Aftermath
Notes: I’ve figured out how it’s going to end, making this part easier to write. Always stupid to write something without a goal. I want to thank everyone who has commented on the previous parts, it has been encouraging and comforting and making it possible to continue.
I realised that this actually is a series now and named it and made a list of all the parts. You can find it here: Eating us alive.
Summary: Picking up where the last part ended, the aftermath of the argument.
***
As soon as he possibly could, John stifled the tears and gently pushed Sherlock away. He took some deep breaths and dried his eyes and nose on his arm. Sherlock gave him space, but stayed close enough for John to actually hear him breathe.
With a trembling sigh John gathered the courage to meet Sherlock’s eyes where he saw insecurity mixed with hurt and shame. There was something completely devastating surrounding the detective - John didn’t even want to think about how he looked himself.
“I’ve ruined your shirt,” John said apologetic and shyly touched the damp mark his hysteric crying had created on Sherlock’s shoulder.
“Just be glad I wasn’t wearing the jacket,” Sherlock said with a weak smile. John made a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh. The smile on Sherlock’s face, weak and forced as it might be, was still wonderful to see. The effort was wonderful to see. They rarely bothered with that anymore; laughs, smiles, giggles…it all just felt empty and false, like they were trying to cover up something. The only thing that had remained normal was Sherlock’s condescending glares when he though John was an idiot; John treasured it every time it happened.
So the forced, weak smile was wonderful to see. Even better than an honest, condescending glare.
John felt as if he could breathe for the first time in weeks without having an enormous weight pressing on his chest. The cry had left him empty and faint, but also strangely free; he knew it was just a temporary feeling but he cherished it. The exhaustion, and the sight of the smile slowly fading from Sherlock’s lips, brought new tears to his eyes and he had to blink repeatedly to stop them from spilling over.
“John, I….” Sherlock’s voice wasn’t much more than a whisper and his eyes were directed at the floor.
“I’m sorry,” John said and rubbed his face in the hope of getting the tear daze to disappear. Liberating as the daze was, he knew he couldn’t stay there. He didn’t know what he was apologising for, if it was the argument, the tears, the lack of trust, the breaking of promises or the fact that he had done nothing to prevent all of this from happening in the first place. Either way, it felt like the right thing to say. He had a lot to be sorry for.
The floor was uncomfortably hard, but John found no reason to get up. Honestly, he could stay forever in this fragile bubble that had been created around them in the short period of time after his crying had subsided. The bubble was full of understanding and attempts to make amends. There were no solutions in the bubble - you can’t find that many solutions on the floor - but there were first steps; first steps that needed to be followed later on with more steps, outside the bubble. That was the hard part and John wanted - he needed - the easy first steps the bubble provided.
“Do you really blame me?” he wondered hesitantly, dreading the answer. Sherlock met his eyes again and a part of John died in that very moment, realising that Sherlock did blame him.
“No more than you blame me,” Sherlock answered in a low, but sober, voice.
It wasn’t enough to just close his eyes to avoid the verbal slap Sherlock delivered, John had to turn his head and bite his lip. A wave of guilt took John’s breath away because, oh, how much he blamed Sherlock for all of this. Even though he knew better, even though he had promised not to, even though he - in theory - understood that it was a medical condition, he still just wanted to tell Sherlock to get his act together and stop being such a pain. He wanted to shake him, hit him, scream at him, scold him…. Just something, anything, to make him see reason and come to his senses, to end this. To make him shape up and eat.
If it had been Sherlock’s intention to hurt him, he had managed well. The bubble had burst, but when John opened his eyes, at least Sherlock was still there, looking guilty and pale. John wasn’t close to hating himself anymore, now he really did hate himself. A part of him probably hated Sherlock too, but that part wasn’t allowed to be heard right now.
Above everything though, he despised what Sherlock was doing to himself. Had anyone else treated Sherlock this way, John would have hung the person by the toes from Tower Bridge.
“You said I took your control,” John said, echoing Sherlock’s bellow as if he just remembered it and not as if it had been ringing in his ears this whole time.
“Don’t….” Sherlock shook his head and got to his feet.
“Sherlock!” John was quick to stand up and stopped Sherlock from walking away by reaching for his arm. Sherlock looked back and their eyes met for a moment before he looked down at the floor.
“I know you’re scared. That part I understand, I’m scared too.” John whispered and let his hand slide down Sherlock’s arm and took his hand instead, “But I’m right here Sherlock, right here, and I’m not going anywhere. No matter what you say or how much you blame me.”
Sherlock hesitated and John waited, not really sure if he would let Sherlock leave or continue to force him to stay if he tried to walk away again. He didn’t have to find out because instead of fleeing, Sherlock squeezed his hand. John placed himself right in front of Sherlock and took his other hand as well.
“I’m right here,” John promised, squeezing both of Sherlock’s hands to prove it, “Talk to me.”
Sherlock shook his head and refused to look at John.
“Damn it, Sherlock, don’t do this.” John pleaded, “Don’t shut me out.”
“I can’t.” Sherlock whispered. John felt like slapping him; that would most likely be counterproductive. It would feel good though. So good.
“Why?”
“Because you care,” Sherlock whisper so low that John almost didn’t hear him, “and I…. I don’t want to make you sad.”
John squeezed his eyes shut so hard purple and orange dots started to dance under his eyelids as he let go of Sherlock’s hands and instead embraced him in a close hug.
“That’s too late,” he whispered, refusing to let go when Sherlock wanted to back away, “I’m so, so sad to see you do this. It hurts, Sherlock, because I love you.”
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispered, tears muffling the words. John slowly stroked his back, “I try to eat because I don’t want you to worry…but it makes it worse. I eat when I don’t want to and it’s….”
“Why haven’t you told me?” John breathed when Sherlock’s voice seemed to die out; his knees were so weak he almost had to lean on Sherlock to keep standing. He could feel Sherlock shaking his head and trying to break free from the embrace. John let him, just partly because of the shock.
Sherlock walked passed him without either of them looking up. John stared at the floor, feeling defeated. For weeks he had been searching for some sort of explanation, some sort of reason, but now when he finally had one he couldn’t say it made him feel that much better.
Sherlock had been right; it was his fault, he was the one to blame.
Trying to get his back straight, John told himself that this was a good thing. It really was. Now he knew, now he could do something about it. Or could he really? Would he ever be able to stop trying to get Sherlock to eat? If he let it go, could he trust Sherlock to become better all by himself?
Determined to not leave it like this, John went to see where Sherlock had disappeared to. He had no idea what he would find or what to do when he did indeed find it, but hopefully he would figure it out in time.
Sherlock was standing in the kitchen, holding both their dinner plates in his hands and staring undetermined at his own plate which still contained most of his unfinished portion of spaghetti. He looked stunned and utterly helpless; John’s entire body ached when he saw it, but at least it became very clear to him what he should do. He walked up to Sherlock and took the plates. For a moment Sherlock didn’t want to let go, but when he finally did, he closed his eyes and took a step back.
“Go,” John said with a sigh as he saw the cold sweat break out on Sherlock’s forehead.
Sherlock hesitated and looked tormented at John who had no desire to look back at him. Instead John focused on disposing the food.
“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered and John frowned.
“Please don’t thank me for this,” he asked and stared at the dirty plates in the sink as he started to fill up the dish water, “Just…turn the shower on, will you?”
There was no spoken answer to his plea, but soon enough he heard the door to the bathroom close and the sound of the shower running. John took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair. Almost all of the pressure over his chest that the crying had taken away had come back, making every breath a struggle. This wasn’t just killing Sherlock, this was killing him too, John realised.
***
Next part.
I realised that this actually is a series now and named it and made a list of all the parts. You can find it here: Eating us alive.
Summary: Picking up where the last part ended, the aftermath of the argument.
***
As soon as he possibly could, John stifled the tears and gently pushed Sherlock away. He took some deep breaths and dried his eyes and nose on his arm. Sherlock gave him space, but stayed close enough for John to actually hear him breathe.
With a trembling sigh John gathered the courage to meet Sherlock’s eyes where he saw insecurity mixed with hurt and shame. There was something completely devastating surrounding the detective - John didn’t even want to think about how he looked himself.
“I’ve ruined your shirt,” John said apologetic and shyly touched the damp mark his hysteric crying had created on Sherlock’s shoulder.
“Just be glad I wasn’t wearing the jacket,” Sherlock said with a weak smile. John made a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh. The smile on Sherlock’s face, weak and forced as it might be, was still wonderful to see. The effort was wonderful to see. They rarely bothered with that anymore; laughs, smiles, giggles…it all just felt empty and false, like they were trying to cover up something. The only thing that had remained normal was Sherlock’s condescending glares when he though John was an idiot; John treasured it every time it happened.
So the forced, weak smile was wonderful to see. Even better than an honest, condescending glare.
John felt as if he could breathe for the first time in weeks without having an enormous weight pressing on his chest. The cry had left him empty and faint, but also strangely free; he knew it was just a temporary feeling but he cherished it. The exhaustion, and the sight of the smile slowly fading from Sherlock’s lips, brought new tears to his eyes and he had to blink repeatedly to stop them from spilling over.
“John, I….” Sherlock’s voice wasn’t much more than a whisper and his eyes were directed at the floor.
“I’m sorry,” John said and rubbed his face in the hope of getting the tear daze to disappear. Liberating as the daze was, he knew he couldn’t stay there. He didn’t know what he was apologising for, if it was the argument, the tears, the lack of trust, the breaking of promises or the fact that he had done nothing to prevent all of this from happening in the first place. Either way, it felt like the right thing to say. He had a lot to be sorry for.
The floor was uncomfortably hard, but John found no reason to get up. Honestly, he could stay forever in this fragile bubble that had been created around them in the short period of time after his crying had subsided. The bubble was full of understanding and attempts to make amends. There were no solutions in the bubble - you can’t find that many solutions on the floor - but there were first steps; first steps that needed to be followed later on with more steps, outside the bubble. That was the hard part and John wanted - he needed - the easy first steps the bubble provided.
“Do you really blame me?” he wondered hesitantly, dreading the answer. Sherlock met his eyes again and a part of John died in that very moment, realising that Sherlock did blame him.
“No more than you blame me,” Sherlock answered in a low, but sober, voice.
It wasn’t enough to just close his eyes to avoid the verbal slap Sherlock delivered, John had to turn his head and bite his lip. A wave of guilt took John’s breath away because, oh, how much he blamed Sherlock for all of this. Even though he knew better, even though he had promised not to, even though he - in theory - understood that it was a medical condition, he still just wanted to tell Sherlock to get his act together and stop being such a pain. He wanted to shake him, hit him, scream at him, scold him…. Just something, anything, to make him see reason and come to his senses, to end this. To make him shape up and eat.
If it had been Sherlock’s intention to hurt him, he had managed well. The bubble had burst, but when John opened his eyes, at least Sherlock was still there, looking guilty and pale. John wasn’t close to hating himself anymore, now he really did hate himself. A part of him probably hated Sherlock too, but that part wasn’t allowed to be heard right now.
Above everything though, he despised what Sherlock was doing to himself. Had anyone else treated Sherlock this way, John would have hung the person by the toes from Tower Bridge.
“You said I took your control,” John said, echoing Sherlock’s bellow as if he just remembered it and not as if it had been ringing in his ears this whole time.
“Don’t….” Sherlock shook his head and got to his feet.
“Sherlock!” John was quick to stand up and stopped Sherlock from walking away by reaching for his arm. Sherlock looked back and their eyes met for a moment before he looked down at the floor.
“I know you’re scared. That part I understand, I’m scared too.” John whispered and let his hand slide down Sherlock’s arm and took his hand instead, “But I’m right here Sherlock, right here, and I’m not going anywhere. No matter what you say or how much you blame me.”
Sherlock hesitated and John waited, not really sure if he would let Sherlock leave or continue to force him to stay if he tried to walk away again. He didn’t have to find out because instead of fleeing, Sherlock squeezed his hand. John placed himself right in front of Sherlock and took his other hand as well.
“I’m right here,” John promised, squeezing both of Sherlock’s hands to prove it, “Talk to me.”
Sherlock shook his head and refused to look at John.
“Damn it, Sherlock, don’t do this.” John pleaded, “Don’t shut me out.”
“I can’t.” Sherlock whispered. John felt like slapping him; that would most likely be counterproductive. It would feel good though. So good.
“Why?”
“Because you care,” Sherlock whisper so low that John almost didn’t hear him, “and I…. I don’t want to make you sad.”
John squeezed his eyes shut so hard purple and orange dots started to dance under his eyelids as he let go of Sherlock’s hands and instead embraced him in a close hug.
“That’s too late,” he whispered, refusing to let go when Sherlock wanted to back away, “I’m so, so sad to see you do this. It hurts, Sherlock, because I love you.”
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispered, tears muffling the words. John slowly stroked his back, “I try to eat because I don’t want you to worry…but it makes it worse. I eat when I don’t want to and it’s….”
“Why haven’t you told me?” John breathed when Sherlock’s voice seemed to die out; his knees were so weak he almost had to lean on Sherlock to keep standing. He could feel Sherlock shaking his head and trying to break free from the embrace. John let him, just partly because of the shock.
Sherlock walked passed him without either of them looking up. John stared at the floor, feeling defeated. For weeks he had been searching for some sort of explanation, some sort of reason, but now when he finally had one he couldn’t say it made him feel that much better.
Sherlock had been right; it was his fault, he was the one to blame.
Trying to get his back straight, John told himself that this was a good thing. It really was. Now he knew, now he could do something about it. Or could he really? Would he ever be able to stop trying to get Sherlock to eat? If he let it go, could he trust Sherlock to become better all by himself?
Determined to not leave it like this, John went to see where Sherlock had disappeared to. He had no idea what he would find or what to do when he did indeed find it, but hopefully he would figure it out in time.
Sherlock was standing in the kitchen, holding both their dinner plates in his hands and staring undetermined at his own plate which still contained most of his unfinished portion of spaghetti. He looked stunned and utterly helpless; John’s entire body ached when he saw it, but at least it became very clear to him what he should do. He walked up to Sherlock and took the plates. For a moment Sherlock didn’t want to let go, but when he finally did, he closed his eyes and took a step back.
“Go,” John said with a sigh as he saw the cold sweat break out on Sherlock’s forehead.
Sherlock hesitated and looked tormented at John who had no desire to look back at him. Instead John focused on disposing the food.
“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered and John frowned.
“Please don’t thank me for this,” he asked and stared at the dirty plates in the sink as he started to fill up the dish water, “Just…turn the shower on, will you?”
There was no spoken answer to his plea, but soon enough he heard the door to the bathroom close and the sound of the shower running. John took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair. Almost all of the pressure over his chest that the crying had taken away had come back, making every breath a struggle. This wasn’t just killing Sherlock, this was killing him too, John realised.
***
Next part.