FILL: Doctor, Detective and Sons (10/?)tawabidsJune 5 2011, 11:02:02 UTC
Sorry all, just a quick update with not much plot progress. P.S. OMFG HARRY IS SO MUCH FUN TO WRITE WHY HAVE I NEVER WRITTEN HER BEFORE NOW??
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It was near midnight on the crossover between Monday and Tuesday, and John was lying on his sister’s guest bed and crying about what he had done. Silently, of course, with his hand over his mouth to make absolutely sure. Hamish was asleep on the bed beside him, flat on his back on his favourite blanket with Harry’s orient-patterned duvet pulled over him. The room had blinds instead of curtains, and every now and then a car rolled past outside and cast bars of headlight across the ceiling.
John closed his eyes and tried to stop thinking. He couldn’t. He had lost that ability during his years with Sherlock Holmes, like he lost any chance of being a surgeon when the bullet dug deep through bone and snapped the subclavian artery like a pin through a water balloon. He was fifty-one years old now and he felt worn as stone steps. Had all the changes in his life been nothing but losses, here and there? Like chipping a sculpture out of the rock? His hair was going grey, his never-impressive height was dwindling, he had forgotten half of the medical training he received in his twenties.
Hamish snuffled in his sleep. No, it hadn’t always been losses. He had three children. He had learned how to burp a baby and all the scientific names of the dinosaurs. He could pick a lock like a champ, too, and was once given a pair of curly silver cufflinks by a woman whose husband was stabbed in their bed while she was at a conference (John was the one who promised her that Sherlock Holmes would solve the case, so somehow she gave John credit for it when Lestrade arrested a jealous neighbour).
Sherlock had rung twice in the taxi. John ignored the buzzing of his phone. Then had come the messages: “WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT THIS - SH” and “YOU’RE NOT BEING FAIR - SH” and “I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT I’VE DONE - SH”. Incensed, John switched the phone off and stuffed it deep into the pocket of the travelling case.
Perhaps Sherlock was right. Perhaps John should have talked to him before he left, spelled out his grievances and given Sherlock a chance to defend himself. The problem was that if they were going to solve this by talking, John felt that Sherlock was at rather an unfair advantage. Sherlock was better at talking.
If John had stayed, he knew, Sherlock would have talked him around and then nothing would have changed.
Harry had let him in without hesitation, but a wee bit of a chiding. She lived alone (“Never getting married again, I swear,” she’d told John when she dropped into Baker St last Christmas, “Oh falling in love, sure, I can’t help doing that on occasion. But no way am I ever sharing my life with someone else, not again.”) But she was cheerful whenever John saw her. In the rusty-voiced, spray-haired, ripped-stockings way that Harry expressed cheer. Her clothes had cruised towards the professional over the years but had never been tasteful, and her salary had grown to a comfortable threshold that bought the house on Dollis Hill and all the luxuries a single lady desired. She always told John she was on the wagon still, but without meeting his eyes. He in turn told himself, ’She’s a big girl, she doesn’t appreciate me nagging’ and left it at that.
“I knew this would happen,” Harry said, marching around her orange-lino kitchen in a hot pink, satin dressing gown, making him a coffee from the retro-style grinder that must have cost a fortune even though he’d said he didn’t want any caffeine this late. “He’s such an arse, that man. And a face like your cum was lemon juice.”
“Don’t, Harry,” John said, massaging his temples. He would have added not in front of Hamish but last time he’d made that request, Geoff and Murray had come back from a trip with Auntie Harry with a nine new ways to say fellatio. “It’s too early for bitching.”
“It’s never too early for bitching, that’s something you never learned,” Harry plonked the unwanted coffee down in front of him, tightened the belt of her dressing gown and sat down in the closest chair.
FILL: Doctor, Detective and Sons (11/?)tawabidsJune 5 2011, 11:07:27 UTC
She swung her legs one across the other. Her toes were painted black, each with a neon-blue stripe down the centre, even though John was sure there were laws against painting your toenails over the age of forty-five. Sometimes he honestly wondered if he or Harry were adopted. She patted his knee, and took a sip of her own coffee. “You need to let the bitch out. You’re too nice, John.”
“I’m trained to shoot people for a living,” John frowned.
“But do you? No. You run around after Sherlock-Fucking-Holmes, doing Sherlock-Fucking-Holmes’ washing and raising Sherlock-Fucking-Homes’ sons and I’m bloody glad you’ve finally had enough of it.”
“Sherlock fucking,” Hamish said from the armchair in the corner (it was shaped like a giant V-sign, Harry had hung a large paper tongue between the first two fingers). He stuck his hand in his mouth and smiled at John, who felt too tired and beaten-down to scold him.
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyeballs until he saw stars. “I think I’d better just go to bed and get some sleep, Harry.”
“Course. Oh, this coffee was stupid of me, wasn’t it,” she picked up John’s cup, eyed it and then began to drink it. She got up and waved her finger. “I forgot, no caffeine for breastfeeding fathers,” she belted out a laugh that made John’s head throb.
“I never-“ oh, screw it, he wasn’t rising to her bait.
“I’ll rustle up some sheets for the guest room. Do you want flannelette? I bought them but I decided I hate them,” she picked up Hamish and held him above her head. “Do you like flannelette, Hammy? Do you? Oh, who’s my favourite nephew, you are,” Hamish giggled hysterically as she whirled him around and headed down the corridor without waiting for John’s answer.
He wanted to tell her to stop getting Hamish excited or he’d never go to sleep, but instead he put his arms on the table and rested his head on them. When he closed his eyes, all he could see was Sherlock.
And now he was lying awake and it was still all he could see. Sherlock mixing cocoa in their kitchen, brooding over the sight of London out the window while the spoon went clink-clink-clink around the rim of the mug. Sherlock’s face when he held Hamish for the first time, a face John had seen only twice before but each time was the most beautiful expression in the world. Sherlock in the bath, his elbows over the edge and a smirk on his face as John discarded his shirt and stuck his hand under the bubbles to the elbow, leaning down to kiss him. Sherlock pacing, furious because the school won’t put Geoffrey two years ahead, and refusing to calm down until John snatch his sleeve as he passes and tells him Geoffrey has friends in his class he will miss. Sherlock with buckshot in his ribs as a gift from the brother of that bastard he put away in ’08, bleeding onto the street and John wasn’t there because John is always at home with the boys, John didn’t even find out until an hour later when Lestrade finally called from the hospital. Sherlock in an incredibly well-cut, dove-grey suit, putting aside his sibling feud long enough to play Mycroft’s best man when his brother finally convinced his assistant to make him an honest man. Sherlock teaching Murray calculus, both of them lying on their stomachs with their shoes off and their ankles crossed behind them.
Sherlock going down on John on that rickety bed they kept meaning to replace. Sherlock telling Geoffrey not to listen to John because John wasn’t as clever as Daddy, the fucking sod. Sherlock promising John that when he went to Vegas one day to count cards he would bring back millions of American dollars in a suitcase and they would have a dozen more children and live in a mansion in Chelsea. Sherlock staring into the newly-stocked fridge and not taking back that word. Bore, Geoffrey could no doubt provide alternative meanings, ’to pierce‘ or ’to drill‘ and even ’Past tense: to support or endure’ and oh yes, John fitted that one to a tee. But that word was like a puncture in John’s lung with his hopes rushing out with the air, like a thousand holes in the foundations of Baker St until it crumbled beneath their feet.
John rolled onto his side and stared at Harry’s wallpaper, and tried to think wallpapery thoughts until he went to sleep.
Re: FILL: Doctor, Detective and Sons (11/?)tawabidsJune 5 2011, 15:23:19 UTC
So I'm very torn as I read this.
On the one hand, I feel like if you're unhappy and your life is unfulfilling you need to tell your partner and make changes as opposed to expecting your partner to read your mind. But I also feel like John is a helicopter parent who kind of needs a wake up call - if your 10 year old can't be left alone for an hour (and doesn't have the sense to microwave water for oatmeal or put some jam on toast) you need to step back and think about why your children have no life skills. (I'm aware that there are a lot of parents who disagree with me on this last point.)
But, on the other hand, it's Sherlock. A man like that isn't going to raise normal children, isn't going to respect social norms (much less teach his children to respect him) and he'd be a difficult partner.
Re: FILL: Doctor, Detective and Sons (11/?)tawabidsJune 5 2011, 15:29:58 UTC
Haha yes, I should have a disclaimer that I in no way mean to advertise this fic as good parenting skills (or good relationship advice!). Hell, I know if I had a two year old, that kid would've been in daycare waaaaay before now :/ I'd probably be working full-time and the kids would be cooking their own damn meals. AND YOU'RE COMING TO MY FRIEND'S DINNER PARTY TOO, DON'T GIVE ME THAT LOOK YOUNG MAN. GET IN THE CAR.
So don't worry, I'm very aware that there are straightforward solutions to some of John and Sherlock's problems here, and I intend to address that by the end.
Re: FILL: Doctor, Detective and Sons (11/?)tawabidsJune 5 2011, 15:38:16 UTC
Lol, no I understand - fiction is fiction - it's just a little hard to sympathize with John on some level because, looking at his life from the outside in, it's easy to say, "but you did that to yourself, also: they're called condoms", and he's a white male with a doctorate - it's not like there are social taboos keeping him at home. He doesn't trust his husband (?), doesn't trust his kids, and hates the world for things he's done to himself. (But I'm sure a lot of people would say the same about my own life - my religiously and socially conservative family constrain my day-to-day life in ways I find acceptable, and yet instead of just walking away, I stay.)
Re: FILL: Doctor, Detective and Sons (11/?)tawabidsJune 5 2011, 15:57:22 UTC
"but you did that to yourself, also: they're called condoms"
LMAO! XD
I think it's easy to look at anyone's life from the outside and start backseat driving. But most of our decisions aren't rational at the time, so why be ashamed of past mistakes?
I hope if you're not all happy with your situation, things get better one way or another :) if it helps, when I was at a low point last year, a friend happened to link me to this Simon Amstell sketch and that really boosted me (a warning that he does mock religion a tiny bit).
Doctor, Detective and Sons (12/?)tawabidsJune 7 2011, 12:06:20 UTC
Most people awoke slowly, easing themselves through morning rituals and dark brown stimulants before their brains were nimble enough for complex tasks. Sherlock, for instance, often sat on the edge of the bed in his underwear and socks, blinking at the wall, for up to half an hour in the morning before he even spoke his first word (usually “teaplease”). Years in the army had left John with a sleep switch that flicked off in a moment (and, if there was no emergency, could often flick back on with hardly any disturbance to his rest). So when the muffled ringing of a phone wriggled down into his unconscious mind, off went the switch. He lay still for a few seconds, listening until the ringing stopped without really processing why it might be there in the first place. He was about to drop back into sleep when he heard Harry’s footsteps outside the door, and the handle turning.
“John?”
He pushed up onto his elbow. Harry’s voice was zombified but clear.
“John, it’s Geoff.”
John sat up properly and swung his legs over the bed, holding out his hand. His watch on the bedside table told him it was twenty-five to two in the morning. Harry passed the phone over and John put it to his ear.
“Geoff? You okay?” it came out as a squeak and he cleared his throat.
“I’m fine,” his eldest son’s voice was alert but John could hear a waver in it. Geoffrey was not a voice-wavering kind of kid. He was usually the mellow patience to Murray’s dramatic flair.
“What’s up?” John shot up a quick prayer that this was just Geoffrey being an insomniac, needing to talk about what had happened. But no such luck.
“Murray’s run off.”
John balled his empty fist in Harry’s flannelette sheets. His sister was watching his reaction and moved a little closer, perching on the bed next to him and putting her hand over his clenched fingers.
“When? Do you know where he’s gone?”
“He didn’t leave a note or anything. I think he waited until I was almost asleep because I remember him moving around, but I thought he was getting a drink or something. But I woke up just now and he’s gone. His schoolbag too.”
“Right,” John closed his eyes, took a breath. “Has Daddy gone after him?”
“Daddy doesn’t know yet.”
“You didn’t wake him?”
“I called you, Dad,” the waver in Geoffrey’s voice was becoming tears. “You’ll know what to do.”
“Okay, Geoff, don’t worry,” John stood up as quietly as he could, reaching for his pants in the neat pile of clothes he’d left in the corner. He began to put them on one-handed, then held the phone with his cheek to pull them up fully. The movement stretched the bad shoulder, which gave a warning throb. “Go into our room, wake Daddy and tell him what you just told me, but stay on the line. I’m getting dressed right now.”
“Okay.”
He held the phone out to Harry, whispering, “Tell me if he comes back on.”
Even in the dark in an unfamiliar room, he was dressed head to toe in moments and equipped with the vitals - wallet, watch, pocket torch, phone (switched off in the taxi; he turned it on to find two missed calls from their landline in the last five minutes) and key ring (221b key left behind, dammit, why’d he need to make that spiteful gesture?).
“John, he’s back,” Harry passed him the phone.
“Geoff?” John went and knelt to check Hamish was still sleeping soundly and then moved out into the hall with Harry in tow.
Doctor, Detective and Sons (13/?)tawabidsJune 7 2011, 12:12:05 UTC
John’s entire spine went rigid and his heart tripled its rhythm. “What do you mean?” oh, no, Sherlock would never, he could throw a tantrum when he wanted to but Sherlock would never, ever leave his children-
“He’s real sleepy, he just mumbled and rolled over.”
Oh, thank God. Thank God. Think, think John, some of that consulting detective genius must have rubbed off on you.
“Ok, Geoff, have a look around the bed, is there anything a bit funny?”
Two seconds of heart-wrenching silence, and then a rustle and Geoffrey returned, “Yeah, he’s got a box of something by the bed. OxyNorm.”
Brand name of oxycodone - painkillers, opioid derivative. There had been a few left over from when Sherlock caught the buckshot revenge and was recovering at home. Sherlock had been very keen on them, and John should have thrown the leftovers out. Stupid.
“Talk to him, Geoff, ask him how many he’s taken,” John buried his hand in his hair, squeezing his eyes shut. How many of the damn pills had there been left? Six? Twelve? More?
“Take my car,” Harry had disappeared into her bedroom and returned with a set of keys on a fob shaped like a turquoise cat.
Geoffrey’s voice was back. “He’s says only four.”
Good, that was good. Sherlock had just wanted a quick, numbing fix - this wasn’t some unexpected urge to self-harm. John hadn’t realised he was holding his breath until he let it out in a whoosh. “Okay, can you convince him to sit up?”
The phone crackled and Geoffrey became muffled and distant as he spoke to Sherlock. “Daddy! Daddy, sit up. Dad’s on the phone. Daddy, come on, this is important.”
John waited, and waited, and Geoff finally said frantically, “He’s too sleepy.”
“Put the phone against his ear,” John said firmly. He took a couple of steps into the kitchen, shutting the door so that there were two doors between him and Hamish. Harry was still hovering nearby, her hand to her mouth and the car keys clutched in her hand. John waited a couple of seconds until he heard the cordless stop moving, and then he said, loudly but not at the top of his voice, “Sherlock, wake up. Get out of bed,” he waited, heard a low mumble of his own name. “It’s John. Sherlock get out of bed.”
Then he could only wait once more as he heard movement, Sherlock’s voice and Geoff’s mingling together in the distance, and finally his partner speaking properly into the phone. Not quite awake by the sound of it, but at least aware. “John.”
“Murray’s run off. We need to find him.”
“What?” Sherlock’s voice slurred. “Where’s he gone?”
“We don’t know,” John was working to keep his voice calm. “I’m going to take Harry’s car and come right over there, okay? With any luck he’s walking to find me and I’ll see him on the way. If not, be ready to go.”
He hung up the phone and put it down and Harry’s kitchen bench.
Doctor, Detective and Sons (14/?)tawabidsJune 7 2011, 12:27:49 UTC
Geoffrey opened the door for him. His eldest was in PJs, dressing gown and slippers, and except for a little redness around his eyes he looked like a count or an earl dressing for casual guests; John was pretty sure he’d even combed his hair. He couldn’t believe how very Holmes his sons were. John put his arm around his shoulders and hurried him upstairs.
Sherlock was on the sofa, fully dressed with his head in his hands. He raised it with what looked like great effort as John came in, and then stood up quickly.
“I didn’t see him on my way here,” John began.
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock overrode him at once. The slur was mostly gone from his voice but he still sounded just a little doped up. “I’m sorry, I should have heard him on the stairs and stopped him leaving, if I hadn’t been pushing the damn pills-”
“Sherlock,” John raised his hand. Geoffrey was slumped against his side. “It’s not your fault. But I need your brain right now. What have you got?”
“It’s Murray, not a murder!” Sherlock rubbed his neck with both hands and his gaze roamed around the flat.
“Get into gear,” John barked.
Sherlock took a breath, “There’s five pounds missing from my wallet. If Geoff figured out you were at Aunt Harry’s, I think Murray would have, too.”
“Her address and number is on the list on the fridge,” Geoffrey piped up.
Sherlock shot him a small smile. “Five pounds isn’t enough for a taxi so he was going to take the bus.”
“But there aren’t any suburban routes running at this time of night,” John pointed out.
“No, but it’s not a route he knows, and the computer hasn’t been used since you-since you left, so he didn’t look them up, he was meaning to check the maps at the bus stop at the end of the street. When he found there weren’t going to be any buses past that stop, he would have gone to the big exchange three blocks away. Well-lit, lots of people and cars to hear him screaming if he got in trouble, he’s not stupid. He would have realised there weren’t the buses he needed from there, either, but by that time he was almost a kilometre to the east of the direct route to Harry’s house. If he decided to walk - and given he didn’t come back here and he knows not to take rides from strangers, that’s probably what he did - he would have used the maps at the exchange to work out the most efficient route. He’s good at remembering maps, he probably won’t get lost.”
“It’s still two hours walk,” John said through gritted teeth. “And you’re assuming he was looking for me. Maybe he’s just angry, wandered off in a huff-“
Sherlock shook his head. “Of course he was looking for you. Trying to make a scene and worry the hell out of us while he’s at it, yes, but he would have left a note if he was doing it for the attention.”
“Can you work out his route from the exchange?”
Sherlock nodded.
“Then we drive up and down it until we find him. Okay?”
“I’ll get a proper coat,” Geoffrey said.
Before he thought about it John replied, “No, you stay here and get some sleep.”
“Now way!” Geoffrey cried, and at the same time Sherlock said:
“But you didn’t want Murray left here on his own.”
John looked at him. Sherlock’s eyes were small and dark beneath his furrowed brows. The hurt in his face was physically present, like a second shadow, like a brand burned into Sherlock’s crinkled features. The pain there was accusing, but only a little. Mostly it was just reflected guilt, like Sherlock was saying but I you made me believe I’d done WRONG.
“I,” John’s throat was suddenly dry. “I overreacted. Or maybe I wasn’t reacting to what I said I was reacting to.”
He turned away, found Geoffrey looking at him from the doorway. “I’m still getting my coat,” his son said. He coughed into his elbow and dashed up the stairs.
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It was near midnight on the crossover between Monday and Tuesday, and John was lying on his sister’s guest bed and crying about what he had done. Silently, of course, with his hand over his mouth to make absolutely sure. Hamish was asleep on the bed beside him, flat on his back on his favourite blanket with Harry’s orient-patterned duvet pulled over him. The room had blinds instead of curtains, and every now and then a car rolled past outside and cast bars of headlight across the ceiling.
John closed his eyes and tried to stop thinking. He couldn’t. He had lost that ability during his years with Sherlock Holmes, like he lost any chance of being a surgeon when the bullet dug deep through bone and snapped the subclavian artery like a pin through a water balloon. He was fifty-one years old now and he felt worn as stone steps. Had all the changes in his life been nothing but losses, here and there? Like chipping a sculpture out of the rock? His hair was going grey, his never-impressive height was dwindling, he had forgotten half of the medical training he received in his twenties.
Hamish snuffled in his sleep. No, it hadn’t always been losses. He had three children. He had learned how to burp a baby and all the scientific names of the dinosaurs. He could pick a lock like a champ, too, and was once given a pair of curly silver cufflinks by a woman whose husband was stabbed in their bed while she was at a conference (John was the one who promised her that Sherlock Holmes would solve the case, so somehow she gave John credit for it when Lestrade arrested a jealous neighbour).
Sherlock had rung twice in the taxi. John ignored the buzzing of his phone. Then had come the messages: “WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT THIS - SH” and “YOU’RE NOT BEING FAIR - SH” and “I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT I’VE DONE - SH”. Incensed, John switched the phone off and stuffed it deep into the pocket of the travelling case.
Perhaps Sherlock was right. Perhaps John should have talked to him before he left, spelled out his grievances and given Sherlock a chance to defend himself. The problem was that if they were going to solve this by talking, John felt that Sherlock was at rather an unfair advantage. Sherlock was better at talking.
If John had stayed, he knew, Sherlock would have talked him around and then nothing would have changed.
Harry had let him in without hesitation, but a wee bit of a chiding. She lived alone (“Never getting married again, I swear,” she’d told John when she dropped into Baker St last Christmas, “Oh falling in love, sure, I can’t help doing that on occasion. But no way am I ever sharing my life with someone else, not again.”) But she was cheerful whenever John saw her. In the rusty-voiced, spray-haired, ripped-stockings way that Harry expressed cheer. Her clothes had cruised towards the professional over the years but had never been tasteful, and her salary had grown to a comfortable threshold that bought the house on Dollis Hill and all the luxuries a single lady desired. She always told John she was on the wagon still, but without meeting his eyes. He in turn told himself, ’She’s a big girl, she doesn’t appreciate me nagging’ and left it at that.
“I knew this would happen,” Harry said, marching around her orange-lino kitchen in a hot pink, satin dressing gown, making him a coffee from the retro-style grinder that must have cost a fortune even though he’d said he didn’t want any caffeine this late. “He’s such an arse, that man. And a face like your cum was lemon juice.”
“Don’t, Harry,” John said, massaging his temples. He would have added not in front of Hamish but last time he’d made that request, Geoff and Murray had come back from a trip with Auntie Harry with a nine new ways to say fellatio. “It’s too early for bitching.”
“It’s never too early for bitching, that’s something you never learned,” Harry plonked the unwanted coffee down in front of him, tightened the belt of her dressing gown and sat down in the closest chair.
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“I’m trained to shoot people for a living,” John frowned.
“But do you? No. You run around after Sherlock-Fucking-Holmes, doing Sherlock-Fucking-Holmes’ washing and raising Sherlock-Fucking-Homes’ sons and I’m bloody glad you’ve finally had enough of it.”
“Sherlock fucking,” Hamish said from the armchair in the corner (it was shaped like a giant V-sign, Harry had hung a large paper tongue between the first two fingers). He stuck his hand in his mouth and smiled at John, who felt too tired and beaten-down to scold him.
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyeballs until he saw stars. “I think I’d better just go to bed and get some sleep, Harry.”
“Course. Oh, this coffee was stupid of me, wasn’t it,” she picked up John’s cup, eyed it and then began to drink it. She got up and waved her finger. “I forgot, no caffeine for breastfeeding fathers,” she belted out a laugh that made John’s head throb.
“I never-“ oh, screw it, he wasn’t rising to her bait.
“I’ll rustle up some sheets for the guest room. Do you want flannelette? I bought them but I decided I hate them,” she picked up Hamish and held him above her head. “Do you like flannelette, Hammy? Do you? Oh, who’s my favourite nephew, you are,” Hamish giggled hysterically as she whirled him around and headed down the corridor without waiting for John’s answer.
He wanted to tell her to stop getting Hamish excited or he’d never go to sleep, but instead he put his arms on the table and rested his head on them. When he closed his eyes, all he could see was Sherlock.
And now he was lying awake and it was still all he could see. Sherlock mixing cocoa in their kitchen, brooding over the sight of London out the window while the spoon went clink-clink-clink around the rim of the mug. Sherlock’s face when he held Hamish for the first time, a face John had seen only twice before but each time was the most beautiful expression in the world. Sherlock in the bath, his elbows over the edge and a smirk on his face as John discarded his shirt and stuck his hand under the bubbles to the elbow, leaning down to kiss him. Sherlock pacing, furious because the school won’t put Geoffrey two years ahead, and refusing to calm down until John snatch his sleeve as he passes and tells him Geoffrey has friends in his class he will miss. Sherlock with buckshot in his ribs as a gift from the brother of that bastard he put away in ’08, bleeding onto the street and John wasn’t there because John is always at home with the boys, John didn’t even find out until an hour later when Lestrade finally called from the hospital. Sherlock in an incredibly well-cut, dove-grey suit, putting aside his sibling feud long enough to play Mycroft’s best man when his brother finally convinced his assistant to make him an honest man. Sherlock teaching Murray calculus, both of them lying on their stomachs with their shoes off and their ankles crossed behind them.
Sherlock going down on John on that rickety bed they kept meaning to replace. Sherlock telling Geoffrey not to listen to John because John wasn’t as clever as Daddy, the fucking sod. Sherlock promising John that when he went to Vegas one day to count cards he would bring back millions of American dollars in a suitcase and they would have a dozen more children and live in a mansion in Chelsea. Sherlock staring into the newly-stocked fridge and not taking back that word. Bore, Geoffrey could no doubt provide alternative meanings, ’to pierce‘ or ’to drill‘ and even ’Past tense: to support or endure’ and oh yes, John fitted that one to a tee. But that word was like a puncture in John’s lung with his hopes rushing out with the air, like a thousand holes in the foundations of Baker St until it crumbled beneath their feet.
John rolled onto his side and stared at Harry’s wallpaper, and tried to think wallpapery thoughts until he went to sleep.
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On the one hand, I feel like if you're unhappy and your life is unfulfilling you need to tell your partner and make changes as opposed to expecting your partner to read your mind. But I also feel like John is a helicopter parent who kind of needs a wake up call - if your 10 year old can't be left alone for an hour (and doesn't have the sense to microwave water for oatmeal or put some jam on toast) you need to step back and think about why your children have no life skills. (I'm aware that there are a lot of parents who disagree with me on this last point.)
But, on the other hand, it's Sherlock. A man like that isn't going to raise normal children, isn't going to respect social norms (much less teach his children to respect him) and he'd be a difficult partner.
Torn.
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So don't worry, I'm very aware that there are straightforward solutions to some of John and Sherlock's problems here, and I intend to address that by the end.
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LMAO! XD
I think it's easy to look at anyone's life from the outside and start backseat driving. But most of our decisions aren't rational at the time, so why be ashamed of past mistakes?
I hope if you're not all happy with your situation, things get better one way or another :) if it helps, when I was at a low point last year, a friend happened to link me to this Simon Amstell sketch and that really boosted me (a warning that he does mock religion a tiny bit).
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“John?”
He pushed up onto his elbow. Harry’s voice was zombified but clear.
“John, it’s Geoff.”
John sat up properly and swung his legs over the bed, holding out his hand. His watch on the bedside table told him it was twenty-five to two in the morning. Harry passed the phone over and John put it to his ear.
“Geoff? You okay?” it came out as a squeak and he cleared his throat.
“I’m fine,” his eldest son’s voice was alert but John could hear a waver in it. Geoffrey was not a voice-wavering kind of kid. He was usually the mellow patience to Murray’s dramatic flair.
“What’s up?” John shot up a quick prayer that this was just Geoffrey being an insomniac, needing to talk about what had happened. But no such luck.
“Murray’s run off.”
John balled his empty fist in Harry’s flannelette sheets. His sister was watching his reaction and moved a little closer, perching on the bed next to him and putting her hand over his clenched fingers.
“When? Do you know where he’s gone?”
“He didn’t leave a note or anything. I think he waited until I was almost asleep because I remember him moving around, but I thought he was getting a drink or something. But I woke up just now and he’s gone. His schoolbag too.”
“Right,” John closed his eyes, took a breath. “Has Daddy gone after him?”
“Daddy doesn’t know yet.”
“You didn’t wake him?”
“I called you, Dad,” the waver in Geoffrey’s voice was becoming tears. “You’ll know what to do.”
“Okay, Geoff, don’t worry,” John stood up as quietly as he could, reaching for his pants in the neat pile of clothes he’d left in the corner. He began to put them on one-handed, then held the phone with his cheek to pull them up fully. The movement stretched the bad shoulder, which gave a warning throb. “Go into our room, wake Daddy and tell him what you just told me, but stay on the line. I’m getting dressed right now.”
“Okay.”
He held the phone out to Harry, whispering, “Tell me if he comes back on.”
Even in the dark in an unfamiliar room, he was dressed head to toe in moments and equipped with the vitals - wallet, watch, pocket torch, phone (switched off in the taxi; he turned it on to find two missed calls from their landline in the last five minutes) and key ring (221b key left behind, dammit, why’d he need to make that spiteful gesture?).
“John, he’s back,” Harry passed him the phone.
“Geoff?” John went and knelt to check Hamish was still sleeping soundly and then moved out into the hall with Harry in tow.
“Daddy won’t wake up.”
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“He’s real sleepy, he just mumbled and rolled over.”
Oh, thank God. Thank God. Think, think John, some of that consulting detective genius must have rubbed off on you.
“Ok, Geoff, have a look around the bed, is there anything a bit funny?”
Two seconds of heart-wrenching silence, and then a rustle and Geoffrey returned, “Yeah, he’s got a box of something by the bed. OxyNorm.”
Brand name of oxycodone - painkillers, opioid derivative. There had been a few left over from when Sherlock caught the buckshot revenge and was recovering at home. Sherlock had been very keen on them, and John should have thrown the leftovers out. Stupid.
“Talk to him, Geoff, ask him how many he’s taken,” John buried his hand in his hair, squeezing his eyes shut. How many of the damn pills had there been left? Six? Twelve? More?
“Take my car,” Harry had disappeared into her bedroom and returned with a set of keys on a fob shaped like a turquoise cat.
Geoffrey’s voice was back. “He’s says only four.”
Good, that was good. Sherlock had just wanted a quick, numbing fix - this wasn’t some unexpected urge to self-harm. John hadn’t realised he was holding his breath until he let it out in a whoosh. “Okay, can you convince him to sit up?”
The phone crackled and Geoffrey became muffled and distant as he spoke to Sherlock. “Daddy! Daddy, sit up. Dad’s on the phone. Daddy, come on, this is important.”
John waited, and waited, and Geoff finally said frantically, “He’s too sleepy.”
“Put the phone against his ear,” John said firmly. He took a couple of steps into the kitchen, shutting the door so that there were two doors between him and Hamish. Harry was still hovering nearby, her hand to her mouth and the car keys clutched in her hand. John waited a couple of seconds until he heard the cordless stop moving, and then he said, loudly but not at the top of his voice, “Sherlock, wake up. Get out of bed,” he waited, heard a low mumble of his own name. “It’s John. Sherlock get out of bed.”
Then he could only wait once more as he heard movement, Sherlock’s voice and Geoff’s mingling together in the distance, and finally his partner speaking properly into the phone. Not quite awake by the sound of it, but at least aware. “John.”
“Murray’s run off. We need to find him.”
“What?” Sherlock’s voice slurred. “Where’s he gone?”
“We don’t know,” John was working to keep his voice calm. “I’m going to take Harry’s car and come right over there, okay? With any luck he’s walking to find me and I’ll see him on the way. If not, be ready to go.”
He hung up the phone and put it down and Harry’s kitchen bench.
His hands were not shaking.
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Sherlock was on the sofa, fully dressed with his head in his hands. He raised it with what looked like great effort as John came in, and then stood up quickly.
“I didn’t see him on my way here,” John began.
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock overrode him at once. The slur was mostly gone from his voice but he still sounded just a little doped up. “I’m sorry, I should have heard him on the stairs and stopped him leaving, if I hadn’t been pushing the damn pills-”
“Sherlock,” John raised his hand. Geoffrey was slumped against his side. “It’s not your fault. But I need your brain right now. What have you got?”
“It’s Murray, not a murder!” Sherlock rubbed his neck with both hands and his gaze roamed around the flat.
“Get into gear,” John barked.
Sherlock took a breath, “There’s five pounds missing from my wallet. If Geoff figured out you were at Aunt Harry’s, I think Murray would have, too.”
“Her address and number is on the list on the fridge,” Geoffrey piped up.
Sherlock shot him a small smile. “Five pounds isn’t enough for a taxi so he was going to take the bus.”
“But there aren’t any suburban routes running at this time of night,” John pointed out.
“No, but it’s not a route he knows, and the computer hasn’t been used since you-since you left, so he didn’t look them up, he was meaning to check the maps at the bus stop at the end of the street. When he found there weren’t going to be any buses past that stop, he would have gone to the big exchange three blocks away. Well-lit, lots of people and cars to hear him screaming if he got in trouble, he’s not stupid. He would have realised there weren’t the buses he needed from there, either, but by that time he was almost a kilometre to the east of the direct route to Harry’s house. If he decided to walk - and given he didn’t come back here and he knows not to take rides from strangers, that’s probably what he did - he would have used the maps at the exchange to work out the most efficient route. He’s good at remembering maps, he probably won’t get lost.”
“It’s still two hours walk,” John said through gritted teeth. “And you’re assuming he was looking for me. Maybe he’s just angry, wandered off in a huff-“
Sherlock shook his head. “Of course he was looking for you. Trying to make a scene and worry the hell out of us while he’s at it, yes, but he would have left a note if he was doing it for the attention.”
“Can you work out his route from the exchange?”
Sherlock nodded.
“Then we drive up and down it until we find him. Okay?”
“I’ll get a proper coat,” Geoffrey said.
Before he thought about it John replied, “No, you stay here and get some sleep.”
“Now way!” Geoffrey cried, and at the same time Sherlock said:
“But you didn’t want Murray left here on his own.”
John looked at him. Sherlock’s eyes were small and dark beneath his furrowed brows. The hurt in his face was physically present, like a second shadow, like a brand burned into Sherlock’s crinkled features. The pain there was accusing, but only a little. Mostly it was just reflected guilt, like Sherlock was saying but I you made me believe I’d done WRONG.
“I,” John’s throat was suddenly dry. “I overreacted. Or maybe I wasn’t reacting to what I said I was reacting to.”
He turned away, found Geoffrey looking at him from the doorway. “I’m still getting my coat,” his son said. He coughed into his elbow and dashed up the stairs.
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(Seriously though, this is a great fic and I just want to hug everybody)
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