Fic for dreambrother89: Opportunity to feel brave.
Title: Opportunity to feel brave.
Recipient: dreambrother89
Author: [to be revealed]
Fandom: BBC series.
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, no paring.
Rating: PG.
Warnings: None.
Summary: How John ends up dealing with one of Sherlock’s old demons at the end of The Blind Banker.
Opportunity to feel brave.
The flat was peaceful, but not in any way quiet. There was the soft and sporadic humming of the fridge, the constant ticking from the clock, the persistent sound of the laptop fan; not to mention the sound of London that seeped in through the windows. They were all such familiar background noises that Sherlock’s mind took it for silence even though it really wasn’t.
It was hard to believe that just a few hours ago he and John (and a very shaken Sarah Sawyer) had handed over parts of a Chinese smuggling cartel to DI Dimmock. Maybe not impossible to believe, seeing as the sitting-room was still occupied by boxes and stacks of books, but it felt very distant as the adrenaline subsided.
Now Sherlock was left alone among the physical reminders of a solved case. John had retreated to his room about one hour ago, after they had finished their tea and Sherlock had laid out the puzzle and the last deductions for him.
Sherlock enjoyed the solitude; he made himself another cup of tea and slowly started to remove everything he had put up over the fireplace. Cleaning up after a case was a pleasure of its own; rediscovering the clues, being able to put early ones in better context, condemn his own stupidity for not figuring things out faster than he had, learning from the mistakes that had been made, erasing information that was no longer needed and tagging the information that he wanted to keep.
It was almost meditative, a perfect way to wind down and turn off the mind to let it rest before tomorrow and the new mysteries that he hoped was waiting.
Tonight the process wasn’t as soothing as usual though, tonight something drifted over him like a raincloud. He knew exactly what this something was, but he ignored it frenetically. Some things were just harder to get rid of than others, some things just stayed with you no matter how hard you tried to delete them. Most times it concerned emotions and ignoring them seemed like the best possible alternative.
Sherlock was good at ignoring, putting things away in boxes and folders and stuffing them away; far, far away where he didn’t have to deal with any of it. A coping mechanism, probably not the healthiest one, but a very efficient one most of the times - though not entirely successful tonight. No, the knowledge that he would have to go back to Shad Sanderson made him disturbingly uncomfortable. Maybe it wasn’t the fact that he would have to go back to the investment bank per se, but rather the fact that he would have to face Sebastian again, that was the problem.
Why was that? He wasn’t a child anymore, he wasn’t a teenaged misfit. He was Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective and Sebastian had come to him for help. Sebastian needed him and his expertise. His ‘tricks’.
Tricks….
Frustrated that he cared, that he let Sebastian get to him, Sherlock crumpled the paper on which he had printed futhark. Not like he would need to keep it. Not like he needed to keep any of the printed old alphabets.
One by one he pulled them down, taking some of his discomfort out on all of them before disposing of them into the fireplace. When he came to the photos from Sir William’s office at Shad Sanderson he paused for a moment; once again reminded that he needed to go back there tomorrow - or today, really. Sherlock couldn’t see why he would need to save these either and Dimmock wouldn’t need them to make his case; therefore, the photos went into the fireplace as well.
The mirror was revealed and Sherlock met his own eyes, his own face. It was strange, what things stayed with you and what didn’t. It had never bothered him when Donovan called him a freak; compared to other things he had been called it was rather unimaginative, but he guessed her professionalism stopped her from being more creative.
Hearing Sebastian tell John that they all had hated him though…. Even though it had been meant to come out as a joke…. It just…. After that false, friendly greeting which, for the shortest of moments, had made him think that everything actually was in the past….
With some aspects of your life you just didn’t get second chances, simple as that. No matter if you got hired as a consultant and paid in five figures by the demons of your past. The hierarchy of the playground remained.
He glanced over at the skull next to him, its skinless, dead face staring back at him with a wide grin. It was impossible to not give it a smile in return.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said and realised that he hadn’t spoken to the skull in weeks now; John had turned out to be a very good replacement. John Watson had turned out to be a real friend.
Or ‘colleague’ he mentally corrected himself in the same way John had done the first time they had been at the bank. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t deny that it had stung a bit. That it still stung a bit. Not that it should really; he had referred to John as his colleague, his blogger, his trained monkey, his flatmate, his doctor, his own personal idiot and, this one time, his friend. Had it been any other situation he would probably have been able to see John’s comment for what it really was: a reflection of the man’s own insecurity.
Had it been any other situation, Sherlock wouldn’t have used the term ‘friend’ to introduce John.
Now this wouldn’t do! He was better than this; he did not dwell on the past. He didn’t. Even if he had to admit that he’d gone to the bank to show off a bit. To show that he had managed to do well for himself, that he provided services that even Sebastian Wilkes needed; that he - in contrast to Seb - was one of a kind, irreplaceable. There were fourteen investment bankers to the dozen, but only one consulting detective.
It disappointed him that he had managed to do no such thing. The closest he had been able to accomplish was to storm off without taking the cheque he was offered for his services. This, he must admit, had not been the most intelligent thing he had done these last couple of days.
No, the traces of his intelligence were instead piled all over the sitting room; the books, the papers, the photos he had decided on keeping…. The entire provisional pinboard was gone now though, the only remains were some fingerprints on the mirror. The witness of his thought process had been erased.
Didn’t matter.
He really should go to bed. He knew he was tired, both body and mind needed to reboot. With a whimpering sound he rubbed his face and hated himself and his weakness a bit. Hated that he cared, that he couldn’t brush it off.
“Can’t sleep?”
Sherlock jumped at the sound of John’s voice and, looking as if he had done something he was not supposed to, he turned around.
John stood at the other side of the book-and-box maze, looking tired and newly awake. His clothes were the same as when he had gone to bed, they were wrinkled and a bit twisted and the blond hair was messy; it was obvious that John had fallen asleep without changing out of his clothes.
“Haven’t tried,” Sherlock admitted.
“Something on your mind?” John wondered after muffling a yawn to his best ability.
Sherlock hesitated and refused to give in to the contagiousness of John’s yawn. The truth felt like too much to tell, not to mention that it would be embarrassing to admit that after running after an assassin and fighting a smuggle cartel he was kept awake by the thought of meeting an investment banker.
“Time’s up,” John declared when the silence passed the one-minute-mark, “What’s up?”
Asking again with different words didn’t grant anyone an answer, nor did it make him any less hesitant to provide one. Sherlock felt like informing John of this, but remained quiet and just shook his head instead.
“Did we miss something?” John wondered and yawned again (without trying to hide it this time and Sherlock had real trouble not following the lead) as he looked down at the books in the open box between them.
“No,” Sherlock answered truthfully just as John picked up one of the books - paperback, Hearts of Atlantis - and flipped through it without any real interest. Sherlock realised that he had no idea what type of books John liked to read. Or if he read fiction at all.
“Are you okay?” John asked without looking up from the book. At least not until the silence once again lasted for more than a minute. Then John lifted his eyes but not his head from the book. “Sherlock?”
“I’m fine.” Sherlock said, but John put down the book. It was obvious that he didn’t believe him so Sherlock added with a snort, “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know,” John admitted with a shrug, he looked so honest in his tired curiosity and concern that Sherlock almost told him about his stupidity and irrationality. Just almost. What good would it do to tell him any of it? John, resourceful as he might be from time to time, could not change the past and therefore could not do anything about the inconvenient emotions Sherlock had right now concerning it.
“We’re not going back to the bank,” he decided in the moment and it felt both like a relief and a failure at the same time. “I’ll send an e-mail to Sebastian and tell him how Soo Lin’s brother came in.”
“Oh,” John said in slight surprise and for some reason, that became too much. Sherlock covered his eyes with one hand, more to hide John’s gaze from him than to hide himself from John. It would be rather ridiculous to believe this would make him invisible. Seeing John look at him like that had suddenly become a bit overwhelming though.
He needed to sleep. He needed to sleep. He needed to sleep.
That was why this happened, that was why he reacted like this. That was why there were actual tears wetting his eyelashes for the first time in years. He needed to sleep, his body needed rest. It was breaking down, he wasn’t, it was.
“I’m sorry,” he said when he removed his hand and wiped his eyes in the process, “I need to sleep.”
“Are you upset about something?” John asked, his curiosity entirely replaced with concern now.
“Just tired,” Sherlock answered and deliberately avoided to look at John as he made a point out of straightening his back. He could feel how terrible his attempt to lie was and even though he wished John would just drop it and let him go to bed, a part of him hoped - for the sake of John’s intellect if nothing else - that John would see through it.
“You’re sure?”
No. Not sure at all. Or rather, very sure that he wasn’t just tired, but this happened because he was. Otherwise it would have been fine. All fine. He didn’t care about Sebastian anymore, or any of them, they had no part in his life. They should not bother him anymore! Hadn’t they done that enough?
“Sherlock?” John’s voice was low and his hand reached over the box with books. Instinctively, Sherlock leaned away from the touch and with a step back he put enough space between them for John not to reach him.
“Let’s just go to bed, okay?” Sherlock suggested a bit guilt-struck when he saw that backing away had hurt John for some reason.
“Sure,” John forced a smile, “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Why not?” Sherlock wondered and tilted his head, “Not like I extend that courtesy to you.”
John chuckled and the smile that stayed on his lips after that was much more genuine, so much so that Sherlock also smiled.
“That’s true,” John agreed, ”But maybe you’re the one who should change and not I?”
“Debatable.”
“Do you want me to pry?” John yawned, “I can pry.”
“I’d prefer if you didn’t,” Sherlock said, “And you really can’t.”
“If I wasn’t so tired I’d prove you wrong,” John bumped Sherlock with his shoulder on purpose when Sherlock walked over to his side of the boxes and they shared something similar to a smile, “But are you sure we’re not going back to the bank-”
“Yes.”
“-because I thought you said you wanted to see if you could get van Coon’s secretary to show you the hair pin?”
Sherlock stopped in the middle of the room on their way to their bedrooms; John was right, he did want that. Not that it was relevant, not really, he had solved the case either way but it was the last piece of the puzzle and unfinished puzzles bugged him.
John looked up at him, seeming not surprised at all by Sherlock’s sudden halt. This, however, surprised Sherlock. Surprise, with a hint of confusion, was more welcome than the uncomfortable self-contempt he felt for being anxious and unwilling to go back and face Sebastian though and he lingered in the moment as long as he could. John made it possible for almost two seconds.
Damn it John.
“Come on, what is it?” he asked and this time Sherlock wasn’t quick enough to move away when he reached for his upper arm, “It’s not like you to freely give up the opportunity to gloat.”
No, it wasn’t; Sherlock was well aware of this minor character flaw of his, but it was a relatively new flaw. A way to establish superiority and distance himself from people so that no one got the opportunity to treat him the way others had treated him before. Others like Sebastian Wilkes.
He should be above this.
Really.
He hated that he wasn’t and what this did to him. The power Sebastian and his likes had over him now was worse than the memory of what they had done in the past. The past he had learnt to live with, this he had yet not found a way to deal with since his normal approaches - ignoring and deleting - didn’t seem to work.
“You don’t have to,” John shook his head and just patted Sherlock on the arm before turning to leave. Sherlock wasn’t sure what came over him, what made his heart rate increase or what made him open his mouth. Maybe it was the need for that last piece of the puzzle or the need to actually gloat at Sebastian or maybe even the need to prove to himself that he actually was above it all, that he had moved on.
Maybe it just happened because John was actually going to let it go. Whatever the reason was, Sherlock heard himself saying:
“I want to see the hair pin, but I don’t want to see Sebastian. I don’t think I….”
Fortunately he managed to stop the words before he said something he would regret; something more than not wanting to meet the investment banker again that was. There was a very strange lump building up in his throat, making him even more grateful he had managed to cut himself off before something else would have.
Again he placed one hand over his eyes, but this time it actually was to hide from John. At least to hide his emotions from him if he, like last time, wouldn’t be able to keep the threatening tears away.
“Is tha-“ John broke off his question and if Sherlock had trusted his own self-control he would have liked to see how John drew conclusions from all of this. Now he just assumed the doctor did just that. It felt terrible and Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this exposed.
What would John be able to figure out? Would the conclusions John managed to draw be accurate? Would he figure out just how lonely he had been and how much he had tried to compromise with who he was to not be lonely? Was it showing how painful that had been and how he had survived on the thought that the next phase in his life would be better? The bitterness of the repeatedly crushed hope gave a bad taste in Sherlock’s mouth even now.
But what was he so worried about? John would never figure all that out; his deducing ability wasn’t better than the average man, still he seemed much better to feel empathy and draw conclusions from emotions than Sherlock himself was. Could it be because John hadn’t spent so much time learning how to ignore his feelings?
“Fuck him Sherlock,” John said when he was done putting everything together but his voice was far too tender for the words to have the impact they probably should have had. There was another sentiment in the voice though that didn’t pass Sherlock by and he moved his hand so that he could look at John with one eye. There was a very honest understanding in John’s face.
God…. Sherlock wondered what John thought he understood.
“I mean it, fuck him,” this time the words had a little more bite to them, but John still looked calm and disturbingly caring - it made Sherlock feel even more exposed and insecure. “Tomorrow, if you still want to talk to the secretary we’ll go there and you’ll do that and I’ll deal with Sebastian.”
Sherlock removed the hand from his face completely and wrapped his arms around his body instead, but forced himself to not take a step back from John. Looking at John’s chest rather than his face he felt something close to shame creep over his cheeks.
“You don’t need to protect me,” he said, echoing what he had told Mycroft repeatedly over the years.
“I beg to differ,” John said and Sherlock could almost hear the smile, “Remember the cabbie? Remember tonight at the circus?”
Stupid John. That was not even close to what he had been talking about and he’d had both of those situations under control. He might have needed some help in Soo Lin’s flat, but he had managed that too. He managed, that’s what he did, that’s what he’d always done. John didn’t need to ‘deal with Sebastian’ for him.
“It’s not the same thing,” Sherlock said, looking up and forced himself to meet John’s eyes to regain some self-esteem and confidence. It was fruitless, but he could pretend it worked, “Seb’s not going to pull a gun on me.”
“Don’t be so sure, bankers are scary bastards,” John said teasingly.
“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock snorted and looked away again.
“Sorry,” John said and even if Sherlock wasn’t looking at him he saw how John hesitated to place his hands on his crossed arms. Sherlock was grateful he didn’t, that might just have been too much. “I don’t know what that…what he did to you-“
“It was nothing.” The protest was nothing more than a low mutter, but it needed to be inserted nonetheless.
“-but he didn’t do you any favours by giving you this case and you don’t owe him any in return. You don’t need him, he needed you. You won; and there is no way he should stop you from finishing this case the way you want to.”
Sherlock frowned; yes he knew he’d won. He knew that perfectly well. Sebastian was no one and he was a genius, but apparently his brilliant brain didn’t care about that tonight. John had a very good point though; Sebastian shouldn’t get to dictate how this case ended.
He had been hired to do a job and had the client been anyone else he would have tried to get to see the hair pin (even though the pin by itself had nothing to do with the job). If it had been anyone else offering the job, he would have accepted the money without questions.
The money, yes, they did need that. No matter what Lestrade (and John) stated from time to time, he was not a child anymore. He was a professional and he should act accordingly. That decision felt just as abrupt and sudden as the previous to not go to the bank in the first place. This time the relief was replaced with a touch of anxiety, but he could feel his back becoming a bit straighter as he raised his head and looked at John.
“Seeing how we can’t be sure you have a job after tonight I think you should ask for more money to cover some unforeseen expenses when you talk to him,” he said with an attempt to smile and saw an indescribable relief in John’s eyes.
“Thank God,” he sighed, “I thought you were going to skip that.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock frowned, “I don’t need to go there to get it; I’d assume transferring money to different accounts is very basic knowledge for an investment banker.”
“I think you’re on to something,” John’s chuckle turned into a yawn that he hid behind his hand before he gave him a concerned - but, due to lack of sleep, a bit unfocused - look, “And you’re sure you’ll be all right?”
The first impulse was to answer this question the same way he had answered the similar one earlier; why wouldn’t he be all right? Both of them had unfortunately figured out more about this tonight than Sherlock was completely comfortable with, so he just nodded. He would be all right, maybe not tonight, but hopefully sleep would come quickly and he wouldn’t need to worry about tomorrow for too long.
“Good, good,” John murmured, “Now, bed.”
Sherlock nodded again but didn’t move even though John walked out the room. There was no way he couldn’t have noticed that Sherlock didn’t follow, but still he left, because he was tired, because he didn’t want to pry anymore.
Sherlock couldn’t believe John left it like this; he was really terrible at prying - or he thought he had figured out enough. It made him smile, John actually was his friend, in actions if not in words and actions were far more important. It was far more difficult to lie with actions. Sebastian called himself his friend but didn’t act like it, John may have corrected to his introduction, but every single action the man made indicated friendship.
“Go to bed Sherlock,” John ordered - probably from the door to his own bedroom - and Sherlock yawned at the mere mentioning of a bed.
Sherlock looked over at the skull with the beginning of a smirk; the skull had never ordered him to go to bed. It had stayed up with him many nights when he had battled demons, but never had it offered to battle them with him as John had done just now.
Maybe he could live with being ordered to bed? It actually felt like a very small price to pay.
Recipient: dreambrother89
Author: [to be revealed]
Fandom: BBC series.
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, no paring.
Rating: PG.
Warnings: None.
Summary: How John ends up dealing with one of Sherlock’s old demons at the end of The Blind Banker.
Opportunity to feel brave.
The flat was peaceful, but not in any way quiet. There was the soft and sporadic humming of the fridge, the constant ticking from the clock, the persistent sound of the laptop fan; not to mention the sound of London that seeped in through the windows. They were all such familiar background noises that Sherlock’s mind took it for silence even though it really wasn’t.
It was hard to believe that just a few hours ago he and John (and a very shaken Sarah Sawyer) had handed over parts of a Chinese smuggling cartel to DI Dimmock. Maybe not impossible to believe, seeing as the sitting-room was still occupied by boxes and stacks of books, but it felt very distant as the adrenaline subsided.
Now Sherlock was left alone among the physical reminders of a solved case. John had retreated to his room about one hour ago, after they had finished their tea and Sherlock had laid out the puzzle and the last deductions for him.
Sherlock enjoyed the solitude; he made himself another cup of tea and slowly started to remove everything he had put up over the fireplace. Cleaning up after a case was a pleasure of its own; rediscovering the clues, being able to put early ones in better context, condemn his own stupidity for not figuring things out faster than he had, learning from the mistakes that had been made, erasing information that was no longer needed and tagging the information that he wanted to keep.
It was almost meditative, a perfect way to wind down and turn off the mind to let it rest before tomorrow and the new mysteries that he hoped was waiting.
Tonight the process wasn’t as soothing as usual though, tonight something drifted over him like a raincloud. He knew exactly what this something was, but he ignored it frenetically. Some things were just harder to get rid of than others, some things just stayed with you no matter how hard you tried to delete them. Most times it concerned emotions and ignoring them seemed like the best possible alternative.
Sherlock was good at ignoring, putting things away in boxes and folders and stuffing them away; far, far away where he didn’t have to deal with any of it. A coping mechanism, probably not the healthiest one, but a very efficient one most of the times - though not entirely successful tonight. No, the knowledge that he would have to go back to Shad Sanderson made him disturbingly uncomfortable. Maybe it wasn’t the fact that he would have to go back to the investment bank per se, but rather the fact that he would have to face Sebastian again, that was the problem.
Why was that? He wasn’t a child anymore, he wasn’t a teenaged misfit. He was Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective and Sebastian had come to him for help. Sebastian needed him and his expertise. His ‘tricks’.
Tricks….
Frustrated that he cared, that he let Sebastian get to him, Sherlock crumpled the paper on which he had printed futhark. Not like he would need to keep it. Not like he needed to keep any of the printed old alphabets.
One by one he pulled them down, taking some of his discomfort out on all of them before disposing of them into the fireplace. When he came to the photos from Sir William’s office at Shad Sanderson he paused for a moment; once again reminded that he needed to go back there tomorrow - or today, really. Sherlock couldn’t see why he would need to save these either and Dimmock wouldn’t need them to make his case; therefore, the photos went into the fireplace as well.
The mirror was revealed and Sherlock met his own eyes, his own face. It was strange, what things stayed with you and what didn’t. It had never bothered him when Donovan called him a freak; compared to other things he had been called it was rather unimaginative, but he guessed her professionalism stopped her from being more creative.
Hearing Sebastian tell John that they all had hated him though…. Even though it had been meant to come out as a joke…. It just…. After that false, friendly greeting which, for the shortest of moments, had made him think that everything actually was in the past….
With some aspects of your life you just didn’t get second chances, simple as that. No matter if you got hired as a consultant and paid in five figures by the demons of your past. The hierarchy of the playground remained.
He glanced over at the skull next to him, its skinless, dead face staring back at him with a wide grin. It was impossible to not give it a smile in return.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said and realised that he hadn’t spoken to the skull in weeks now; John had turned out to be a very good replacement. John Watson had turned out to be a real friend.
Or ‘colleague’ he mentally corrected himself in the same way John had done the first time they had been at the bank. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t deny that it had stung a bit. That it still stung a bit. Not that it should really; he had referred to John as his colleague, his blogger, his trained monkey, his flatmate, his doctor, his own personal idiot and, this one time, his friend. Had it been any other situation he would probably have been able to see John’s comment for what it really was: a reflection of the man’s own insecurity.
Had it been any other situation, Sherlock wouldn’t have used the term ‘friend’ to introduce John.
Now this wouldn’t do! He was better than this; he did not dwell on the past. He didn’t. Even if he had to admit that he’d gone to the bank to show off a bit. To show that he had managed to do well for himself, that he provided services that even Sebastian Wilkes needed; that he - in contrast to Seb - was one of a kind, irreplaceable. There were fourteen investment bankers to the dozen, but only one consulting detective.
It disappointed him that he had managed to do no such thing. The closest he had been able to accomplish was to storm off without taking the cheque he was offered for his services. This, he must admit, had not been the most intelligent thing he had done these last couple of days.
No, the traces of his intelligence were instead piled all over the sitting room; the books, the papers, the photos he had decided on keeping…. The entire provisional pinboard was gone now though, the only remains were some fingerprints on the mirror. The witness of his thought process had been erased.
Didn’t matter.
He really should go to bed. He knew he was tired, both body and mind needed to reboot. With a whimpering sound he rubbed his face and hated himself and his weakness a bit. Hated that he cared, that he couldn’t brush it off.
“Can’t sleep?”
Sherlock jumped at the sound of John’s voice and, looking as if he had done something he was not supposed to, he turned around.
John stood at the other side of the book-and-box maze, looking tired and newly awake. His clothes were the same as when he had gone to bed, they were wrinkled and a bit twisted and the blond hair was messy; it was obvious that John had fallen asleep without changing out of his clothes.
“Haven’t tried,” Sherlock admitted.
“Something on your mind?” John wondered after muffling a yawn to his best ability.
Sherlock hesitated and refused to give in to the contagiousness of John’s yawn. The truth felt like too much to tell, not to mention that it would be embarrassing to admit that after running after an assassin and fighting a smuggle cartel he was kept awake by the thought of meeting an investment banker.
“Time’s up,” John declared when the silence passed the one-minute-mark, “What’s up?”
Asking again with different words didn’t grant anyone an answer, nor did it make him any less hesitant to provide one. Sherlock felt like informing John of this, but remained quiet and just shook his head instead.
“Did we miss something?” John wondered and yawned again (without trying to hide it this time and Sherlock had real trouble not following the lead) as he looked down at the books in the open box between them.
“No,” Sherlock answered truthfully just as John picked up one of the books - paperback, Hearts of Atlantis - and flipped through it without any real interest. Sherlock realised that he had no idea what type of books John liked to read. Or if he read fiction at all.
“Are you okay?” John asked without looking up from the book. At least not until the silence once again lasted for more than a minute. Then John lifted his eyes but not his head from the book. “Sherlock?”
“I’m fine.” Sherlock said, but John put down the book. It was obvious that he didn’t believe him so Sherlock added with a snort, “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know,” John admitted with a shrug, he looked so honest in his tired curiosity and concern that Sherlock almost told him about his stupidity and irrationality. Just almost. What good would it do to tell him any of it? John, resourceful as he might be from time to time, could not change the past and therefore could not do anything about the inconvenient emotions Sherlock had right now concerning it.
“We’re not going back to the bank,” he decided in the moment and it felt both like a relief and a failure at the same time. “I’ll send an e-mail to Sebastian and tell him how Soo Lin’s brother came in.”
“Oh,” John said in slight surprise and for some reason, that became too much. Sherlock covered his eyes with one hand, more to hide John’s gaze from him than to hide himself from John. It would be rather ridiculous to believe this would make him invisible. Seeing John look at him like that had suddenly become a bit overwhelming though.
He needed to sleep. He needed to sleep. He needed to sleep.
That was why this happened, that was why he reacted like this. That was why there were actual tears wetting his eyelashes for the first time in years. He needed to sleep, his body needed rest. It was breaking down, he wasn’t, it was.
“I’m sorry,” he said when he removed his hand and wiped his eyes in the process, “I need to sleep.”
“Are you upset about something?” John asked, his curiosity entirely replaced with concern now.
“Just tired,” Sherlock answered and deliberately avoided to look at John as he made a point out of straightening his back. He could feel how terrible his attempt to lie was and even though he wished John would just drop it and let him go to bed, a part of him hoped - for the sake of John’s intellect if nothing else - that John would see through it.
“You’re sure?”
No. Not sure at all. Or rather, very sure that he wasn’t just tired, but this happened because he was. Otherwise it would have been fine. All fine. He didn’t care about Sebastian anymore, or any of them, they had no part in his life. They should not bother him anymore! Hadn’t they done that enough?
“Sherlock?” John’s voice was low and his hand reached over the box with books. Instinctively, Sherlock leaned away from the touch and with a step back he put enough space between them for John not to reach him.
“Let’s just go to bed, okay?” Sherlock suggested a bit guilt-struck when he saw that backing away had hurt John for some reason.
“Sure,” John forced a smile, “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Why not?” Sherlock wondered and tilted his head, “Not like I extend that courtesy to you.”
John chuckled and the smile that stayed on his lips after that was much more genuine, so much so that Sherlock also smiled.
“That’s true,” John agreed, ”But maybe you’re the one who should change and not I?”
“Debatable.”
“Do you want me to pry?” John yawned, “I can pry.”
“I’d prefer if you didn’t,” Sherlock said, “And you really can’t.”
“If I wasn’t so tired I’d prove you wrong,” John bumped Sherlock with his shoulder on purpose when Sherlock walked over to his side of the boxes and they shared something similar to a smile, “But are you sure we’re not going back to the bank-”
“Yes.”
“-because I thought you said you wanted to see if you could get van Coon’s secretary to show you the hair pin?”
Sherlock stopped in the middle of the room on their way to their bedrooms; John was right, he did want that. Not that it was relevant, not really, he had solved the case either way but it was the last piece of the puzzle and unfinished puzzles bugged him.
John looked up at him, seeming not surprised at all by Sherlock’s sudden halt. This, however, surprised Sherlock. Surprise, with a hint of confusion, was more welcome than the uncomfortable self-contempt he felt for being anxious and unwilling to go back and face Sebastian though and he lingered in the moment as long as he could. John made it possible for almost two seconds.
Damn it John.
“Come on, what is it?” he asked and this time Sherlock wasn’t quick enough to move away when he reached for his upper arm, “It’s not like you to freely give up the opportunity to gloat.”
No, it wasn’t; Sherlock was well aware of this minor character flaw of his, but it was a relatively new flaw. A way to establish superiority and distance himself from people so that no one got the opportunity to treat him the way others had treated him before. Others like Sebastian Wilkes.
He should be above this.
Really.
He hated that he wasn’t and what this did to him. The power Sebastian and his likes had over him now was worse than the memory of what they had done in the past. The past he had learnt to live with, this he had yet not found a way to deal with since his normal approaches - ignoring and deleting - didn’t seem to work.
“You don’t have to,” John shook his head and just patted Sherlock on the arm before turning to leave. Sherlock wasn’t sure what came over him, what made his heart rate increase or what made him open his mouth. Maybe it was the need for that last piece of the puzzle or the need to actually gloat at Sebastian or maybe even the need to prove to himself that he actually was above it all, that he had moved on.
Maybe it just happened because John was actually going to let it go. Whatever the reason was, Sherlock heard himself saying:
“I want to see the hair pin, but I don’t want to see Sebastian. I don’t think I….”
Fortunately he managed to stop the words before he said something he would regret; something more than not wanting to meet the investment banker again that was. There was a very strange lump building up in his throat, making him even more grateful he had managed to cut himself off before something else would have.
Again he placed one hand over his eyes, but this time it actually was to hide from John. At least to hide his emotions from him if he, like last time, wouldn’t be able to keep the threatening tears away.
“Is tha-“ John broke off his question and if Sherlock had trusted his own self-control he would have liked to see how John drew conclusions from all of this. Now he just assumed the doctor did just that. It felt terrible and Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this exposed.
What would John be able to figure out? Would the conclusions John managed to draw be accurate? Would he figure out just how lonely he had been and how much he had tried to compromise with who he was to not be lonely? Was it showing how painful that had been and how he had survived on the thought that the next phase in his life would be better? The bitterness of the repeatedly crushed hope gave a bad taste in Sherlock’s mouth even now.
But what was he so worried about? John would never figure all that out; his deducing ability wasn’t better than the average man, still he seemed much better to feel empathy and draw conclusions from emotions than Sherlock himself was. Could it be because John hadn’t spent so much time learning how to ignore his feelings?
“Fuck him Sherlock,” John said when he was done putting everything together but his voice was far too tender for the words to have the impact they probably should have had. There was another sentiment in the voice though that didn’t pass Sherlock by and he moved his hand so that he could look at John with one eye. There was a very honest understanding in John’s face.
God…. Sherlock wondered what John thought he understood.
“I mean it, fuck him,” this time the words had a little more bite to them, but John still looked calm and disturbingly caring - it made Sherlock feel even more exposed and insecure. “Tomorrow, if you still want to talk to the secretary we’ll go there and you’ll do that and I’ll deal with Sebastian.”
Sherlock removed the hand from his face completely and wrapped his arms around his body instead, but forced himself to not take a step back from John. Looking at John’s chest rather than his face he felt something close to shame creep over his cheeks.
“You don’t need to protect me,” he said, echoing what he had told Mycroft repeatedly over the years.
“I beg to differ,” John said and Sherlock could almost hear the smile, “Remember the cabbie? Remember tonight at the circus?”
Stupid John. That was not even close to what he had been talking about and he’d had both of those situations under control. He might have needed some help in Soo Lin’s flat, but he had managed that too. He managed, that’s what he did, that’s what he’d always done. John didn’t need to ‘deal with Sebastian’ for him.
“It’s not the same thing,” Sherlock said, looking up and forced himself to meet John’s eyes to regain some self-esteem and confidence. It was fruitless, but he could pretend it worked, “Seb’s not going to pull a gun on me.”
“Don’t be so sure, bankers are scary bastards,” John said teasingly.
“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock snorted and looked away again.
“Sorry,” John said and even if Sherlock wasn’t looking at him he saw how John hesitated to place his hands on his crossed arms. Sherlock was grateful he didn’t, that might just have been too much. “I don’t know what that…what he did to you-“
“It was nothing.” The protest was nothing more than a low mutter, but it needed to be inserted nonetheless.
“-but he didn’t do you any favours by giving you this case and you don’t owe him any in return. You don’t need him, he needed you. You won; and there is no way he should stop you from finishing this case the way you want to.”
Sherlock frowned; yes he knew he’d won. He knew that perfectly well. Sebastian was no one and he was a genius, but apparently his brilliant brain didn’t care about that tonight. John had a very good point though; Sebastian shouldn’t get to dictate how this case ended.
He had been hired to do a job and had the client been anyone else he would have tried to get to see the hair pin (even though the pin by itself had nothing to do with the job). If it had been anyone else offering the job, he would have accepted the money without questions.
The money, yes, they did need that. No matter what Lestrade (and John) stated from time to time, he was not a child anymore. He was a professional and he should act accordingly. That decision felt just as abrupt and sudden as the previous to not go to the bank in the first place. This time the relief was replaced with a touch of anxiety, but he could feel his back becoming a bit straighter as he raised his head and looked at John.
“Seeing how we can’t be sure you have a job after tonight I think you should ask for more money to cover some unforeseen expenses when you talk to him,” he said with an attempt to smile and saw an indescribable relief in John’s eyes.
“Thank God,” he sighed, “I thought you were going to skip that.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock frowned, “I don’t need to go there to get it; I’d assume transferring money to different accounts is very basic knowledge for an investment banker.”
“I think you’re on to something,” John’s chuckle turned into a yawn that he hid behind his hand before he gave him a concerned - but, due to lack of sleep, a bit unfocused - look, “And you’re sure you’ll be all right?”
The first impulse was to answer this question the same way he had answered the similar one earlier; why wouldn’t he be all right? Both of them had unfortunately figured out more about this tonight than Sherlock was completely comfortable with, so he just nodded. He would be all right, maybe not tonight, but hopefully sleep would come quickly and he wouldn’t need to worry about tomorrow for too long.
“Good, good,” John murmured, “Now, bed.”
Sherlock nodded again but didn’t move even though John walked out the room. There was no way he couldn’t have noticed that Sherlock didn’t follow, but still he left, because he was tired, because he didn’t want to pry anymore.
Sherlock couldn’t believe John left it like this; he was really terrible at prying - or he thought he had figured out enough. It made him smile, John actually was his friend, in actions if not in words and actions were far more important. It was far more difficult to lie with actions. Sebastian called himself his friend but didn’t act like it, John may have corrected to his introduction, but every single action the man made indicated friendship.
“Go to bed Sherlock,” John ordered - probably from the door to his own bedroom - and Sherlock yawned at the mere mentioning of a bed.
Sherlock looked over at the skull with the beginning of a smirk; the skull had never ordered him to go to bed. It had stayed up with him many nights when he had battled demons, but never had it offered to battle them with him as John had done just now.
Maybe he could live with being ordered to bed? It actually felt like a very small price to pay.