the flat morosely as he packed, sighing as he tucked away the little pieces of his life into boxes.
The living room felt strange now, empty and incomplete. Four years living together had been more than enough time for them each to impress parts of themselves upon the room; devoid of John’s, it suddenly felt different and wrong, not altogether like 221b Baker Street anymore.
The thought of finding another flatmate was completely repulsive. Sherlock had actually shuddered when John had asked him about it. Thankfully, recent success and John’s budgeting abilities meant that Sherlock had more than enough money to live there alone now. He could probably buy the flat, if he were so inclined. So a new flatmate was out.
But even the idea of living here on his own was foreign, uncomfortable. Sherlock, for all his powers of the mind, simply couldn’t imagine what it would be like without John; his puttering in the kitchen, his jumpers strewn around the living room, his godawful two-fingered typing in the background.
Sighing, Sherlock flung himself back onto the sofa, curling up and pulling his dressing gown around him. What did it all mean? John’s sad eyes, Sherlock’s own inability to imagine what his life was going to be like after tomorrow, the confused and almost judgemental look in Lestrade’s eyes when he’d told John he’d look after Sherlock?
Brow furrowed, he unpeeled another patch and stuck it on his other forearm. This was clearly a five patch problem.
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“Tea?” he asked, already reaching for the kettle.
“Please.”
Sherlock studied John carefully as he made the tea. He looked at his nondescript hair, his strong, solid, compact frame and his dark blue eyes. He watched his familiar, practiced moves around their kitchen. John was slightly tense, Sherlock could see it in the set of his shoulders. And still Sherlock couldn’t work it out.
Sherlock loved mysteries. He loved puzzles. But this one wasn’t fun, there was no thrill of deduction, no joy of epiphany; only the dull, cold ache of uncertainty. Of doubt. Because Sherlock had no idea, no fucking idea, what the answer was.
John set the tea down in front of him, and moved to sit in his own armchair, facing Sherlock. He frowned when Sherlock sat up and pushed up his sleeves, reaching for his tea.
“Sherlock, how many patches have you got on?”
Sherlock shrugged and took a sip. “Not important.”
“You’re wearing five, aren’t you?”
Sherlock didn’t resond. John sighed.
“You know, you’ll miss me nagging you,” he said, letting out an odd half-laugh.
He would miss it, Sherlock realized, if only because no one else in his life cared about him enough to nag him.
“Yes,” he said. “I suppose I will.” He offered John a tentative smile, and was rewarded with one in return. John suddenly leaned forward.
“It’s been good, though, right?” he asked, his voice unusually urgent and his body unnaturally still. “The last four years, I mean. Me, you, this flat, everything.”
“Yes,” Sherlock replied slowly, not entirely sure what John was getting at. There was a strange, loaded undercurrent to his words that Sherlock didn’t quite understand.
“I don’t really want to leave, Sherlock,” John said quietly. He was looking at the floor now, and fiddling with a tiny hole in the knee of his jeans.
“Then why are you?” Sherlock snapped. What the fuck was John playing at? Nothing in Sherlock’s life had made sense for the last three weeks, nothing, but this absolutely took the cake.
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“I have to, Sherlock. I just do.”
“But why?” asked Sherlock, wincing at just how pleading it sounded.
John sighed again, the anger draining from his body until he just looked sad. He dropped his head into his hands.
“I can’t just...I need something else in my life? Here, this...us...it’s too much sometimes, y’know? I feel like I could spend the rest of my life just...waiting. Waiting for...” John looked up, straight into Sherlock’s eyes, as if trying to communicate some unspeakable truth.
“For what?” Sherlock was feeling impatient now. Damn John and his inability to finish a sentence.
“If I have to explain it to you, it clearly doesn’t matter that much,” John snapped. “I just have to do something on my own, do you get it?
“No, I don’t. I don’t get any of it. You said you were leaving, that you had this great opportunity, and I was happy for you, but nothing makes sense now, and you’re talking like this is something being forced on you, and it doesn’t make any fucking sense!”
John laughed, a hollow, bitter sound.
“God, you really don’t, you complete idiot,” he snarled at Sherlock. “ I can’t believe I’ve been waiting all this time for you to... You know, for such a fucking genius, you really have trouble seeing what’s right in front of you, don’t you?”
“It’s not my fault , not when you’re being so cryptic, when you never finish a thought, when you never just tell me what’s wrong! I’m a genius, John, not a mind reader, for fuck’s sake!”
All the fight went out of John, and he slumped back into his chair. Minutes ticked by, stretching out thin and taut between them. Sherlock watched John as he composed himself, slowing his breathing and calming his shaking hands. He’d never been so lost for words.
“John, I -” he began, but John held up his hand in a silent plea for silence.
“I’m going to bed,” John said after a moment, standing. “I have to be up early to catch my flight. Goodnight.”
As he made his way slowly to the door, Sherlock noticed that for the first time in four years, two months and three days, John Watson was limping.
***********
A/N: I have no idea where all the angst came from, seriously. I'm sorry! Should be two more parts, both full of cheesy romantic comedy tropes (oh, how I love them!)
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I am very much looking forward to Sherlock's realisation :D
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I love this!
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