SO many tags. But I love this angst, had to get this one first.mightbebloggingOctober 15 2011, 01:49:22 UTC
[ John could hardly register the fact that Sherlock was, indeed, there, much less any changes in his appearance. There was nothing he could think to say in that moment. He really wasn't think much at all. It was probably a good thing that the detective strode forward to take him into his arms, because it was around that moment that his knees started to buckle and give out beneath him. He leaned into that embrace with a gasp, closing his eyes as he took in that familiar smell that was his Sherlock. Still, after all this time, it returned to him - and he realized, all over again, just how much he had really missed this man. His own body shook with the others', but he didn't move to wrap his own arms around him. It wasn't until the corners of his eyes were wet with tears that something finally snapped within him, and he came alive again
( ... )
[ Even the slightest touch has John's body working in conflicting ways. Part of him wants to pull away, to push Sherlock away again and possibly even cause physical harm to him this time. The other part of him wants to go back to how things used to be, and fall into that embrace he still remembered so well. The conflict and uncertainty is there in his gaze as he stubbornly presses his lips together, keeping his expression as stoic as possible. Sherlock's words send a dull aching through his tired body, and when he can finally speak, the sound that escapes is almost the equivalent of a pitiful little sob. He hates his body for making that sound, and he shakes his head. ]
I don't know if I can do this, Sherlock. I don't know if I can take you back after what you've done to me, and walk around on eggshells, never knowing whether or not I'll wake up and find another damned note saying you've gone again.
I trusted you, I... [ His voice breaks on the word: ] loved you, and you left, because, what...our life together wasn't exciting
( ... )
But... but that's the thing. It doesn't matter. [Of course this all makes perfect sense to him. Sherlock always did find some difficulty when it came to conveying his thoughts to the doctor. Not that John couldn't possibly understand, he was the only person who actually did understand, it was simply the detective's lacking capability to organize his thoughts into coherent phrases.]
None of it matters. [His hands fall to John's shoulders and gripping onto him tightly.] It's you. You matter. That's all.
I don't care if you can never trust me. I don't care if you decide to hate me forever. Just... please, John... let me stay with you.
[ John is just... tired. His shoulders tense between that grip, but he can't force himself to push the other away again. He looks up into that gaze with something like resignation slipping into his own, even as he continues to glare steadily. His knees threaten to buckle again, despite his sheer force of will... it was just all too much. This whole night, seeing this ghost of a man he'd started to finally believe he just might never see again. Sherlock's words cut him deep - of course they mean something to him. Its just too much to take now. His hands are clenching into fists at his sides again, although he forces them to relax. ]
[The detective wasn't quite ready to let go of him just yet. Feeling John's body tense under his hold, Sherlock reached his hand up and with his thumb he would just lightly clear the tears away from John's eyes. He had to refrain from making too much contact and his arms would slowly drop back down at his sides. They had to start all over again and Sherlock simply needed to learn how to be patient.]
Why am I so swamped in tags, gah...mightbebloggingOctober 16 2011, 01:13:26 UTC
[ John inhaled sharply and closed his eyes when Sherlock moved to wipe away those tears... but he did not jerk away. He was angry and disappointed in this man, and he wanted him to know that... but he was so tired. He did, however, keep his own hands pointedly to himself, and taking in a breath, John stepped back, and away from that very real presence before him. ]
Your things are... gone. What you left, anyway. Packed up, and Mycroft took them. But your bed is still there.
[ The room that had once been so cluttered with Sherlock's things was practically empty, and no one had slept there since the detective had gone. ]
Same xD I think we're loved, that's why.deducing_freakOctober 16 2011, 01:51:01 UTC
[Well, he had been wondering why everything seemed so... neat. Apparently Sherlock didn't realize just how much of his life was spread about the rooms, without all of his clutter, it all just seemed empty and... well, it looked clean for once. Which wasn't really a bad thing, Mrs. Hudson probably loved it. When John stepped back, he would do the same, turning as he glanced about the room. It was so familiar yet it felt very foreign at the same time. There was a definite groove in the carpet, signaling a trail where the doctor must have been pacing back and forth. By the condition of the windows, it didn't look like the curtains had been opened very often, if at all.]
I'm sure he must have jumped at the opportunity to snoop through my stuff. [There's an obvious tone of distaste in his voice, but it would only make sense that his brother be the one to hold his things while he was gone. No doubt he'd be getting lectured for it later on.]
Yes we are! And netflix is distracting me... >.> BUT I STILL LOVE YOU AND YOU ARE MY FAVORITE!mightbebloggingOctober 16 2011, 03:01:02 UTC
[ Yes, John had worn a path in the already ugly carpet with his pacing. And after a while, there had been no point opening those curtains, no point looking outside at the world. Without Sherlock in it, it was much more commonplace and ordinary. Funny, but it had never seemed boring when he had been there with John. It took his leaving for everything to slow down, and nothing to ever happen to him again. Meanwhile, he nodded somewhat indifferently to Sherlock's comment, still keeping a distance from him. Any more touching that evening might very well be his final undoing. His voice is calm when he speaks, although he feels anything but that inside. ]
So did Mycroft know, then? Where you were all this time?
:D OMIGAWSH REELEE?!deducing_freakOctober 16 2011, 04:01:02 UTC
[There was no way he would have gone to his brother. Though the thought had crossed his mind, that maybe he should have at least let one person know where he had disappeared to. But it would have only been a matter of time before Mycroft found out anyway.]
I didn't tell him anything. But he had gotten close a couple times while I was gone... He seemed pretty determined.
[Sherlock moves over to the doorway, picking up his duffel bag and finds John's phone still on the floor. His call with Harry had already ended. At least it was good to see he kept in contact with people and wasn't completely alone this whole time. With a weak smile he just hands the phone over to the doctor.]
[ John only nods, a little surprised that Mycroft had not actually succeeded in finding his brother. Both men were stubborn as hell, and what with the power the older Holmes had... but then, he'd always known Sherlock to be more clever. When the other picks up his phone and offers it to him, he sighs quietly. Harry. He'd completely forgotten about the very real sister he was talking to the moment the long-lost detective had walked in out of the blue. Taking the phone back, he decides he'll call her tomorrow. Right now... he just wants to sleep, or pace, or punch the wall, or scream, or a combination of all of the above. Slipping the phone into his pocket, he glances up at the other, asking one last, detached question. ]
*hides* x3 oh geezdeducing_freakOctober 16 2011, 05:28:46 UTC
[Sherlock had turned to head into his room. For once, he felt tired, actually he was more exhausted then anything else. Long trip. Jet lag. Dealing with emotions. And a mixture of everything else that was going on in his head at the moment. It started to take a toll on him. But when John spoke, he stopped immediately, glancing back over his shoulder.]
Marrakech. [There was no sense in lying to the man. He'd already done so much damage to him already.] The red district in Morocco. It's actually quite nice during the day.
[ There's no mistaking the surprise that still washes over John's expression. Of course, he'd had no earthly idea where the man had disappeared to, but that certainly wasn't where he'd been expecting. ]
Morocco? ...huh. I see.
[ But he collects his expression back into one of indifference, raking a hand through his hair. He's a weary mess - the result of all those emotions he'd gone through in such a short period of time. Right now, all he wants to do is slip into a mind-numbing slumber - that is, of course, if he's able to actually fall asleep after all this. ]
I'm going to bed. I suppose we can... start tomorrow, you know, talk tomorrow. But Sherlock, you can't expect me to just drop everything for you, everything you put me through. This is going to take time.
[There isn't much that can be said, he understands this. But yet there's still so much left unsaid. Tomorrow is another day. Perhaps the detective was just a bit over tired. A first for him really. But it seemed like a logical enough explanation for his silence. His mind was too preoccupied with absorbing the new yet still familiar surroundings. Sherlock nods his head politely, some hint of a smile there before he turns to retire into his room.]
Good night, John.
[This may very well be the first time he ever used his room for its intended purpose. Sherlock dropped his bag onto the floor, removing his coat and hanging it on the back of the door. This was probably the only time this room was actually considered clean as well. Now running a hand back through his damp hair, Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed before exhaling a deep side and falling back to stare up at the ceiling.]
[ John's only good night was not verbal, but only a nod of his head. He was too tired to manage much of anything else, and he honestly didn't want to get into anything more with Sherlock that night. Tomorrow would be a new day, and perhaps he would be better prepared to deal with all of this once his head was clear. Once he returned to his room, shutting the door, he paused against it for a moment, placing his hand against it. Heaving a sigh, he leaned his forehead against it for a moment and closed his eyes. Past his door and down the hall there was a room that after a year and so many odd months was no longer empty. It made him want to cry and laugh and scream all at the same time. Instead, he pushed himself back up with an effort, then retired to his bed, still wearing his shoes, clothes and all. Within him, there was a battle to go back out that door, cross that hallway, and barge into Sherlock's room. Whether it would be to give him another piece of his mind or throw himself into those familiar arms was a toss-up, however
( ... )
[It only took a few short hours before he was awake again. Apparently it didn't take Sherlock very long to fall asleep once his head hit the bed, but it was getting back to sleep that proved to be the more difficult task. Despite how exhausted he may bee physically, the detective's mind never did cease long enough to permit him a good night's rest. But that short amount of sleep he did manage to get was enough for him.
Without any experiments to concoct, there wasn't much he could do to really occupy his time. Save for his violin of course, old habits die hard. Though it wasn't quite as late into the early morning hours when the detective decided toorchestrate one of his favorite Bach pieces.]
[ John, meanwhile, after tossing and turning for a little while, finally managed to fall asleep. It seemed the flood of that evening's emotions had hit him hard, and he was tired both physically and mentally. That morning, he doesn't wake up right away, when that violin playing invades his senses. At first, he's quite convinced its in his dream... which makes him think that last night was also a dream. Sherlock Holmes wasn't back, he was never going to come back. But when he opens his eyes and still hears the playing, he knows it was all real. He supposes his should be frustrated with him for playing at what was still fairly early... but he can't muster up the strength to be angry. He's not exactly jumping for joy, either... but he finds himself getting to his feet, running a hand through his hair, then heading towards that sound. John can't really help it. How many nights had he thought about hearing that playing again? And now... its almost too much. Its lovely, and mellifluous, and everything he missed, even when it woke him up at
( ... )
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I don't know if I can do this, Sherlock. I don't know if I can take you back after what you've done to me, and walk around on eggshells, never knowing whether or not I'll wake up and find another damned note saying you've gone again.
I trusted you, I... [ His voice breaks on the word: ] loved you, and you left, because, what...our life together wasn't exciting ( ... )
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None of it matters. [His hands fall to John's shoulders and gripping onto him tightly.] It's you. You matter. That's all.
I don't care if you can never trust me. I don't care if you decide to hate me forever. Just... please, John... let me stay with you.
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Fine. You can stay.
[ He swallows hard, painfully. ]
But that's all, Sherlock.
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That's all I ask.
[The detective wasn't quite ready to let go of him just yet. Feeling John's body tense under his hold, Sherlock reached his hand up and with his thumb he would just lightly clear the tears away from John's eyes. He had to refrain from making too much contact and his arms would slowly drop back down at his sides. They had to start all over again and Sherlock simply needed to learn how to be patient.]
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Your things are... gone. What you left, anyway. Packed up, and Mycroft took them. But your bed is still there.
[ The room that had once been so cluttered with Sherlock's things was practically empty, and no one had slept there since the detective had gone. ]
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I'm sure he must have jumped at the opportunity to snoop through my stuff. [There's an obvious tone of distaste in his voice, but it would only make sense that his brother be the one to hold his things while he was gone. No doubt he'd be getting lectured for it later on.]
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So did Mycroft know, then? Where you were all this time?
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I didn't tell him anything. But he had gotten close a couple times while I was gone... He seemed pretty determined.
[Sherlock moves over to the doorway, picking up his duffel bag and finds John's phone still on the floor. His call with Harry had already ended. At least it was good to see he kept in contact with people and wasn't completely alone this whole time. With a weak smile he just hands the phone over to the doctor.]
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Where were you, Sherlock?
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Marrakech. [There was no sense in lying to the man. He'd already done so much damage to him already.] The red district in Morocco. It's actually quite nice during the day.
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Morocco? ...huh. I see.
[ But he collects his expression back into one of indifference, raking a hand through his hair. He's a weary mess - the result of all those emotions he'd gone through in such a short period of time. Right now, all he wants to do is slip into a mind-numbing slumber - that is, of course, if he's able to actually fall asleep after all this. ]
I'm going to bed. I suppose we can... start tomorrow, you know, talk tomorrow. But Sherlock, you can't expect me to just drop everything for you, everything you put me through. This is going to take time.
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Good night, John.
[This may very well be the first time he ever used his room for its intended purpose. Sherlock dropped his bag onto the floor, removing his coat and hanging it on the back of the door. This was probably the only time this room was actually considered clean as well. Now running a hand back through his damp hair, Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed before exhaling a deep side and falling back to stare up at the ceiling.]
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Without any experiments to concoct, there wasn't much he could do to really occupy his time. Save for his violin of course, old habits die hard. Though it wasn't quite as late into the early morning hours when the detective decided toorchestrate one of his favorite Bach pieces.]
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