Fic: It's Natural To Be Afraid, Part II
Title: It's Natural To Be Afraid, Part II
Author: tunes84
Rating: T
Genre: Angst/Tragedy
Characters: Sherlock, John
Word Count: 6,300 (in total) 2,100 for part II
Summary: Refusing to accept the obvious, Sherlock searches for what he believes truly happened the night his world was shattered.
Warnings: Major character death, lots of angst.
Part I
Sherlock still hasn’t figured it out.
Five days after John is taken from him, ripped away so god damned unfairly, Sherlock sits on the curb under a flickering streetlamp, nursing a swollen lip with part of his blood-soaked sleeve. His weariness overcomes him in a way that is much too much to bear. Mixed with his frustration at hitting yet another dead end (gangsters aren’t the friendliest bunch), his patience with himself is wearing thin.
He doesn’t understand. Desperation grows inside of him, more and more with each passing day, hour, second. Why this is so hard, why he can’t straighten it out in his head; it’s so much more than pain. Pain he’s never felt before. Pain he didn’t realize he could feel.
“You’re a bloody train wreck, you know that?”
Sherlock cringes. “Not now, John,” he mumbles through the swelling. “I don’t need a lecture.”
John sits beside him, lightly brushing his fingers over the bloody gash in Sherlock’s arm through his now ripped coat. “You obviously do. What the hell were you thinking?”
“Maybe I wasn’t,” Sherlock answers with a groan.
“Liar,” John huffs. “That brain of yours is always on.” A pause, then, “Sherlock, what are you doing?”
“Finding your killer.”
“Sherlock-“
“I HAVE TO, JOHN!” Sherlock yells, looking up to stare at nothing. The street is dead. He is alone.
The air shifts, wind picking up and suddenly Sherlock can feel the cold as his adrenaline wears off. Deep breaths, in and out, he stands and starts to walk quietly back to Baker Street. He is careful not to think of anything along the way because his thoughts tend to take on a life of their own when he doesn’t have someone (John) to take his mind off of them. He is unwilling to admit it aloud, but the word fear creeps slowly out of the dark corners of his brain.
“Not afraid, not afraid, not afraid,” he repeats over and over, the couple before him moving quickly to the other side of the street. Sherlock throws his head back and yells, “Why must I even say this!” A few uneasy stares follow him as he picks up speed, almost tripping over a bag that a young woman has placed in his path. She tries to mumble an apology but Sherlock ignores her, ignores everyone, until he finds himself home.
Slamming the door, running up the stairs, slamming another door, Sherlock stands in the middle of his (and John’s) flat. Only he still feels lost.
“Why can’t I THINK!” he cries, pulling at his hair, eyes wild and possibly terrified. Breathing began to hurt.
“You’re probably scaring the hell out of the neighbors.”
Sherlock whirls around towards John’s smug (Concerned, Sherlock, not smug) face and shakes his head. “Damn the neighbors, John, they don’t matter!”
“Then what does?” John asks, voice raised. Exasperated? Irritated. He wants to help, but Sherlock won’t let him.
“My concentration matters. Figuring this out matters!” He’s pacing the length of the sitting room with hard, purposeful steps. Every rise and fall of his feet means something.
John watches, biting his lower lip. “You’re not figuring anything out.”
Sherlock doesn’t stop his pacing. “Fabulous deduction, doctor, but you don’t know what’s inside my head,” he snaps.
“I know you’re not solving anything in this state. Come,” John says softly, holding out his hands. Sherlock stalls in the middle of pacing and looks at them as if they were on fire. “Come on, then, let me help.”
Slowly, Sherlock walks to him, eyes never leaving John’s hands. Fingers motion him to come closer, his hands steady, unlike Sherlock’s own, the fists he’s clenched them into trembling violently. He stops short of John’s open arms and Sherlock lifts his head, locking eyes with his. Such sorrow in them, he thinks. Disappointment. Resentful? It’s deeper than his memories of it, different than before.
“You know what’s in my pocket.” Sherlock doesn’t ask because he knows.
John sighs. “I do. But you don’t need it, Sherlock.”
“How do you know what I need? This runs a little deeper than a three patch problem, calls for something stronger, don’t you agree?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Course you don’t,” Sherlock grumbles, fingers now in his pocket, rubbing along the small plastic bag within.
“You don’t need that, you just need to focus.”
“I can’t focus, John, don’t you see?” Sherlock hisses, running fingers through his hair. He pulls the packet out, stares at it, longs for it.
“Leave it be, Sherlock. Come, I mean it. Let me help.” John’s hands are still out, waiting. Sherlock replaces the small bag into his coat pocket and, with a deep breath, takes the last few steps toward his friend. John’s fingers gently rest on either side of Sherlock’s head and he closes his eyes as the breath seems to have been knocked out of his body.
“How can you be warm when you’re dead?” Sherlock whispers, a tremor rising up along his spine.
“Focus, you bloke. Not on me here, focus on the scene.” John’s voice is low; it slithers into Sherlock’s ears and wraps around his brain.
Focus.
With his eyes still closed, Sherlock thinks. The position of the body, it’s familiar, as is the wound, but he’s gone through this already. An old case? A recent cold case, four men stabbed. He worked on it, an unsolved case, the only one since John. John, of course, John!
John’s blog.
Sherlock’s eyes snap open to John’s smiling face.
“See there? That was less than a minute.”
Their grins match, John’s hands still twisted into Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock’s hands no longer interested in the small plastic bag inside his coat pocket.
-x-
Sleep eludes Sherlock, stinging his eyes as he stares at the website on John’s computer. Brilliant, faithful John, who wrote of the cases they solved (and the one they hadn’t). Sherlock remembers it even more clearly after reading John’s blog and a small twitch of his lips into a slightly twisted smile gains a fond huff from behind his head.
“You think you’re quite clever now, don’t you?”
Sherlock turns to stare, taking in the kind eyes and the slumped shoulders of his very dead flatmate. “I needed you.”
John shakes his head with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You didn’t, that’s just what you needed to think.”
Large, dry rocks seem to have invaded Sherlock’s throat so that he can’t swallow properly. He clears his throat and looks down at his mobile, texting Lestrade for the folder he needs.
Serial killer earlier this year. Unsolved. You remember which one. Bring the file to Baker street. SH.
They wait together, in companionable silence, exactly the way it should be.
-x-
An hour later, Sherlock is pacing again. It’s easier than being still, easier than sitting on his hands to wait for the information he needs. John’s eyes follow him back and forth but he never says a word.
There’s a knock at the door to pull him out of his impatient thoughts. He eyes the flat somewhat nervously (empty), and crosses the room to open it, revealing a disheveled looking Lestrade who stands in front of a rather smug looking Mycroft.
Sherlock tips his head, irritated, saying, “Funny, I don’t recall inviting you, Mycroft.”
Mycroft pushes past both men into the flat and removes his coat. “You’re getting reckless, Sherlock.”
A growl boils up inside Sherlock’s chest at the matter-of-fact way Mycroft stated that. As if he knows what he’s talking about; as if he understands.
“You don’t know what you’re talk-“
“Walking into a den of murderers earlier this evening? I won’t mention all the other asinine stunts you’ve pulled over the past week in front of your guest.” Mycroft leans against his umbrella. Sherlock contemplates kicking it out from underneath his palm.
Lestrade clears his throat from the door and steps in slowly, waving a folder in front of Sherlock’s face. “You wanted to see this?”
“Yes, thank you, Lestrade.” Sherlock’s eyes never leave Mycroft as he snatches the folder from Lestrade’s hand.
“Is that for John’s case?” Mycroft asks casually, playing with the cuff of his sleeve.
“What? Wait!” Lestrade points to the folder while Sherlock looks through it. “What’s this got to go with John? Sherlock, I’m sorry, but it was a mugging, I thought you wanted this to...” he trails off and Sherlock glances up.
“To what?” he snaps coldly.
Lestrade shuffles a bit on his feet. “You know, take your mind off things.”
“My mind,” Sherlock pulls a picture out of the folder and flips it shut, “is perfectly sound, thank you. Look at this.” He holds one of the crime scene photographs up to Lestrade, who peers curiously at it.
“What am I looking at exactly?” he cautiously asks. Sherlock’s sigh is a frustrated one.
“Look at the body! At the stab wound! Do I need to spell it out for you? Oh, who am I kidding, of course I do.” He looks between both men with as much repulsion as his face will allow him to show.
Mycroft scratches his head, eyebrows raised. “Why don’t you explain.”
Sherlock huffs, turning back toward Lestrade. “The stab wound, it’s in the same place on John’s body as the other victims. He’s the right age, and all the victims were killed in isolated areas. I never would have found it if-“ he stops himself.
“If what, Sherlock?” Mycroft urges, stepping closer. Sherlock takes a step back.
“It just took me a bit longer than it normally would have,” he says, clearing his throat. His gaze drifts behind Mycroft to John’s computer, where his flatmate sits with kind, reassuring eyes.
“Sherlock?” Mycroft turns slowly to look behind him, then back to Sherlock with his eyes even more narrowed than they were before.
Lestrade steps further into the room, closer to Sherlock. “Look, I understand this is hard and you want to believe-“
“Those are facts!” Sherlock barks, slamming the folder onto the coffee table.
“John is the right age,” Lestrade continues, “but all the victims of this serial killer were tall brunettes, don’t you remember?”
“It was dark, the killer could have mistaken him for a brunette. John’s hair looks quite dark at night.”
“They were stalked beforehand, Sherlock. Had John received any threatening notes in the past month?”
Sherlock’s throat feels as if it’s collapsing in on itself. “He hadn’t mentioned, but if we search...”
“And now you are twisting the facts to suit your theory. You know better than that,” Mycroft adds, not unkindly.
“His money was gone. His wallet was found two blocks over,” Lestrade points out.
Eyes burning, Sherlock’s hands begin to shake and his vision blurs. “He borrows my card, he doesn’t keep loose money. I don’t...I’m sure of it,” he mumbles, backing up against the coat rack and knocking it to the ground. Lestrade moves to help him, but Sherlock pushes him away.
“I’m positive it has something to do with this case. He wouldn’t have-I mean, it has to.”
Mycroft’s eyes, wary, watch Sherlock’s every move; they scrutinize him, pick apart his every action. It makes him increasingly uncomfortable.
Lestrade, who has picked up the fallen coat rack, suddenly calls out loudly, “Sherlock, what the hell is this?”
Sherlock’s head whips around and his heart sinks at the sight of the Inspector holding the small packet that had obviously fallen out of his coat pocket when it hit the floor.
“Are you using again?” Mycroft all but whispers, looking as if his worst fear has just come true right before his eyes.
“No!” Sherlock yells. “I haven’t!”
“Then why the hell were you carrying this? Do I need to get Anderson up here to search the whole flat?” Lestrade threatens warningly.
“I haven’t even opened the bloody package!” Sherlock cries. “I was going to, but John-“
He pauses. John stands by the window, his kind eyes turned mournful, and he shakes his head. He’s different now. Sherlock simply stares at him.
Mycroft turns again, like before, looking straight through John and sighs. “Oh, Sherlock. This concerns me,” he says sadly.
Sherlock looks at his brother and they stare at one another, speaking, as always, with their eyes until everything becomes more than Sherlock can bear. “Get out,” he snarls at them, but neither man moves, only intensifying his anger. Sherlock shouts again, “Out, now!”
“Sherlock-“ Lestrade tries in a calming voice.
“OUT!” Sherlock screams, nearly tripping over the coffee table. He catches himself, stands upright, takes a deep breath; his back is to the men so concerned for his well-being. So concerned, Sherlock, they’re worried.
A voice in his head that isn’t his.
“God damnit,” he growls. Sherlock turns and pushes past both men without another word.
Part III
Author: tunes84
Rating: T
Genre: Angst/Tragedy
Characters: Sherlock, John
Word Count: 6,300 (in total) 2,100 for part II
Summary: Refusing to accept the obvious, Sherlock searches for what he believes truly happened the night his world was shattered.
Warnings: Major character death, lots of angst.
Part I
Sherlock still hasn’t figured it out.
Five days after John is taken from him, ripped away so god damned unfairly, Sherlock sits on the curb under a flickering streetlamp, nursing a swollen lip with part of his blood-soaked sleeve. His weariness overcomes him in a way that is much too much to bear. Mixed with his frustration at hitting yet another dead end (gangsters aren’t the friendliest bunch), his patience with himself is wearing thin.
He doesn’t understand. Desperation grows inside of him, more and more with each passing day, hour, second. Why this is so hard, why he can’t straighten it out in his head; it’s so much more than pain. Pain he’s never felt before. Pain he didn’t realize he could feel.
“You’re a bloody train wreck, you know that?”
Sherlock cringes. “Not now, John,” he mumbles through the swelling. “I don’t need a lecture.”
John sits beside him, lightly brushing his fingers over the bloody gash in Sherlock’s arm through his now ripped coat. “You obviously do. What the hell were you thinking?”
“Maybe I wasn’t,” Sherlock answers with a groan.
“Liar,” John huffs. “That brain of yours is always on.” A pause, then, “Sherlock, what are you doing?”
“Finding your killer.”
“Sherlock-“
“I HAVE TO, JOHN!” Sherlock yells, looking up to stare at nothing. The street is dead. He is alone.
The air shifts, wind picking up and suddenly Sherlock can feel the cold as his adrenaline wears off. Deep breaths, in and out, he stands and starts to walk quietly back to Baker Street. He is careful not to think of anything along the way because his thoughts tend to take on a life of their own when he doesn’t have someone (John) to take his mind off of them. He is unwilling to admit it aloud, but the word fear creeps slowly out of the dark corners of his brain.
“Not afraid, not afraid, not afraid,” he repeats over and over, the couple before him moving quickly to the other side of the street. Sherlock throws his head back and yells, “Why must I even say this!” A few uneasy stares follow him as he picks up speed, almost tripping over a bag that a young woman has placed in his path. She tries to mumble an apology but Sherlock ignores her, ignores everyone, until he finds himself home.
Slamming the door, running up the stairs, slamming another door, Sherlock stands in the middle of his (and John’s) flat. Only he still feels lost.
“Why can’t I THINK!” he cries, pulling at his hair, eyes wild and possibly terrified. Breathing began to hurt.
“You’re probably scaring the hell out of the neighbors.”
Sherlock whirls around towards John’s smug (Concerned, Sherlock, not smug) face and shakes his head. “Damn the neighbors, John, they don’t matter!”
“Then what does?” John asks, voice raised. Exasperated? Irritated. He wants to help, but Sherlock won’t let him.
“My concentration matters. Figuring this out matters!” He’s pacing the length of the sitting room with hard, purposeful steps. Every rise and fall of his feet means something.
John watches, biting his lower lip. “You’re not figuring anything out.”
Sherlock doesn’t stop his pacing. “Fabulous deduction, doctor, but you don’t know what’s inside my head,” he snaps.
“I know you’re not solving anything in this state. Come,” John says softly, holding out his hands. Sherlock stalls in the middle of pacing and looks at them as if they were on fire. “Come on, then, let me help.”
Slowly, Sherlock walks to him, eyes never leaving John’s hands. Fingers motion him to come closer, his hands steady, unlike Sherlock’s own, the fists he’s clenched them into trembling violently. He stops short of John’s open arms and Sherlock lifts his head, locking eyes with his. Such sorrow in them, he thinks. Disappointment. Resentful? It’s deeper than his memories of it, different than before.
“You know what’s in my pocket.” Sherlock doesn’t ask because he knows.
John sighs. “I do. But you don’t need it, Sherlock.”
“How do you know what I need? This runs a little deeper than a three patch problem, calls for something stronger, don’t you agree?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Course you don’t,” Sherlock grumbles, fingers now in his pocket, rubbing along the small plastic bag within.
“You don’t need that, you just need to focus.”
“I can’t focus, John, don’t you see?” Sherlock hisses, running fingers through his hair. He pulls the packet out, stares at it, longs for it.
“Leave it be, Sherlock. Come, I mean it. Let me help.” John’s hands are still out, waiting. Sherlock replaces the small bag into his coat pocket and, with a deep breath, takes the last few steps toward his friend. John’s fingers gently rest on either side of Sherlock’s head and he closes his eyes as the breath seems to have been knocked out of his body.
“How can you be warm when you’re dead?” Sherlock whispers, a tremor rising up along his spine.
“Focus, you bloke. Not on me here, focus on the scene.” John’s voice is low; it slithers into Sherlock’s ears and wraps around his brain.
Focus.
With his eyes still closed, Sherlock thinks. The position of the body, it’s familiar, as is the wound, but he’s gone through this already. An old case? A recent cold case, four men stabbed. He worked on it, an unsolved case, the only one since John. John, of course, John!
John’s blog.
Sherlock’s eyes snap open to John’s smiling face.
“See there? That was less than a minute.”
Their grins match, John’s hands still twisted into Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock’s hands no longer interested in the small plastic bag inside his coat pocket.
-x-
Sleep eludes Sherlock, stinging his eyes as he stares at the website on John’s computer. Brilliant, faithful John, who wrote of the cases they solved (and the one they hadn’t). Sherlock remembers it even more clearly after reading John’s blog and a small twitch of his lips into a slightly twisted smile gains a fond huff from behind his head.
“You think you’re quite clever now, don’t you?”
Sherlock turns to stare, taking in the kind eyes and the slumped shoulders of his very dead flatmate. “I needed you.”
John shakes his head with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You didn’t, that’s just what you needed to think.”
Large, dry rocks seem to have invaded Sherlock’s throat so that he can’t swallow properly. He clears his throat and looks down at his mobile, texting Lestrade for the folder he needs.
Serial killer earlier this year. Unsolved. You remember which one. Bring the file to Baker street. SH.
They wait together, in companionable silence, exactly the way it should be.
-x-
An hour later, Sherlock is pacing again. It’s easier than being still, easier than sitting on his hands to wait for the information he needs. John’s eyes follow him back and forth but he never says a word.
There’s a knock at the door to pull him out of his impatient thoughts. He eyes the flat somewhat nervously (empty), and crosses the room to open it, revealing a disheveled looking Lestrade who stands in front of a rather smug looking Mycroft.
Sherlock tips his head, irritated, saying, “Funny, I don’t recall inviting you, Mycroft.”
Mycroft pushes past both men into the flat and removes his coat. “You’re getting reckless, Sherlock.”
A growl boils up inside Sherlock’s chest at the matter-of-fact way Mycroft stated that. As if he knows what he’s talking about; as if he understands.
“You don’t know what you’re talk-“
“Walking into a den of murderers earlier this evening? I won’t mention all the other asinine stunts you’ve pulled over the past week in front of your guest.” Mycroft leans against his umbrella. Sherlock contemplates kicking it out from underneath his palm.
Lestrade clears his throat from the door and steps in slowly, waving a folder in front of Sherlock’s face. “You wanted to see this?”
“Yes, thank you, Lestrade.” Sherlock’s eyes never leave Mycroft as he snatches the folder from Lestrade’s hand.
“Is that for John’s case?” Mycroft asks casually, playing with the cuff of his sleeve.
“What? Wait!” Lestrade points to the folder while Sherlock looks through it. “What’s this got to go with John? Sherlock, I’m sorry, but it was a mugging, I thought you wanted this to...” he trails off and Sherlock glances up.
“To what?” he snaps coldly.
Lestrade shuffles a bit on his feet. “You know, take your mind off things.”
“My mind,” Sherlock pulls a picture out of the folder and flips it shut, “is perfectly sound, thank you. Look at this.” He holds one of the crime scene photographs up to Lestrade, who peers curiously at it.
“What am I looking at exactly?” he cautiously asks. Sherlock’s sigh is a frustrated one.
“Look at the body! At the stab wound! Do I need to spell it out for you? Oh, who am I kidding, of course I do.” He looks between both men with as much repulsion as his face will allow him to show.
Mycroft scratches his head, eyebrows raised. “Why don’t you explain.”
Sherlock huffs, turning back toward Lestrade. “The stab wound, it’s in the same place on John’s body as the other victims. He’s the right age, and all the victims were killed in isolated areas. I never would have found it if-“ he stops himself.
“If what, Sherlock?” Mycroft urges, stepping closer. Sherlock takes a step back.
“It just took me a bit longer than it normally would have,” he says, clearing his throat. His gaze drifts behind Mycroft to John’s computer, where his flatmate sits with kind, reassuring eyes.
“Sherlock?” Mycroft turns slowly to look behind him, then back to Sherlock with his eyes even more narrowed than they were before.
Lestrade steps further into the room, closer to Sherlock. “Look, I understand this is hard and you want to believe-“
“Those are facts!” Sherlock barks, slamming the folder onto the coffee table.
“John is the right age,” Lestrade continues, “but all the victims of this serial killer were tall brunettes, don’t you remember?”
“It was dark, the killer could have mistaken him for a brunette. John’s hair looks quite dark at night.”
“They were stalked beforehand, Sherlock. Had John received any threatening notes in the past month?”
Sherlock’s throat feels as if it’s collapsing in on itself. “He hadn’t mentioned, but if we search...”
“And now you are twisting the facts to suit your theory. You know better than that,” Mycroft adds, not unkindly.
“His money was gone. His wallet was found two blocks over,” Lestrade points out.
Eyes burning, Sherlock’s hands begin to shake and his vision blurs. “He borrows my card, he doesn’t keep loose money. I don’t...I’m sure of it,” he mumbles, backing up against the coat rack and knocking it to the ground. Lestrade moves to help him, but Sherlock pushes him away.
“I’m positive it has something to do with this case. He wouldn’t have-I mean, it has to.”
Mycroft’s eyes, wary, watch Sherlock’s every move; they scrutinize him, pick apart his every action. It makes him increasingly uncomfortable.
Lestrade, who has picked up the fallen coat rack, suddenly calls out loudly, “Sherlock, what the hell is this?”
Sherlock’s head whips around and his heart sinks at the sight of the Inspector holding the small packet that had obviously fallen out of his coat pocket when it hit the floor.
“Are you using again?” Mycroft all but whispers, looking as if his worst fear has just come true right before his eyes.
“No!” Sherlock yells. “I haven’t!”
“Then why the hell were you carrying this? Do I need to get Anderson up here to search the whole flat?” Lestrade threatens warningly.
“I haven’t even opened the bloody package!” Sherlock cries. “I was going to, but John-“
He pauses. John stands by the window, his kind eyes turned mournful, and he shakes his head. He’s different now. Sherlock simply stares at him.
Mycroft turns again, like before, looking straight through John and sighs. “Oh, Sherlock. This concerns me,” he says sadly.
Sherlock looks at his brother and they stare at one another, speaking, as always, with their eyes until everything becomes more than Sherlock can bear. “Get out,” he snarls at them, but neither man moves, only intensifying his anger. Sherlock shouts again, “Out, now!”
“Sherlock-“ Lestrade tries in a calming voice.
“OUT!” Sherlock screams, nearly tripping over the coffee table. He catches himself, stands upright, takes a deep breath; his back is to the men so concerned for his well-being. So concerned, Sherlock, they’re worried.
A voice in his head that isn’t his.
“God damnit,” he growls. Sherlock turns and pushes past both men without another word.
Part III