On the Eighth Day of Sherlockmas... "For His Own Good" (Part 1 of 2), a gift for brighteyed_jill.
Author: ?
Title: For His Own Good
A gift for: brighteyed_jill
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Category: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit sex
Summary: After the confrontation with Moriarty, and the subsequent explosion at the pool that nearly kills John, Sherlock comes to a realization of how he feels and what he must do.
Author's Notes: Many thanks to ? for Brit-picking and giving me some great ideas and pointing out all the inconsistencies and mistakes! Thanks to ? for being an amazing beta!
He opens his eyes slowly. At first all he knows is pain and confusion. There is no awareness of who he is, where he is, what day it is, whether it is morning or night. There is only the hazy awareness of his body, the dull throb of pain. Everything else is either unimportant or unreachable, lost on a distant shore in the back of his mind, hidden by the fog of drugs. He tries to lick his lips. Dry. So dry. The only sound he can make is a soft, pain-filled groan.
A chair scrapes against the floor and John tries to turn his head toward the sound, but the pain in his skull blanks everything out in a flare of white.
This time he whimpers.
A moment later, someone is there speaking softly to him. He’s given an ice chip to suck on, there are reassurances of relief as the woman clicks on the morphine drip that John cannot yet manage himself. Another person arrives, pulling his eyelids back to check his pupils, asking him what his name is. It takes him a moment of concentration, but he knows the answer. He just can’t quite get the muscles in his mouth and his mind to coordinate long enough to say it. There’s a reassuring pat to his hand, the assurance that it will be better next time.
The medication floods through his system, bringing relief and haziness to both his mind and body.
*****
The next time is a little better. The room is dark, but he has no idea if it’s night or if the blinds have been closed. Someone is there. He can feel fingers laced through his. His eyes are crusty and can’t seem to focus as he opens them. His fingers twitch and there’s a startled snort to the side.
Someone is sitting with him. Someone fell asleep watching over him. The hand loosely holding his squeezes for a moment before pulling away.
He tries again, licking dry lips with an equally dry tongue before croaking, “Shrrlck?” The chair scrapes against the floor. There is the sound of footsteps, of a door opening. By the time he has managed to turn his head, the room is empty once more. Only the lingering warmth of his left hand indicates that someone was there just a few moments before. His right reaches out, finds the button that controls the morphine, and gives it a squeeze.
*****
The third time John wakes up he can tell that someone is in the room because there is a low-pitched conversation in progress regarding his condition. He can’t quite focus on the words, only the tones, one of them quite arch and demanding, which makes John call out uncertainly, “Shrlock?”
The conversation ceases and the sound of someone drawing closer makes John turn his head carefully and try to concentrate on the face that comes into his vision. A hand comes to rest on his arm and the features above him swim into focus. There is a mix of disappointment and panic when John realizes who it is. His left hand clutches at the bedding as he stares up into Mycroft’s eyes and repeats again, “Sherlock??”
The brother misunderstands the question. “No John, no, it’s Mycroft. Do you remember what happened?”
John closes his eyes, fear suffusing him as he tries to focus and think clearly. It’s hard. So very hard. His mind is a jumble, bits and pieces and fragments of himself, of memories. Finally he manages to get out, “Moriarty. Explosion.” The rest dissolves into confusion and distress. Why can’t he think? Where is Sherlock?? His eyes open again, stricken not with pain but panic. But all he can manage to articulate once more is his flatmate’s name.
A look of disappointment comes over Mycroft’s features, but vanishes within seconds, his hand squeezing John’s arm again as he reassures, “Sherlock is fine, John. You took the brunt of the damage. But you’re alive and, with physical therapy, you should be able to walk again and regain full use of your left arm.” John’s expression shifts with confusion as he tries to move his arms. Each one feels leaden and weak, and when he tries to move his legs they too are sluggish and impossibly heavy. His breathing comes faster, more frantic. He can hear his heart rate rising, the monitor by his bedside beeping faster and faster.
There’s a soft murmur from behind Mycroft and he looks toward the doctor standing there, nodding before turning back to John. “Rest now. Just rest. You’re going to be disoriented for a while, but you’re getting better John. I’m very relieved with the progress of your improvement.
He doesn’t understand any of it, but he’s tired. So tired. Without meaning to, without wanting to, John slips back into an exhausted sleep.
*****
It takes many more times, many more awakenings before John is coherent and able to focus. To understand what is being said to him, to remember it and, more importantly, to speak his thoughts aloud rather than single words or garbled phrases.
He’s heard it over and over again, he’s sure. Sometimes from doctors, sometimes from nurses, on even more rare occasions, from Mycroft himself. He was in an explosion. He was badly injured. Sherlock is fine.
More often than not, he wakes up alone. Sometimes there is a nurse or doctor attending to him, their touch or their voice stirring him to awareness.
But sometimes, he could swear that he heard Sherlock’s voice speaking to him. Felt Sherlock’s long fingers stroking over his brow or intertwined with his own shorter ones. Sometimes he would turn his head and swear that the blanket covering him smelled faintly like Sherlock.
When he awakens this time, the person standing next to him is Mycroft. Shrewd eyes study John’s face as he asks, “Do you know who I am?”
John nods slowly.
“Do you know who you are?”
John nods again.
“What do I do for a living?”
Taking a careful breath, John replies in a voice hoarse and rough with disuse, “You hold a minor position in the government… which is bollocks.”
John tries to move and panics when his body is sluggish to respond, muscles weak, each limb a leaden weight.
This must be a common occurrence. With a soft sigh of mild impatience, Mycroft lays a reassuring hand on John’s shoulder and explains, “You were caught in an explosion John. Your leg was trapped under rubble and severely damaged. Your left shoulder was shattered, and you had numerous broken bones, burns, and contusions. The doctors managed to pin you back together but you suffered trauma to the brain. You’ve been in a coma for a month.
John lies there quietly, letting the information sink into him slowly, determined to hold onto it this time no matter what the cost. But he can’t stop himself from asking the one thing that he keeps coming back to, even though he already knows the answer. “Sherlock?”
Another sigh, this time of annoyance. John tries not to take it personally.
“Sherlock is back at 221b Baker Street. He suffered some broken ribs, lacerations and burns, a concussion, some internal bleeding, but he’s fine now. Fully recovered and back to his usual foolishness, running after criminals and solving crimes.”
John lays there, information and acceptance settling into place except for one niggling thought. “Mycroft. Why are you here?” The unspoken question is clear. It isn’t why is Mycroft here. It’s why isn’t Sherlock?
“Because I owe you my brother’s life. And, apparently unlike my brother, I take your well being quite seriously. Between Sherlock’s self-absorption and your sister’s alcoholic condition, it seemed that you needed someone to be responsible for your care. So that person became me.”
John considers that for a moment, uneasy at the thought that neither his sister nor his best friend would be here for him. That a man who is nearly a stranger would be the only one to take an interest in his well-being.
A commiserating hand gently pats his shoulder as Mycroft seems to read his mind and take pity on him. “It will be alright John. I’ve lined up the best surgeons and physical therapists available for your care. But for now, just rest and let your body heal. The rest can wait till later.”
*****
The physical therapy was grueling. The hospital and rehab were interminable. But it would have all been worthwhile if he felt like there was a reason for it all. It would have been tolerable if only Sherlock had come round on occasion to visit. Tell him about the cases he was solving, the adventures he was having.
Without John.
Yes, of course he wants to be able to walk again, to regain the full use of his body. And right now sheer determination and stubbornness, two of John Watson’s best traits it seems, are causing him to have greater success than any of his doctors or physical therapists anticipated. But it feels like it’s all for naught.
What’s the point of being able to run if he isn’t running after Sherlock on some madcap, fool adventure? What’s the point of having a steady hand if he can't use it to help Sherlock up, or tend his wounds after something's gone wrong, or hold a bloody gun straight?
But Sherlock hasn’t shown his face since John woke up. Not once.
He shouldn’t be surprised. Really, he shouldn’t. Sherlock has always been a selfish sort of creature, wrapped up in his own world, his own needs and desires. For months now John’s known that he merely makes Sherlock’s life a tad easier and gives him a slightly more communicative partner to discuss his ideas with. A skull is great when you don’t want an argument, but bones rarely praise your brilliance either. Naturally he wouldn’t visit. Sherlock is only interested in hospitals when there’s a dead body to study or a lab to work in. Sickness, infirmity, these things hold little interest for the consulting detective. And if John can’t keep up with Sherlock, then what use is he?
Still, he thought by now they had something more. John had already resigned himself to the fact that Sherlock would never return his affections. That he would never look at John with attraction or lust… or love. For himself, John had managed to compartmentalize that part of himself and close it off. Oh, sure, he knew that he slipped every so often. That he looked at Sherlock’s body with desire before he turned away to head to the kitchen in an effort to hide his reaction.
Tea is a terribly convenient excuse. Sherlock must think him addicted to the stuff by now.
Sitting in his room, staring out at the rain, John is quietly grateful that his gun is still safely ensconced back at Baker Street. He hasn’t felt this alone and cast adrift since those dark days after he returned from Afghanistan. He takes a deep breath and holds it before letting it out slowly.
All he has to do is finish this. Heal his body, get back to the flat. Everything will go back to the way it was. It will be fine. He’ll make it fine.
*****
He’s been pacing the apartment for hours now, waiting for Mycroft to show up, to give him news of John’s condition. Of his recovery.
It’s been an interminable month. After the explosion, as soon as he was able, Sherlock spent every moment he could at John’s side, willing him to wake up. And every time John came to, Sherlock had to force himself to leave the room. Because John can’t know. John can never know how much he has come to mean to Sherlock.
Watching John sleep was of little comfort to Sherlock, when all he wanted to do was hold him and talk to him and know that he was alive and alright. But not being able to see him at all? Torture. Pure torture. How could one person come to mean so much? How could one man completely change his life without him even realizing it?
Intolerable. Impossible. But irrefutable. John Watson has managed to do what no other person has managed. He’s made the infinitely logical, eminently superior Sherlock Holmes… fall in love.
It’s positively insupportable.
Of course now that Mycroft is here, Sherlock wants him to leave. He gave his report, which he insists on doing in person much to Sherlock’s great displeasure, but now he apparently feels the need to linger on and play the role of the elder brother, berating Sherlock for his life choices. Per usual.
“Sherlock. This has to stop. You have to tell him. This is cruel, even for you. Dr. Watson deserves better than this. Every time I see him, he’s doing better and better physically, but I feel like I’m watching him waste away.”
Sherlock lifts his head up from his intense scrutiny of his flat’s floor to glare up at his brother, teeth bared. “Of course John deserves better. That’s precisely why I’m doing this. He has to make the decision. He has to be the one who leaves. If I tell him the truth, he’ll just deny it. Fight me. Refuse to back down, to go away. It’s better like this. Yes, it will hurt for a bit, but he already knows what a cold bastard I am. It won’t be difficult for him to realize that he should just go and leave me.”
Twirling his umbrella in place, Mycroft sighs. “You could leave him. It would be simple. You could die in an accident, or at “Moriarty’s” hands. I could arrange that. And wouldn’t that be kinder? If you’re going to hurt him, best to make it quick and final. This course of action, it’s just prolonging the pain unnecessarily.”
“Indeed. But a broken heart is easier to get over than one torn asunder. John is in love with me. He tries to hide it, he has accepted the fact that I didn’t want a relationship, but I don’t believe his feelings have changed over these past few months. John believes his love is unrequited.” He ignores Mycroft’s pointedly arched eyebrow, pushing onward to his point. “If our friendship were to dissolve as well, he will be hurt and sad, but he will move on. He already sees me as an emotionally disconnected asexual. But if I were to die?” Sherlock’s head shakes as he draws the line. “No, Mycroft, I can’t do that to him. Not when he’s already lost so many friends in Afghanistan. Even if I did, what would happen when he finds out that I’m not dead? That would be a far crueler trick than just letting him believe what he already thinks is the truth.”
“And what of yourself then?”
Sherlock’s hand slashes through the air as he declares, “Irrelevant. The only thing that matters now is John’s safety and well being.” His pale silvery eyes lift and Mycroft blinks in surprise at the level of undisguised emotion brimming just beneath the surface there. “I don’t matter. My feelings don’t matter. John matters. I need him to leave me. I need him off of Moriarty’s radar. They both have to believe that I don’t care about him.”
Turning away, Sherlock rubs his hand over his mouth and stares out the window, confessing, “I already almost lost him once, Mycroft. I can’t bear to lose him twice.”
“You lose him either way.”
“Yes, but he’ll stay alive if he leaves me. I cannot be the cause of John’s death. I will give him up before it comes to that.”
*****
Home. He’s finally home. Thank God. Now things can get back to normal. Well, as normal as anything can be when you live with Sherlock Holmes.
He sent Sherlock a text, letting him know that he would be coming back today. He squashed the irrational desire that Sherlock would be waiting for him when he came out of the hospital with a cab beside him and a smile on his lips. That was ludicrous to think. He stands at the bottom of the stairs, studying them dubiously. He’s well enough to move on his own, but he has only been walking over relatively flat surfaces. These stairs will be a challenge.
Jutting out his jaw, John sets his teeth and begins the climb. Each step is difficult and painful, but he forces himself up, bit-by-bit, step-by-step. By the time he reaches the top he is sweating, trembling, and weak, but he did it! He conquered the stairs! This is cause for celebration. Hobbling his way to their door, he pushes it open and calls out cheerfully, “Sherlock! I’m home!”
The room is deserted, the flat silent. It takes John a ridiculously long amount of time to realize Sherlock isn’t there to greet him, to welcome him home. He isn’t even there to ignore John while he rambles on endlessly about his latest deduction or curled up on the couch having a strop.
John thumps his way over to his chair and stares at the files and papers and stuff that has been piled up on it and swallows down the lump in his throat. He doesn’t know why it hurts so much. It’s just a chair, after all. It’s not like he sat upon it one day and proclaimed for all to know, “This is my chair!” But it’s the chair he always sat in. The chair that he found the most comfortable and pleasing. The one in which he sipped tea and patiently listened to Sherlock ramble on and on. To see it filled with clutter feels too much like he’s been forgotten. Like he’s been replaced. With a soft sigh, he thumps over to the couch and nearly falls down on it. Limbs tremble uncontrollably, causing John to bite his lip. Reaching over, he picks up the fleur de lis brocade cushion resting against the arm of the couch and hugs it to his chest.
After a moment he realizes that it smells like Sherlock. His shampoo, his sweat, and something else that is indefinable. A scent that he hasn’t smelled in what feels like ages. He buries his nose against the fabric and breathes it in, eyes closing as he murmurs to himself, “Welcome home…”
*****
“What? What is it? What have I done? I know that I’m fairly useless to you now, but I can still help you with some things. Or at least keep things here in order.”
He’s been back a week. One endless, awful, torturous week. Sherlock has barely made his presence known throughout the entire time. Always rushing in and out of the flat, barely even acknowledging John’s presence. Naturally John can’t keep up with Sherlock, can’t follow him around on cases. Hell, he can barely get up and down the stairs without utterly winding himself. So he’s kept himself busy with putting the flat back into order, cleaning things up, and doing his exercises, determined to not be a burden and to regain his strength and dexterity so that some day when Sherlock goes running past, he can run after him.
But Sherlock… it’s as if John’s very presence in his life, in this flat, is an irritant he can’t wait to get away from. John’s teeth are clenched, his chin raised, eyes flashing with frustration and anger. Damnit, he thought they were friends at the very least! This is not how one treats friends. Not even how Sherlock would treat a friend, if he had any. “What the fuck is going on, Sherlock? First you don’t even come visit me in the hospital, not even once, and now you treat me like I’m some kind of leper. I know I’m worse off than when we first met, but I’m getting better, damnit!”
Sherlock’s gaze lifts from his laptop, pale gray eyes cold and blank as they stare up at his flatmate. He closes the computer with a flick of his wrist and rises up to his feet, reaching for his mobile. “John, this isn’t about you. Not everything is, you know.” Glancing at his phone, Sherlock shakes his head and turns toward the door, pulling on his coat and noting brusquely, “I have to go. Case.”
“Case? What case? Sherlock, what’s going on? Why won’t you even talk to me? Sherlock!!”
Whirling about, Sherlock gives John his most scathing and icy glare, the one that freezes most people in their tracks. Normally, John is immune to such looks. But not now. Not any longer. Because he is the focus of that disgusted glare. The man that he loves is looking at him as if he were nothing but an annoyance, a fly in his ointment. “John, stop badgering me like a shrewish wife. My life is my own, as yours is yours. I owe you neither conversation nor explanations as to my comings and goings. If you want someone to sit around with and natter on about the weather or the news, then perhaps you should go out and find yourself a proper girlfriend.” He wraps his scarf about his neck and doesn’t even look at John as he heads out the door, calling over his shoulder, “I’m going to be out late. Don’t wait up.”
His feet drum down the stairs rapidly, the door slamming in his wake.
John stands at the top of the stairs looking down, his hands clutching at the railing. He feels dizzy and sick, his balance reeling slightly before he gets a hold of himself.
This is just Sherlock being Sherlock. John’s still limping, he can’t keep up with him, and Sherlock doesn’t want to be slowed down. It’s all fine. Everything’s fine.
As he limps his way back into the flat, John wonders dully how much longer he can keep lying to himself.
Read Part 2.
Title: For His Own Good
A gift for: brighteyed_jill
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Category: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit sex
Summary: After the confrontation with Moriarty, and the subsequent explosion at the pool that nearly kills John, Sherlock comes to a realization of how he feels and what he must do.
Author's Notes: Many thanks to ? for Brit-picking and giving me some great ideas and pointing out all the inconsistencies and mistakes! Thanks to ? for being an amazing beta!
He opens his eyes slowly. At first all he knows is pain and confusion. There is no awareness of who he is, where he is, what day it is, whether it is morning or night. There is only the hazy awareness of his body, the dull throb of pain. Everything else is either unimportant or unreachable, lost on a distant shore in the back of his mind, hidden by the fog of drugs. He tries to lick his lips. Dry. So dry. The only sound he can make is a soft, pain-filled groan.
A chair scrapes against the floor and John tries to turn his head toward the sound, but the pain in his skull blanks everything out in a flare of white.
This time he whimpers.
A moment later, someone is there speaking softly to him. He’s given an ice chip to suck on, there are reassurances of relief as the woman clicks on the morphine drip that John cannot yet manage himself. Another person arrives, pulling his eyelids back to check his pupils, asking him what his name is. It takes him a moment of concentration, but he knows the answer. He just can’t quite get the muscles in his mouth and his mind to coordinate long enough to say it. There’s a reassuring pat to his hand, the assurance that it will be better next time.
The medication floods through his system, bringing relief and haziness to both his mind and body.
*****
The next time is a little better. The room is dark, but he has no idea if it’s night or if the blinds have been closed. Someone is there. He can feel fingers laced through his. His eyes are crusty and can’t seem to focus as he opens them. His fingers twitch and there’s a startled snort to the side.
Someone is sitting with him. Someone fell asleep watching over him. The hand loosely holding his squeezes for a moment before pulling away.
He tries again, licking dry lips with an equally dry tongue before croaking, “Shrrlck?” The chair scrapes against the floor. There is the sound of footsteps, of a door opening. By the time he has managed to turn his head, the room is empty once more. Only the lingering warmth of his left hand indicates that someone was there just a few moments before. His right reaches out, finds the button that controls the morphine, and gives it a squeeze.
*****
The third time John wakes up he can tell that someone is in the room because there is a low-pitched conversation in progress regarding his condition. He can’t quite focus on the words, only the tones, one of them quite arch and demanding, which makes John call out uncertainly, “Shrlock?”
The conversation ceases and the sound of someone drawing closer makes John turn his head carefully and try to concentrate on the face that comes into his vision. A hand comes to rest on his arm and the features above him swim into focus. There is a mix of disappointment and panic when John realizes who it is. His left hand clutches at the bedding as he stares up into Mycroft’s eyes and repeats again, “Sherlock??”
The brother misunderstands the question. “No John, no, it’s Mycroft. Do you remember what happened?”
John closes his eyes, fear suffusing him as he tries to focus and think clearly. It’s hard. So very hard. His mind is a jumble, bits and pieces and fragments of himself, of memories. Finally he manages to get out, “Moriarty. Explosion.” The rest dissolves into confusion and distress. Why can’t he think? Where is Sherlock?? His eyes open again, stricken not with pain but panic. But all he can manage to articulate once more is his flatmate’s name.
A look of disappointment comes over Mycroft’s features, but vanishes within seconds, his hand squeezing John’s arm again as he reassures, “Sherlock is fine, John. You took the brunt of the damage. But you’re alive and, with physical therapy, you should be able to walk again and regain full use of your left arm.” John’s expression shifts with confusion as he tries to move his arms. Each one feels leaden and weak, and when he tries to move his legs they too are sluggish and impossibly heavy. His breathing comes faster, more frantic. He can hear his heart rate rising, the monitor by his bedside beeping faster and faster.
There’s a soft murmur from behind Mycroft and he looks toward the doctor standing there, nodding before turning back to John. “Rest now. Just rest. You’re going to be disoriented for a while, but you’re getting better John. I’m very relieved with the progress of your improvement.
He doesn’t understand any of it, but he’s tired. So tired. Without meaning to, without wanting to, John slips back into an exhausted sleep.
*****
It takes many more times, many more awakenings before John is coherent and able to focus. To understand what is being said to him, to remember it and, more importantly, to speak his thoughts aloud rather than single words or garbled phrases.
He’s heard it over and over again, he’s sure. Sometimes from doctors, sometimes from nurses, on even more rare occasions, from Mycroft himself. He was in an explosion. He was badly injured. Sherlock is fine.
More often than not, he wakes up alone. Sometimes there is a nurse or doctor attending to him, their touch or their voice stirring him to awareness.
But sometimes, he could swear that he heard Sherlock’s voice speaking to him. Felt Sherlock’s long fingers stroking over his brow or intertwined with his own shorter ones. Sometimes he would turn his head and swear that the blanket covering him smelled faintly like Sherlock.
When he awakens this time, the person standing next to him is Mycroft. Shrewd eyes study John’s face as he asks, “Do you know who I am?”
John nods slowly.
“Do you know who you are?”
John nods again.
“What do I do for a living?”
Taking a careful breath, John replies in a voice hoarse and rough with disuse, “You hold a minor position in the government… which is bollocks.”
John tries to move and panics when his body is sluggish to respond, muscles weak, each limb a leaden weight.
This must be a common occurrence. With a soft sigh of mild impatience, Mycroft lays a reassuring hand on John’s shoulder and explains, “You were caught in an explosion John. Your leg was trapped under rubble and severely damaged. Your left shoulder was shattered, and you had numerous broken bones, burns, and contusions. The doctors managed to pin you back together but you suffered trauma to the brain. You’ve been in a coma for a month.
John lies there quietly, letting the information sink into him slowly, determined to hold onto it this time no matter what the cost. But he can’t stop himself from asking the one thing that he keeps coming back to, even though he already knows the answer. “Sherlock?”
Another sigh, this time of annoyance. John tries not to take it personally.
“Sherlock is back at 221b Baker Street. He suffered some broken ribs, lacerations and burns, a concussion, some internal bleeding, but he’s fine now. Fully recovered and back to his usual foolishness, running after criminals and solving crimes.”
John lays there, information and acceptance settling into place except for one niggling thought. “Mycroft. Why are you here?” The unspoken question is clear. It isn’t why is Mycroft here. It’s why isn’t Sherlock?
“Because I owe you my brother’s life. And, apparently unlike my brother, I take your well being quite seriously. Between Sherlock’s self-absorption and your sister’s alcoholic condition, it seemed that you needed someone to be responsible for your care. So that person became me.”
John considers that for a moment, uneasy at the thought that neither his sister nor his best friend would be here for him. That a man who is nearly a stranger would be the only one to take an interest in his well-being.
A commiserating hand gently pats his shoulder as Mycroft seems to read his mind and take pity on him. “It will be alright John. I’ve lined up the best surgeons and physical therapists available for your care. But for now, just rest and let your body heal. The rest can wait till later.”
*****
The physical therapy was grueling. The hospital and rehab were interminable. But it would have all been worthwhile if he felt like there was a reason for it all. It would have been tolerable if only Sherlock had come round on occasion to visit. Tell him about the cases he was solving, the adventures he was having.
Without John.
Yes, of course he wants to be able to walk again, to regain the full use of his body. And right now sheer determination and stubbornness, two of John Watson’s best traits it seems, are causing him to have greater success than any of his doctors or physical therapists anticipated. But it feels like it’s all for naught.
What’s the point of being able to run if he isn’t running after Sherlock on some madcap, fool adventure? What’s the point of having a steady hand if he can't use it to help Sherlock up, or tend his wounds after something's gone wrong, or hold a bloody gun straight?
But Sherlock hasn’t shown his face since John woke up. Not once.
He shouldn’t be surprised. Really, he shouldn’t. Sherlock has always been a selfish sort of creature, wrapped up in his own world, his own needs and desires. For months now John’s known that he merely makes Sherlock’s life a tad easier and gives him a slightly more communicative partner to discuss his ideas with. A skull is great when you don’t want an argument, but bones rarely praise your brilliance either. Naturally he wouldn’t visit. Sherlock is only interested in hospitals when there’s a dead body to study or a lab to work in. Sickness, infirmity, these things hold little interest for the consulting detective. And if John can’t keep up with Sherlock, then what use is he?
Still, he thought by now they had something more. John had already resigned himself to the fact that Sherlock would never return his affections. That he would never look at John with attraction or lust… or love. For himself, John had managed to compartmentalize that part of himself and close it off. Oh, sure, he knew that he slipped every so often. That he looked at Sherlock’s body with desire before he turned away to head to the kitchen in an effort to hide his reaction.
Tea is a terribly convenient excuse. Sherlock must think him addicted to the stuff by now.
Sitting in his room, staring out at the rain, John is quietly grateful that his gun is still safely ensconced back at Baker Street. He hasn’t felt this alone and cast adrift since those dark days after he returned from Afghanistan. He takes a deep breath and holds it before letting it out slowly.
All he has to do is finish this. Heal his body, get back to the flat. Everything will go back to the way it was. It will be fine. He’ll make it fine.
*****
He’s been pacing the apartment for hours now, waiting for Mycroft to show up, to give him news of John’s condition. Of his recovery.
It’s been an interminable month. After the explosion, as soon as he was able, Sherlock spent every moment he could at John’s side, willing him to wake up. And every time John came to, Sherlock had to force himself to leave the room. Because John can’t know. John can never know how much he has come to mean to Sherlock.
Watching John sleep was of little comfort to Sherlock, when all he wanted to do was hold him and talk to him and know that he was alive and alright. But not being able to see him at all? Torture. Pure torture. How could one person come to mean so much? How could one man completely change his life without him even realizing it?
Intolerable. Impossible. But irrefutable. John Watson has managed to do what no other person has managed. He’s made the infinitely logical, eminently superior Sherlock Holmes… fall in love.
It’s positively insupportable.
Of course now that Mycroft is here, Sherlock wants him to leave. He gave his report, which he insists on doing in person much to Sherlock’s great displeasure, but now he apparently feels the need to linger on and play the role of the elder brother, berating Sherlock for his life choices. Per usual.
“Sherlock. This has to stop. You have to tell him. This is cruel, even for you. Dr. Watson deserves better than this. Every time I see him, he’s doing better and better physically, but I feel like I’m watching him waste away.”
Sherlock lifts his head up from his intense scrutiny of his flat’s floor to glare up at his brother, teeth bared. “Of course John deserves better. That’s precisely why I’m doing this. He has to make the decision. He has to be the one who leaves. If I tell him the truth, he’ll just deny it. Fight me. Refuse to back down, to go away. It’s better like this. Yes, it will hurt for a bit, but he already knows what a cold bastard I am. It won’t be difficult for him to realize that he should just go and leave me.”
Twirling his umbrella in place, Mycroft sighs. “You could leave him. It would be simple. You could die in an accident, or at “Moriarty’s” hands. I could arrange that. And wouldn’t that be kinder? If you’re going to hurt him, best to make it quick and final. This course of action, it’s just prolonging the pain unnecessarily.”
“Indeed. But a broken heart is easier to get over than one torn asunder. John is in love with me. He tries to hide it, he has accepted the fact that I didn’t want a relationship, but I don’t believe his feelings have changed over these past few months. John believes his love is unrequited.” He ignores Mycroft’s pointedly arched eyebrow, pushing onward to his point. “If our friendship were to dissolve as well, he will be hurt and sad, but he will move on. He already sees me as an emotionally disconnected asexual. But if I were to die?” Sherlock’s head shakes as he draws the line. “No, Mycroft, I can’t do that to him. Not when he’s already lost so many friends in Afghanistan. Even if I did, what would happen when he finds out that I’m not dead? That would be a far crueler trick than just letting him believe what he already thinks is the truth.”
“And what of yourself then?”
Sherlock’s hand slashes through the air as he declares, “Irrelevant. The only thing that matters now is John’s safety and well being.” His pale silvery eyes lift and Mycroft blinks in surprise at the level of undisguised emotion brimming just beneath the surface there. “I don’t matter. My feelings don’t matter. John matters. I need him to leave me. I need him off of Moriarty’s radar. They both have to believe that I don’t care about him.”
Turning away, Sherlock rubs his hand over his mouth and stares out the window, confessing, “I already almost lost him once, Mycroft. I can’t bear to lose him twice.”
“You lose him either way.”
“Yes, but he’ll stay alive if he leaves me. I cannot be the cause of John’s death. I will give him up before it comes to that.”
*****
Home. He’s finally home. Thank God. Now things can get back to normal. Well, as normal as anything can be when you live with Sherlock Holmes.
He sent Sherlock a text, letting him know that he would be coming back today. He squashed the irrational desire that Sherlock would be waiting for him when he came out of the hospital with a cab beside him and a smile on his lips. That was ludicrous to think. He stands at the bottom of the stairs, studying them dubiously. He’s well enough to move on his own, but he has only been walking over relatively flat surfaces. These stairs will be a challenge.
Jutting out his jaw, John sets his teeth and begins the climb. Each step is difficult and painful, but he forces himself up, bit-by-bit, step-by-step. By the time he reaches the top he is sweating, trembling, and weak, but he did it! He conquered the stairs! This is cause for celebration. Hobbling his way to their door, he pushes it open and calls out cheerfully, “Sherlock! I’m home!”
The room is deserted, the flat silent. It takes John a ridiculously long amount of time to realize Sherlock isn’t there to greet him, to welcome him home. He isn’t even there to ignore John while he rambles on endlessly about his latest deduction or curled up on the couch having a strop.
John thumps his way over to his chair and stares at the files and papers and stuff that has been piled up on it and swallows down the lump in his throat. He doesn’t know why it hurts so much. It’s just a chair, after all. It’s not like he sat upon it one day and proclaimed for all to know, “This is my chair!” But it’s the chair he always sat in. The chair that he found the most comfortable and pleasing. The one in which he sipped tea and patiently listened to Sherlock ramble on and on. To see it filled with clutter feels too much like he’s been forgotten. Like he’s been replaced. With a soft sigh, he thumps over to the couch and nearly falls down on it. Limbs tremble uncontrollably, causing John to bite his lip. Reaching over, he picks up the fleur de lis brocade cushion resting against the arm of the couch and hugs it to his chest.
After a moment he realizes that it smells like Sherlock. His shampoo, his sweat, and something else that is indefinable. A scent that he hasn’t smelled in what feels like ages. He buries his nose against the fabric and breathes it in, eyes closing as he murmurs to himself, “Welcome home…”
*****
“What? What is it? What have I done? I know that I’m fairly useless to you now, but I can still help you with some things. Or at least keep things here in order.”
He’s been back a week. One endless, awful, torturous week. Sherlock has barely made his presence known throughout the entire time. Always rushing in and out of the flat, barely even acknowledging John’s presence. Naturally John can’t keep up with Sherlock, can’t follow him around on cases. Hell, he can barely get up and down the stairs without utterly winding himself. So he’s kept himself busy with putting the flat back into order, cleaning things up, and doing his exercises, determined to not be a burden and to regain his strength and dexterity so that some day when Sherlock goes running past, he can run after him.
But Sherlock… it’s as if John’s very presence in his life, in this flat, is an irritant he can’t wait to get away from. John’s teeth are clenched, his chin raised, eyes flashing with frustration and anger. Damnit, he thought they were friends at the very least! This is not how one treats friends. Not even how Sherlock would treat a friend, if he had any. “What the fuck is going on, Sherlock? First you don’t even come visit me in the hospital, not even once, and now you treat me like I’m some kind of leper. I know I’m worse off than when we first met, but I’m getting better, damnit!”
Sherlock’s gaze lifts from his laptop, pale gray eyes cold and blank as they stare up at his flatmate. He closes the computer with a flick of his wrist and rises up to his feet, reaching for his mobile. “John, this isn’t about you. Not everything is, you know.” Glancing at his phone, Sherlock shakes his head and turns toward the door, pulling on his coat and noting brusquely, “I have to go. Case.”
“Case? What case? Sherlock, what’s going on? Why won’t you even talk to me? Sherlock!!”
Whirling about, Sherlock gives John his most scathing and icy glare, the one that freezes most people in their tracks. Normally, John is immune to such looks. But not now. Not any longer. Because he is the focus of that disgusted glare. The man that he loves is looking at him as if he were nothing but an annoyance, a fly in his ointment. “John, stop badgering me like a shrewish wife. My life is my own, as yours is yours. I owe you neither conversation nor explanations as to my comings and goings. If you want someone to sit around with and natter on about the weather or the news, then perhaps you should go out and find yourself a proper girlfriend.” He wraps his scarf about his neck and doesn’t even look at John as he heads out the door, calling over his shoulder, “I’m going to be out late. Don’t wait up.”
His feet drum down the stairs rapidly, the door slamming in his wake.
John stands at the top of the stairs looking down, his hands clutching at the railing. He feels dizzy and sick, his balance reeling slightly before he gets a hold of himself.
This is just Sherlock being Sherlock. John’s still limping, he can’t keep up with him, and Sherlock doesn’t want to be slowed down. It’s all fine. Everything’s fine.
As he limps his way back into the flat, John wonders dully how much longer he can keep lying to himself.
Read Part 2.