Slipping through our fingers
Notes: This is, partly, the very first thing I wrote about Sherlock. It never got finished back then since The Muse took off in a totally different direction. Because of that I’m pretty sure this is the prologue to Who’s letting who down?, taking place six years before that series begins.
Summary: Sherlock’s not pleased with John moving out of Baker Street, but he’ll be damned to admit it!
***
“Are you upset?” John asked and Sherlock stopped plucking on the violin stings. They stared at each other for a while before Sherlock returned to the plucking; an activity he’d spent the better part of the last hour performing.
“Sherlock,” John tried again, “Can you please talk to me?”
“I can’t see that we have anything to talk about,” Sherlock answered without looking up.
“You’re obviously upset,” John claimed and Sherlock’s lips twisted into a smirk.
“’Obviously’ doctor?” Not even the most obvious things were ever obvious to John, so this ought to be interesting. Even so interesting that he placed the violin on his knee.
“You haven’t said anything for two days,” John started but Sherlock interrupted him.
“Don’t be so self-absorbed. Just because I haven’t spoken to you doesn’t mean I’ve stopped speaking all together.”
“Well, then you haven’t spoken to me for two days,” corrected John his statement just to get interrupted again.
“We’ve gone much longer periods without talking,” Sherlock reminded, “Why would you jump to the conclusion that I’m upset now?”
“Because it’s obvious,” John tried in a voice as if he was talking to a child. To be honest, he often felt like he was. He and Lestrade joked about it a lot.
“Your use of that word is highly misguided, my dear doctor,” said Sherlock, “Your arguments are built on false, and irrelevant, observations and can therefore be neither true nor obvious.”
“You’re impossible,” said John with a deep sigh and got up again.
“It’s not my fault you jump to hasty conclusions base on false evidence and preconceptions,” Sherlock responded and picked up the violin again. The door to the flat got shut with an angry BANG. John had left. He would be back though, Sherlock knew at least that much about his complicated flatmate.
Even though it hurt to admit it he also knew that John was right. He was upset.
John and Mary were moving in together. Which he guessed would have been fine if it hadn’t resulted in John moving out. The only person who had ever cared for him was leaving. Maybe the most logical emotional response was to be upset? For a lesser mind than his at least.
Sherlock did, however, feel a bit betrayed. Not so much by John (no, he could not be held at such a high standard) as by this great mind of his that for some reason had forgotten that John was just a simple man. This great mind that Sherlock possessed had almost started to view John in the same way it viewed itself: as if above all others. If Sherlock had remembered that John was not his equal, maybe then this wouldn’t had come as a surprise. It had been idiotic of him to believe John was above trivial things as sex and the society norm of partnership.
During these last two days he had come to the very disturbing insight that he cared for John in much the same way as John cared for him. He had also realised that the correct response was to be happy when a close friend was happily in love (this realisation had partly come to light because Mrs Hudson had told him so). It was hard to be happy for someone who did something so stupid though.
It was strange how everyone except he seemed to need romantic partnerships. It would be nice to actually feel fulfilled by something as trivial as that sometimes. The problem was that people in general were boring and no one, except John, had ever been able to stand him. John had been cruel enough to show him what a difference the company of another human being could make. Life had been a little bit (even if just a little bit) less boring when John had been around. And he had never needed to cook or do any type of grocery shopping.
It felt beneath him, but Sherlock had to admit he was going to miss John.
Sherlock reached for his phone, for the life of him he couldn’t see the rational reason for this but he texted John.
If I so “obviously” am upset, maybe you shouldn’t leave me with all these guns.
SH
There was no way Sherlock would ever commit suicide, especially not for a reason like this, but he had the feeling it would appeal to the nurturing part of John. Sometimes he actually got bad conscience about how easy he could manipulate his friend. Today however, the good doctor deserved it!
Not even 15 minutes later John was standing in the doorway. Smirking.
That was not right!
“So I was right?” John said, looking all smug.
“Your arguments are still not valid,” Sherlock stated, “I just pointed out how irresponsible it was to leave someone you think is upset alone with guns.”
“But you don’t have a gun,” John informed patiently, but Sherlock just glanced at the wall beside them where traces of previous boredoms still were visible.
“That was my gun,” John reminded him, “Lestrade took it.”
“Yes, yes the two of you always try to ruin my fun,” Sherlock waved it off as an annoying fly, “Second drawer.”
John looked very sceptical but went over and looked in the second drawer. Sherlock smirked when he heard John gasp for breath at the sight of the three fire arms.
“Are you insane?!” John yelled.
“It’s not dangerous to have guns in a drawer,” Sherlock said calmly, “Guns don’t kill people John; people kill people. As a soldier and a medical professional you should know that.”
“I…” John started, but words seemed to fail him.
“I’m sorry I forgot that you’re so ordinary,” Sherlock said and tried to sound as sincere as he could. He was sincere, he really was, and John had told him that it was hard to know if that was the case sometimes.
Sherlock was not sure he had succeeded though, John looked so extremely confused; as if he didn’t know if he was supposed to be insulted or not.
“I’m sorry I thought you would react like a normal person for once,” John said and shut the drawer. Both of them smiled vaguely.
“So, are we okay?” John asked and Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
“No.”
“Will we be?” John tried instead, seating himself in the sofa. Sherlock had a feeling his friend had become saddened by his first response.
“No.”
“Have we ever been okay?”
“No.” Sherlock answered for a third time and this time, instead of looking disappointed, John smiled.
“Because we’re great?” John asked, trying to figure out if he had understood Sherlock correctly.
“No, because I’m great,” Sherlock corrected, “You’re at best a bit above average, but together we’re never round down to just okay.”
Apparently it was an answer like that John had expected, because he continued to smile. Sherlock did the same, he was not mad at John; he was at most disappointed with what he was planning to do.
“What are you upset about?” John asked and held up a finger to stop Sherlock from interrupting. When it actually worked he looked a bit surprised, “You’re upset, don’t argue…admit it.”
“No,” Sherlock continued to answer, “It would be childish and petty of me to be upset over the fact that you’re ‘taking things to the next level’, or so I’ve been told.”
“But you are childish and petty,” John informed, “and self-absorbed and ignorant and arrogant…so it’s okay, admit that you’re upset.”
“When are you moving out?” Sherlock asked instead, determined to not bow to the pressure of admitting his apparently childish and petty feelings. He was better than that.
“The end of next month,” John answered, “If it’s convenient for you that is?”
“You can move tonight if it pleases you,” Sherlock informed and reached for his bow. It was just a little bit out of his reach and John got up from the armchair to hand it to him. With a sigh instead of a thanks, Sherlock took the bow but used it just to whip the air slightly instead of playing. John also sighed and went to his room; he had been living with Sherlock for long enough to not run head-first into a wall more than once in one night.
Just before Sherlock heard the door to John’s room close he put the bow to the violin and started to play. He was sure he had not handled that very well.
*
“John,” Sherlock said from the door, looking more at the fifteen, or so, moving boxes than at the man he addressed. The startled John looked straight at him though.
“Welcome back,” John said and placed the books he had in his hands in the nearest box. Sherlock had not been seen by anyone for ten days. If John had not been so sure the reason for the detective’s disappearance was connected with the upcoming move he would have been worried. He might even have gone to Lestrade or Mycroft, but he had decided that it was just easier for everyone to let Sherlock be the over-grown child he was, using the “he’ll come back when he’s hungry” argument. Even though he knew food would be one of the last things drawing Sherlock back to Baker Street.
“You were right,” Sherlock stated and looked like admitting that had cost him physical pain. John tried to retrace all of their recant conversations/arguments in his head to see where he could have been right. It must have been an argument he concluded, because if it had not been in an argumentative situation, Sherlock wouldn’t look like he had just taken poison.
“Remind me please,” John asked, giving up; there had been too many alternatives to choose from.
“Idiot,” Sherlock said and left the room. John yelled out after him and Sherlock stopped in his track, he had actually come back to speak to John; rushing out just because John once again had proven to be painfully ordinary wouldn’t accomplish that. So he went back, being welcomed with just as a surprised look as the last time he appeared in the doorway. It annoyed him, John had called for him to stay, why did it surprise him that he did?
“I was upset,” he admitted.
John was just about to move the books since he had placed them in the box marked “Extension cords”, but put them right back down again. “I told you so.”
“And I told you, you were right,” Sherlock said and moved in to the room, glancing down in the open boxes.
“Are you still?” John asked, watching his soon-to-be former flatmate as he frowned a little every time he looked down a box.
Sherlock shrugged. He didn’t know. Honestly.
“It doesn’t really matter, does it?” he said, seating himself on John’s bed. It had been weeks since John had slept in it last, he had not been using it much last couple of months; even before he and Mary had decided to move in together. Still, it was John’s bed.
“It doesn’t change the fact that I’m moving, but yeah, it does matter,” John said and sat down with him on the bed. Sherlock smiled; of course John thought it mattered, otherwise he wouldn’t have pressed the issue earlier. It was just that, according to Sherlock, feelings which couldn’t change the chain of event weren’t really worth having. He still had them, for sure, but most of the time he just suppressed them.
“I am happy for you, I really am, and you know that right?” Sherlock said, sounding a bit more vulnerable than he would have liked.
“I do,” John said, nodding slightly, but the relief in his smile told Sherlock that he hadn’t been sure and found it comforting to hear. A sting of bad conscious found its way to Sherlock’s heart, why did John not know that? And why did he lie and tell him that he did? For a moment he thought about calling John on the lie, but then he decided it was better to just let it be. If John wanted to lie to make Sherlock look like a better friend than he had been, then Sherlock would let him. This time.
“I’m just not happy for me,” Sherlock continued, “I’m going to miss you John.”
“We’re still going to see each other,” John encouraged with a smile, “You’ve got me hooked on this.”
“Sorry.”
”Don’t be,” John kept smiling, ”I don’t think I would have been able to stay sane without it…or you.”
“I’ve been keeping you sane?” Sherlock felt very confused, “I thought you always said I was driving you crazy?”
“Well, you are,” John admitted, not decreasing the confusion, “but it’s a sane kind of crazy.”
“There is no such thing.”
“There’s too!”
Who was acting like a child now? Hm? Sherlock frowned and got up from the bed to distract himself by snooping in John’s boxes. For some reason he wished there was something he could comment on, something obvious that John had done wrong but - except from the books in the box for the extension cords - everything was neatly and efficiently packed. Trained in the art of packing in the army? Or maybe it was just John.
“Do I pass the inspection?” John wondered in amusement.
“I suppose,” Sherlock shrugged.
“Good. Dinner?”
“I ate yesterday.”
John gave him a long, scrutinising look. Sherlock didn’t like when he looked at him like that; it was a weird combination of the way his mother and Mycroft looked at him. And they all always knew when he was lying. Sure, the times John used it, it was based on empirical data and not on observations, but he was right alarmingly often.
“Fine.” Sherlock snorted, “But you’re buying.”
“I have double rent for two months!”
“That’s not my fault.”
“Fine,” John rolled his eyes and shook his head, “But I’ll pick the place.”
“Not sushi again….”
“I was going to suggest Indian.”
“No you weren’t.”
“You’re right, I wasn’t,” John smiled and Sherlock couldn’t figure out why; these arguments ended more often than seldom with John getting annoyed and irritated. Sherlock had tried to be better at not doing whatever it was that made John annoyed, but he still hadn’t really figured it out.
“I’ll miss you too Sherlock.”
Sherlock blinked and didn’t fight the smile that wanted to appear on his lips; apparently he’d handled it better this time. He just hoped Mary knew how lucky she was.
***
If interested: New Circumstances, aka Six Years Later (with a rating of PG-13 and a serious trigger warning for co-addiction)
Summary: Sherlock’s not pleased with John moving out of Baker Street, but he’ll be damned to admit it!
***
“Are you upset?” John asked and Sherlock stopped plucking on the violin stings. They stared at each other for a while before Sherlock returned to the plucking; an activity he’d spent the better part of the last hour performing.
“Sherlock,” John tried again, “Can you please talk to me?”
“I can’t see that we have anything to talk about,” Sherlock answered without looking up.
“You’re obviously upset,” John claimed and Sherlock’s lips twisted into a smirk.
“’Obviously’ doctor?” Not even the most obvious things were ever obvious to John, so this ought to be interesting. Even so interesting that he placed the violin on his knee.
“You haven’t said anything for two days,” John started but Sherlock interrupted him.
“Don’t be so self-absorbed. Just because I haven’t spoken to you doesn’t mean I’ve stopped speaking all together.”
“Well, then you haven’t spoken to me for two days,” corrected John his statement just to get interrupted again.
“We’ve gone much longer periods without talking,” Sherlock reminded, “Why would you jump to the conclusion that I’m upset now?”
“Because it’s obvious,” John tried in a voice as if he was talking to a child. To be honest, he often felt like he was. He and Lestrade joked about it a lot.
“Your use of that word is highly misguided, my dear doctor,” said Sherlock, “Your arguments are built on false, and irrelevant, observations and can therefore be neither true nor obvious.”
“You’re impossible,” said John with a deep sigh and got up again.
“It’s not my fault you jump to hasty conclusions base on false evidence and preconceptions,” Sherlock responded and picked up the violin again. The door to the flat got shut with an angry BANG. John had left. He would be back though, Sherlock knew at least that much about his complicated flatmate.
Even though it hurt to admit it he also knew that John was right. He was upset.
John and Mary were moving in together. Which he guessed would have been fine if it hadn’t resulted in John moving out. The only person who had ever cared for him was leaving. Maybe the most logical emotional response was to be upset? For a lesser mind than his at least.
Sherlock did, however, feel a bit betrayed. Not so much by John (no, he could not be held at such a high standard) as by this great mind of his that for some reason had forgotten that John was just a simple man. This great mind that Sherlock possessed had almost started to view John in the same way it viewed itself: as if above all others. If Sherlock had remembered that John was not his equal, maybe then this wouldn’t had come as a surprise. It had been idiotic of him to believe John was above trivial things as sex and the society norm of partnership.
During these last two days he had come to the very disturbing insight that he cared for John in much the same way as John cared for him. He had also realised that the correct response was to be happy when a close friend was happily in love (this realisation had partly come to light because Mrs Hudson had told him so). It was hard to be happy for someone who did something so stupid though.
It was strange how everyone except he seemed to need romantic partnerships. It would be nice to actually feel fulfilled by something as trivial as that sometimes. The problem was that people in general were boring and no one, except John, had ever been able to stand him. John had been cruel enough to show him what a difference the company of another human being could make. Life had been a little bit (even if just a little bit) less boring when John had been around. And he had never needed to cook or do any type of grocery shopping.
It felt beneath him, but Sherlock had to admit he was going to miss John.
Sherlock reached for his phone, for the life of him he couldn’t see the rational reason for this but he texted John.
If I so “obviously” am upset, maybe you shouldn’t leave me with all these guns.
SH
There was no way Sherlock would ever commit suicide, especially not for a reason like this, but he had the feeling it would appeal to the nurturing part of John. Sometimes he actually got bad conscience about how easy he could manipulate his friend. Today however, the good doctor deserved it!
Not even 15 minutes later John was standing in the doorway. Smirking.
That was not right!
“So I was right?” John said, looking all smug.
“Your arguments are still not valid,” Sherlock stated, “I just pointed out how irresponsible it was to leave someone you think is upset alone with guns.”
“But you don’t have a gun,” John informed patiently, but Sherlock just glanced at the wall beside them where traces of previous boredoms still were visible.
“That was my gun,” John reminded him, “Lestrade took it.”
“Yes, yes the two of you always try to ruin my fun,” Sherlock waved it off as an annoying fly, “Second drawer.”
John looked very sceptical but went over and looked in the second drawer. Sherlock smirked when he heard John gasp for breath at the sight of the three fire arms.
“Are you insane?!” John yelled.
“It’s not dangerous to have guns in a drawer,” Sherlock said calmly, “Guns don’t kill people John; people kill people. As a soldier and a medical professional you should know that.”
“I…” John started, but words seemed to fail him.
“I’m sorry I forgot that you’re so ordinary,” Sherlock said and tried to sound as sincere as he could. He was sincere, he really was, and John had told him that it was hard to know if that was the case sometimes.
Sherlock was not sure he had succeeded though, John looked so extremely confused; as if he didn’t know if he was supposed to be insulted or not.
“I’m sorry I thought you would react like a normal person for once,” John said and shut the drawer. Both of them smiled vaguely.
“So, are we okay?” John asked and Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
“No.”
“Will we be?” John tried instead, seating himself in the sofa. Sherlock had a feeling his friend had become saddened by his first response.
“No.”
“Have we ever been okay?”
“No.” Sherlock answered for a third time and this time, instead of looking disappointed, John smiled.
“Because we’re great?” John asked, trying to figure out if he had understood Sherlock correctly.
“No, because I’m great,” Sherlock corrected, “You’re at best a bit above average, but together we’re never round down to just okay.”
Apparently it was an answer like that John had expected, because he continued to smile. Sherlock did the same, he was not mad at John; he was at most disappointed with what he was planning to do.
“What are you upset about?” John asked and held up a finger to stop Sherlock from interrupting. When it actually worked he looked a bit surprised, “You’re upset, don’t argue…admit it.”
“No,” Sherlock continued to answer, “It would be childish and petty of me to be upset over the fact that you’re ‘taking things to the next level’, or so I’ve been told.”
“But you are childish and petty,” John informed, “and self-absorbed and ignorant and arrogant…so it’s okay, admit that you’re upset.”
“When are you moving out?” Sherlock asked instead, determined to not bow to the pressure of admitting his apparently childish and petty feelings. He was better than that.
“The end of next month,” John answered, “If it’s convenient for you that is?”
“You can move tonight if it pleases you,” Sherlock informed and reached for his bow. It was just a little bit out of his reach and John got up from the armchair to hand it to him. With a sigh instead of a thanks, Sherlock took the bow but used it just to whip the air slightly instead of playing. John also sighed and went to his room; he had been living with Sherlock for long enough to not run head-first into a wall more than once in one night.
Just before Sherlock heard the door to John’s room close he put the bow to the violin and started to play. He was sure he had not handled that very well.
*
“John,” Sherlock said from the door, looking more at the fifteen, or so, moving boxes than at the man he addressed. The startled John looked straight at him though.
“Welcome back,” John said and placed the books he had in his hands in the nearest box. Sherlock had not been seen by anyone for ten days. If John had not been so sure the reason for the detective’s disappearance was connected with the upcoming move he would have been worried. He might even have gone to Lestrade or Mycroft, but he had decided that it was just easier for everyone to let Sherlock be the over-grown child he was, using the “he’ll come back when he’s hungry” argument. Even though he knew food would be one of the last things drawing Sherlock back to Baker Street.
“You were right,” Sherlock stated and looked like admitting that had cost him physical pain. John tried to retrace all of their recant conversations/arguments in his head to see where he could have been right. It must have been an argument he concluded, because if it had not been in an argumentative situation, Sherlock wouldn’t look like he had just taken poison.
“Remind me please,” John asked, giving up; there had been too many alternatives to choose from.
“Idiot,” Sherlock said and left the room. John yelled out after him and Sherlock stopped in his track, he had actually come back to speak to John; rushing out just because John once again had proven to be painfully ordinary wouldn’t accomplish that. So he went back, being welcomed with just as a surprised look as the last time he appeared in the doorway. It annoyed him, John had called for him to stay, why did it surprise him that he did?
“I was upset,” he admitted.
John was just about to move the books since he had placed them in the box marked “Extension cords”, but put them right back down again. “I told you so.”
“And I told you, you were right,” Sherlock said and moved in to the room, glancing down in the open boxes.
“Are you still?” John asked, watching his soon-to-be former flatmate as he frowned a little every time he looked down a box.
Sherlock shrugged. He didn’t know. Honestly.
“It doesn’t really matter, does it?” he said, seating himself on John’s bed. It had been weeks since John had slept in it last, he had not been using it much last couple of months; even before he and Mary had decided to move in together. Still, it was John’s bed.
“It doesn’t change the fact that I’m moving, but yeah, it does matter,” John said and sat down with him on the bed. Sherlock smiled; of course John thought it mattered, otherwise he wouldn’t have pressed the issue earlier. It was just that, according to Sherlock, feelings which couldn’t change the chain of event weren’t really worth having. He still had them, for sure, but most of the time he just suppressed them.
“I am happy for you, I really am, and you know that right?” Sherlock said, sounding a bit more vulnerable than he would have liked.
“I do,” John said, nodding slightly, but the relief in his smile told Sherlock that he hadn’t been sure and found it comforting to hear. A sting of bad conscious found its way to Sherlock’s heart, why did John not know that? And why did he lie and tell him that he did? For a moment he thought about calling John on the lie, but then he decided it was better to just let it be. If John wanted to lie to make Sherlock look like a better friend than he had been, then Sherlock would let him. This time.
“I’m just not happy for me,” Sherlock continued, “I’m going to miss you John.”
“We’re still going to see each other,” John encouraged with a smile, “You’ve got me hooked on this.”
“Sorry.”
”Don’t be,” John kept smiling, ”I don’t think I would have been able to stay sane without it…or you.”
“I’ve been keeping you sane?” Sherlock felt very confused, “I thought you always said I was driving you crazy?”
“Well, you are,” John admitted, not decreasing the confusion, “but it’s a sane kind of crazy.”
“There is no such thing.”
“There’s too!”
Who was acting like a child now? Hm? Sherlock frowned and got up from the bed to distract himself by snooping in John’s boxes. For some reason he wished there was something he could comment on, something obvious that John had done wrong but - except from the books in the box for the extension cords - everything was neatly and efficiently packed. Trained in the art of packing in the army? Or maybe it was just John.
“Do I pass the inspection?” John wondered in amusement.
“I suppose,” Sherlock shrugged.
“Good. Dinner?”
“I ate yesterday.”
John gave him a long, scrutinising look. Sherlock didn’t like when he looked at him like that; it was a weird combination of the way his mother and Mycroft looked at him. And they all always knew when he was lying. Sure, the times John used it, it was based on empirical data and not on observations, but he was right alarmingly often.
“Fine.” Sherlock snorted, “But you’re buying.”
“I have double rent for two months!”
“That’s not my fault.”
“Fine,” John rolled his eyes and shook his head, “But I’ll pick the place.”
“Not sushi again….”
“I was going to suggest Indian.”
“No you weren’t.”
“You’re right, I wasn’t,” John smiled and Sherlock couldn’t figure out why; these arguments ended more often than seldom with John getting annoyed and irritated. Sherlock had tried to be better at not doing whatever it was that made John annoyed, but he still hadn’t really figured it out.
“I’ll miss you too Sherlock.”
Sherlock blinked and didn’t fight the smile that wanted to appear on his lips; apparently he’d handled it better this time. He just hoped Mary knew how lucky she was.
***
If interested: New Circumstances, aka Six Years Later (with a rating of PG-13 and a serious trigger warning for co-addiction)