Fall From Grace (9)
Pairings: N/A
Warnings: Angst
Synop: Sherlock really should just shut his mouth sometimes
Beta'd by the lovely Kat (sir-not-appearing-in-this-blog.tumblr.com)
"God, you're an idiot."
The words rankle; crawl under his skin and shift against his bones like tiny claws. Sherlock lifts his chin and the usual barriers come up, because that hurts, and it's John, and he obviously means it this time.
"Hardly, John," he hears himself say, voice clipped; cold and impersonal. "It was purely intentional." He wiggles his fingers, watching blood rise from the edges of the hole in his hand; run down his wrist again. This time, John doesn't move forward to wipe it away. The doctor sits in the chair, hands folded in his lap, and looks at Sherlock.
"Oh, really?" Disbelief and skepticism colours John's voice; the accompanying eye roll makes it quite clear that he isn't buying it. "Not an accident, then." It's not a question.
Sherlock squares his shoulders; sits up straighter, even though it makes his head pound, and all he wants is to curl up in John's lap, crawl inside John and listen to his heart; fall asleep.
"Of course not. I am hardly a bumbling imbecile, John. I know how to handle guns. Obviously I would not be so unintelligent as to shoot myself in the hand."
John fixes him with a look.
"So intentional, then." When Sherlock says nothing, the doctor stares him down. "You shot yourself intentionally in the hand, straight through your hand, because... what? You were bored?" There's a snort in John's words, and that hurts as well; twists inside Sherlock's chest and makes him think of ugly things like rotting flesh; dying roses. "The wall not good enough this time?"
His words are almost joking, and that's the worse. It's a sick parody of what they had, that easy camaraderie; the jokes and laughter and careful smiles.
John's twisting that; ruining it, turning it to something black and bastardized.
"It was an experiment, John," Sherlock hears himself spit, but inside he's collapsing; inside, he's caving in on himself.
Because it's different. They won't be the same. He's not a poetic man, but this feels wrong and broken, and like he's lost his only friend.
Which, if he was better versed in these kinds of things, he would realize that's exactly what has happened.
As it is, he just feels alone. John's sitting right beside him, he could reach out and touch him, and he feels alone.
"Right, then." John breaks into his thoughts; draws him back into the present like a tug at a leash. Sherlock's head snaps up, eyes focusing back on the man he once called friend. "Of course it was, of course it was an experiment. Because it's perfectly normal to shoot yourself through the hand for science."
John almost hurls the word like it's a tangible object, and Sherlock realizes that he feels it, too. John feels it, the de-fragmentation of the past.
John. Don't. Don't go. Please.
"John--" he starts; holds out the hand with the hole in it, reaching. John stares at it, stares through Sherlock's palm as Sherlock goes on. "John, I didn't--"
"It's like stigmata."
Sherlock goes silent. "Sorry?"
The look John levels at him is dangerously blank; unreadable, and he hates it. He's never had to struggle to read John more than he is right now.
"Stigmata," John goes on, voice flat as he recites. "In religion, they're thought to symbolize the crucifixion of Jesus Christ." He reaches out and touches the tips of his fingers to the raw, burnt skin at the edges of the wound. Sherlock twitches at the contact, but holds his hand steady. "People who claimed to have stigmata said they'd developed holes in the centers of their palms, a mimicry of the wounds Jesus carried, made by the nails hammered through his hands, holding him to the cross. Claimed it was a sign of being touched by the Holy Spirit or something."
Sherlock looks at John sharply. "I know what stigmata is, John." His head tilts, eyes considering. "You hardly strike me as a religious man, Doctor Watson." The title rolls off his tongue without warning; sounds cold and unemotional.
John, I didn't mean it. John. John, don't.
John's head jerks up, and the vague look on his face fades, replaced with tense crow's feet at the corners of his eyes; lines bracketing the corners of his mouth.
"I'm not." He states. "It just reminded me of--you know what, never mind." He stands; brushes his hands on his legs. "I'll find someone to take care of your hand."
Sherlock sits up, panic slipping through his chest, face hardly shifting. "But aren't you going to--"
"No." John cuts him off; swings about slowly and looks at the detective. "No, Sherlock, I'm not. I'm done; was done three years ago, and I would say I'm sorry, but," he hesitates, tongue flicking out and tracing over his bottom lip, before he shakes his head. "But I won't. I can't. Or, I just--" he shakes his head again; lifts and drops his shoulders in a vague attempt at a shrug. "Take care of yourself, Sherlock. Don't off and die again, y'know?"
John Watson turns; walks out of the room, from his life, and closes the door.
Warnings: Angst
Synop: Sherlock really should just shut his mouth sometimes
Beta'd by the lovely Kat (sir-not-appearing-in-this-blog.tumblr.com)
"God, you're an idiot."
The words rankle; crawl under his skin and shift against his bones like tiny claws. Sherlock lifts his chin and the usual barriers come up, because that hurts, and it's John, and he obviously means it this time.
"Hardly, John," he hears himself say, voice clipped; cold and impersonal. "It was purely intentional." He wiggles his fingers, watching blood rise from the edges of the hole in his hand; run down his wrist again. This time, John doesn't move forward to wipe it away. The doctor sits in the chair, hands folded in his lap, and looks at Sherlock.
"Oh, really?" Disbelief and skepticism colours John's voice; the accompanying eye roll makes it quite clear that he isn't buying it. "Not an accident, then." It's not a question.
Sherlock squares his shoulders; sits up straighter, even though it makes his head pound, and all he wants is to curl up in John's lap, crawl inside John and listen to his heart; fall asleep.
"Of course not. I am hardly a bumbling imbecile, John. I know how to handle guns. Obviously I would not be so unintelligent as to shoot myself in the hand."
John fixes him with a look.
"So intentional, then." When Sherlock says nothing, the doctor stares him down. "You shot yourself intentionally in the hand, straight through your hand, because... what? You were bored?" There's a snort in John's words, and that hurts as well; twists inside Sherlock's chest and makes him think of ugly things like rotting flesh; dying roses. "The wall not good enough this time?"
His words are almost joking, and that's the worse. It's a sick parody of what they had, that easy camaraderie; the jokes and laughter and careful smiles.
John's twisting that; ruining it, turning it to something black and bastardized.
"It was an experiment, John," Sherlock hears himself spit, but inside he's collapsing; inside, he's caving in on himself.
Because it's different. They won't be the same. He's not a poetic man, but this feels wrong and broken, and like he's lost his only friend.
Which, if he was better versed in these kinds of things, he would realize that's exactly what has happened.
As it is, he just feels alone. John's sitting right beside him, he could reach out and touch him, and he feels alone.
"Right, then." John breaks into his thoughts; draws him back into the present like a tug at a leash. Sherlock's head snaps up, eyes focusing back on the man he once called friend. "Of course it was, of course it was an experiment. Because it's perfectly normal to shoot yourself through the hand for science."
John almost hurls the word like it's a tangible object, and Sherlock realizes that he feels it, too. John feels it, the de-fragmentation of the past.
John. Don't. Don't go. Please.
"John--" he starts; holds out the hand with the hole in it, reaching. John stares at it, stares through Sherlock's palm as Sherlock goes on. "John, I didn't--"
"It's like stigmata."
Sherlock goes silent. "Sorry?"
The look John levels at him is dangerously blank; unreadable, and he hates it. He's never had to struggle to read John more than he is right now.
"Stigmata," John goes on, voice flat as he recites. "In religion, they're thought to symbolize the crucifixion of Jesus Christ." He reaches out and touches the tips of his fingers to the raw, burnt skin at the edges of the wound. Sherlock twitches at the contact, but holds his hand steady. "People who claimed to have stigmata said they'd developed holes in the centers of their palms, a mimicry of the wounds Jesus carried, made by the nails hammered through his hands, holding him to the cross. Claimed it was a sign of being touched by the Holy Spirit or something."
Sherlock looks at John sharply. "I know what stigmata is, John." His head tilts, eyes considering. "You hardly strike me as a religious man, Doctor Watson." The title rolls off his tongue without warning; sounds cold and unemotional.
John, I didn't mean it. John. John, don't.
John's head jerks up, and the vague look on his face fades, replaced with tense crow's feet at the corners of his eyes; lines bracketing the corners of his mouth.
"I'm not." He states. "It just reminded me of--you know what, never mind." He stands; brushes his hands on his legs. "I'll find someone to take care of your hand."
Sherlock sits up, panic slipping through his chest, face hardly shifting. "But aren't you going to--"
"No." John cuts him off; swings about slowly and looks at the detective. "No, Sherlock, I'm not. I'm done; was done three years ago, and I would say I'm sorry, but," he hesitates, tongue flicking out and tracing over his bottom lip, before he shakes his head. "But I won't. I can't. Or, I just--" he shakes his head again; lifts and drops his shoulders in a vague attempt at a shrug. "Take care of yourself, Sherlock. Don't off and die again, y'know?"
John Watson turns; walks out of the room, from his life, and closes the door.