JLBB Fic (John/Sherlock): Battle Hymns, Pt I
Title: Battle Hymns
Author: heavenlyxbodies
Pairing: John/Sherlock (mostly pre-slash)
Rating: R (for disturbing imagery)
Spoilers: general S2
Feedback: Makes me happy, just play nice
Disclaimer(s) can be found here
Beta: phnx_reader, any remaining mistakes are mine, and probably me ignoring her advice.
Warnings/Squicks (nota bene- some of these warnings are for things only mentioned in passing, but as the entire work may contain triggers I wanted to try to cover everything): may contain triggers, disturbing imagery, torture, PTSD, flashbacks, mentions/description of death of non-canon characters
Summary: Sherlock returns, whole, but battered and not just on the outside. There are things he's done, things he's discovered that he can't tell John. But the signs are there and it's only a matter of time before those secrets come out. Deals with Sherlock and what happened in those three years and how he copes with it now (mainly the latter), and how John copes with him.
Written for johnlockbigbang 2012
AN1: This was spawned by a Tumblr conversation between myself and silkmoth101 in response to this amazing gif set by tumblr user airdotcaptain. I would never have gone ahead with this if it hadn’t been for Silky (even if it’s not as long as she’d have liked- sorry, love).
AN2: Likewise, without mialoco’s putting up with my constant whining babbling and random dropping of ideas on her I doubt I would have pulled this off.
AN3: And of course, my Arthur, who, despite not being a part of the fandom, put up with my last minute editing and second guessing, served as an alpha, and will provide a huge chunk of the hand holding once I post this, lol.
AN4: And finally a huge *hug* and THANK YOU to tinnny for the absolutely amazing art!
~~~~~~~~~
Lestrade had called not a week after Sherlock’s miraculous return asking for his help. Sherlock jumped at the chance to be doing something that didn’t involve trying to keep John from being executed. A real case. A body and killer. Nice and simple. He didn’t even care if it was so mundane that he could have solved it just from Lestrade’s description- It. Was. A. Case. He grabbed his coat and scarf, and turning a mischievous smile at John, asked, “Coming?”
“Sure,” he answered prosaically, standing to find his own jacket. He was still adjusting to the idea that Sherlock was back, still trying not to jump every morning when he came downstairs to find him laid out on the sofa lost in thought, still trying not to wake-up breathless and confused when he heard the sad strains from Sherlock’s midnight violin sessions. Long ago, John had used his phone to record Sherlock playing- it was one of his own compositions- and when Sherlock was ‘dead’, John would listen to it sometimes, let himself pretend his life was back to ‘normal’ with Sherlock just downstairs playing and thinking, and that his death had been nothing more than a horrible nightmare. Now, it was all a nightmare, and there were times John wasn’t sure which part was more horrifying- being without Sherlock, being led to believe he was dead, or having him here, alive and acting as if nothing had happened, like he’d just popped off to the shops, which would have been its own brand of terrifying, but the point remains.
They sat in silence in the cab on the way to the crime scene. It wasn’t an awkward silence, but it wasn’t the warm quiet they were used to. John wondered if Sherlock even noticed; well, he would notice, that’s what he does, but would he question it or simply throw it out like so much extraneous information? He didn’t like to think about the answer; it always left him moody and irritable.
Once at the scene, Sherlock had sent John off to talk to the witness who found the body, while he inspected the scene and the body itself.
“What did he say?” Sherlock asked when he heard John approaching.
“Alan Mercer, 29, was walking home from seeing his girlfriend two streets up.”
“Useless,” Sherlock snapped, too engrossed in his examination to notice John’s slight flinch.
“He said he saw a lump in the alleyway and came to take a look. Saw the blood and called 999.”
“Idiot, he’s lying. No one would just come to check out a lump in an alley. He was here for another reason.”
“Some people would.” John countered. That dark irritable mood he’d been avoiding was crashing down on him with every flippant word out of Sherlock’s mouth.
Sherlock finally looked away from the body to give John a pointed ‘don’t be stupid’ look. It was gone in a flash as Sherlock returned his attention to the body.
John’s jaw tensed and he tried not to grit his teeth. Closing his small pad, he stuck it and his pen in his jacket and walked off. He couldn’t do this right now, couldn’t pretend everything was just as it was, and that Sherlock hadn’t disappeared from his life for over three years.
“John?” Sherlock called over his shoulder, still focused on the dead body in front of him. “John, what else?”
When the other man didn’t answer, Sherlock whipped around looking for him. John wasn’t there. If it was possible, Sherlock’s normal ghostly pallor lost another three shades.
“Sherlock? What is it?” Lestrade asked, trying to get his attention.
Sherlock tuned the D.I. out and closed his eyes. This wasn’t happening. Couldn’t be happening. Moriarty’s network had been destroyed and he was home, back in London, with John; only John wasn’t there. He squeezed his eyes tighter trying to ground himself. This had happened too many times when he was gone. Sleep would sneak up on him and the next thing he knew he was at some run-of-the-mill crime scene and he’d turn to talk to John, who wasn’t there. He’d ask Lestrade where John had gone. He’d give Sherlock a sad, apologetic look and tell him that John was dead, killed by a sniper bullet the day Sherlock returned, and then he’d ask if Sherlock was really up to this, being there, working the case. But by that point Sherlock was gone, vision spinning out of control throwing up images of John, blood oozing from the hole in his head, his skull completely blown away, brain matter scattered on the ground. Sherlock did his best not to sleep while he was away, but the memories remained, no matter how hard he tried to delete them.
He opened his eyes and whirled back towards Lestrade and the body. “Which way did he go?” he demanded.
“Sherlock.”
“Which way?” he growled.
“That way.” Lestrade waved his hand in the direction John had walked off.
Sherlock turned on his heels and, resisting the urge to go tearing after him, strode purposefully in the direction his friend had gone.
“Sherlock,” Lestrade called after the retreating figure. “Sherlock, the body!” He tried to keep the annoyance and frustration out of his voice, though he knew full well the man would pick up on it instantly.
To his surprise, Sherlock turned to him and said emphatically, “Not now, Greg.”
The D.I. stared, shocked to the core by Sherlock’s words, more so than he’d been when the man had returned from the dead. Still reeling, he nodded and let Sherlock go.
“What was that about?” Donavon asked, sauntering up behind her boss.
“He called me ‘Greg’.”
---
Once Sherlock knew the direction John had disappeared in it was easy for him to deduce where he was going. Sherlock navigated the few streets with precision and cut across the too green grounds of the cemetery towards his own grave.
Sure enough, John was there, apparently having a row with his headstone. “-answer me that, will you? What’s… what’s wrong with me? You just waltz back after three years. And what do I do? I take it. I let you. You bastard!” He huffed, clenching and unclenching his fist. “I don’t know what I expected. Not this. I didn’t expect you to change, I’ve never expected that.” He chuckled a dry humourless laugh. “I wouldn’t know what to do if you ever did. Probably assume the world was ending.” Sighing, “It did the last time you did anything outside of your definition of ordinary. I guess that’s why I’m here; I’ve gotten used to talking to you here. Three years, Sherlock. Three years and I had to go on alone. And you can’t even… you won’t tell me anything! You just fly back into our lives like nothing happened, like the last three years didn’t happen. You were dead, Sherlock, dead. Do you have even the slightest idea what that was like for us? What we went through? Do you even care?”
“Of course, I care!” Sherlock exclaimed from behind him as if it was the most obvious thing in the world; to him it was. Everything he’d done, everything he’d gone through was for them, to keep them safe. To keep John safe. And hadn’t that been a revelation- Sherlock Holmes, self-professed sociopath, didn’t just care, he loved.
“Do you?” he asked the headstone angrily. “Do you know how long it took me to be able to go back to Baker Street?”
“Six months and eighteen days,” Sherlock said softly, “and by all accounts you hadn’t meant to.”
John should’ve been upset that Sherlock had known, but he really wasn’t that surprised. Of course he’d have Mycroft watching him, and Mrs. Hudson, too, no doubt. And Sherlock was right, he hadn’t meant to stay that night; he’d only come by to help Mrs. Hudson pack what remained of Sherlock’s things, though he knew that had been a ploy to get him to come by, an offer to claim anything of Sherlock’s that held sentiment for him. He snorted- sentiment. It was all rather blurry after that; he supposed the stress had gotten to him- it took so little to set him off in those early days- but he’d woken up on the sofa with one of Sherlock’s blankets draped over him. After that it had become easier to slowly move his life back into the only place he could remember or even think of calling home. He took a fortifying breath. “Yes, well, we had to live it, Sherlock, every day.”
“I know, John. Don’t you think I know?”
Something wavered in Sherlock’s voice, a small tremor, nothing more, but it was like a cannon in John’s ears. For the first time since he came back, Sherlock sounded less than his perfect clinical self.
“Do you honestly believe these past three years were easy on me?”
John finally turned around to face his friend. He had to force himself not to suck in a breath. Sherlock looked as shaken as his voice sounded. It was a sight he had only seen once before and no matter how much more human it proved Sherlock to be, it was something John had hoped never to see again.
“‘cause they weren’t,” Sherlock continued. “Knowing you were here, that Moriarty’s men were out there waiting. I had to, John.”
At that moment John wanted nothing more than to hold Sherlock and tell him it was okay, that he understood and everything would be alright, but he couldn’t do that, not yet, there were too many unanswered questions, too much anger and frustration to work through. “Why won’t you tell me what happened, where you were, anything? That’s what friends do, Sherlock, they let them in.” He was getting angry again. “Unless, I’m not worth it, then fine. Just… fine.”
“John,” he called, desperation seeping into the word. “I can’t... Not yet. Someday, but not now.”
John didn’t want to hear it. He wanted Sherlock to trust him. To care enough to tell him. John straightened himself and did an almost military turn and began to walk away. He didn’t see the way Sherlock sagged and fell against the tree at his graveside. He didn’t see the shallow panting breaths that came as he watched his one true friend walk away.
------
John was tucked into his chair in their living room when his phone pinged. He debated checking it for all of two seconds, he was still upset, but if Sherlock needed him, he’d go; although if it was to fetch his phone he might find himself inserting it into an unwelcoming orifice.
“Sherlock, if you w-”
“Not Sherlock, John.”
“Greg. Is everything alright? Sherlock didn’t get into it with Anderson again, did he?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s just, well, have you seen him?”
“Not since earlier. We had a bit of a row.”
“Damn it.”
“Greg, what’s wrong?”
“He just left.”
“It’s Sherlock, he does that.”
“Not like this, John. He was… different.”
“How d’you mean?” John had a flash of the shaken Sherlock he’d seen in the cemetery.
“He was all agitated when he realized you’d left. I tried to… Well, he just left; looking for you.”
“Yes, well, he found me.”
“John, you don’t understand, I’m worried about him.”
John felt a cold weight settle in his stomach, there were many things one felt towards Sherlock Holmes, and between them he and Lestrade had felt most of them, but the way Lestrade had spoken… “What happened, Greg?”
“That’s it exactly- he called me Greg.”
John froze. Sherlock barely knew other people had first names, let alone would call them by one. Mycroft, himself, Donavon when he was feeling particularly scathing, and occasionally John’s girlfriends, but that was likely because he never paid attention or cared to find out if they had surnames, were the only real exceptions. “Okay. Thanks, Greg. I’ll find him.”
---
“You know, for a genius you’re a bit of an idiot,” John said conversationally, coming up behind Sherlock.
“John.”
It made John flinch at the relief Sherlock conveyed in that simple word. If that much of his emotion was showing through, he could only imagine what Sherlock was really feeling and how much that would hurt him. He slid down the tree and sat next to his best friend. “You know. Friends have fights.”
“Do they?”
“Oh, yes. Take me, for example, I once had a row with my best friend, and I was so angry, you have no idea, well, you probably do, but it didn’t mean that I stopped caring. He’s still my best friend… and I’d be lost without him.”
“Would you?”
John nodded.
“Even after three years?”
“Definitely.” John smiled and looked away. “Come on, let’s go home. And text Greg, he’s worried about you. Gave him a scare calling him by his first name.”
“I did?” he asked curious, more from calling him Greg than from the D.I.’s concern.
“Mmm,” John said as he stood. As they walked out of the cemetery side by side, John reminded Sherlock casually, “I’m still mad.”
“I know,” Sherlock answered, sounding more like himself than he had when John found him.
John shook his head and smiled. However angry he was, he needed Sherlock in his life; nothing felt right without him.
*********
“How is he?” Mrs. Hudson asked quietly, sipping her tea.
John shrugged. “He says he’s fine, but… he’s Sherlock.”
“He doesn’t look fine,” she said, shaking her head.
John looked over at his flat mate huffing at the files Lestrade had given him, muttering to himself things like ‘Obvious’ and ‘boring’. “I know. But he won’t talk about it.” He turned his attention back to his own cup and Mrs. Hudson. “You know how he is.”
Mrs. Hudson fiddled with her cup. “What about Mycroft?”
John tensed at the name. His last contact with Mycroft had been awkward at best. The man was still nursing a broken nose and rather impressive black eye from the meeting, and John was only sorry he hadn’t gotten another shot in, though he had calmed down quite a bit since then. It didn’t mean that Mycroft hadn’t deserved it. “I’m not sure Mycroft would be the best person to talk to about this.”
“But he’s his brother,” Mrs. Hudson insisted.
“Yes, a brother who helped make us believe he was dead for three years. And that’s about as close to affectionate as I think Mycroft can get.” He sipped his tea. “Besides, it’s not as if he’d want his help.”
There was a snort from the living room.
Both John and Mrs. Hudson looked over at Sherlock.
He scowled at a file, and bit out, “If you must natter about me and my brother dear, could you at least do it quietly, or better yet, somewhere else.”
Mrs. Hudson flushed and looked around as if she thought they should leave. John placed a hand on her wrist to calm her and keep her in place.
“Yes, and you’d still deduce our conversation and be just as arrogant and offended, so we may as well have it here- at home.”
Sherlock sat up straighter and huffed, “I’m not offended.”
John and Mrs. Hudson shared a knowing look.
“Of course not, Sherlock.” John placated, but Sherlock went back to his files and John went back to his tea with Mrs. Hudson.
Sherlock drifted on the edge of sleep. John was out for the day, he still insisted on working even though Sherlock had made sure he wouldn’t have to. Sherlock found it was a blessing and a curse. He’d discovered since his return that he hated having John out of his sight for long; his body started to betray him then, it was like going through withdrawal with an extra dose of fear. Sherlock didn’t like succumbing to emotion and he always seemed to overcompensate for it while he fought to get his self-control back- both John and Mrs. Hudson had been on the receiving end of his moods, something that just added to his own internal battle and frustration.
On the other hand, it gave him a chance to rest. He didn’t dare when John was home. He knew from the last year (or more) that his dreams would disturb the residents of surrounding rooms. Sherlock wasn’t ready for either John or Mrs. Hudson to know about the dreams. Days like this gave him the time to rest, he still had to be careful not to fully sleep, but he could drift; at least then he could pull himself into consciousness before anyone had to know his thoughts. As he let himself rest, visions and memories crept into his brain. He was tired, so, so tired, and there was blood everywhere. Not much of it was his, but it had been messy- he hated it when it was messy.
Despite what most of the Yard thought, Sherlock did not ‘get off’ on killing. In fact, it repulsed him. He remembered the way his stomach would churn and roll unpleasantly at what he’d done, what he’d had to do. At the time he always managed to push the horrible feeling away with the simple thought that he was one step closer to ensuring John’s safety. But it didn’t stop the blood. He didn’t often have to resort to killing, thank God. He twitched on the sofa as he remembered in glorious Technicolor every moment of that particular day. They’d gotten the upper hand on him. Two of them, what they lacked girth they made up for in stealth and ability. It had been pure luck, yet another concept Sherlock hadn’t believed in until his ‘death’, that he’d been able to defeat them. A quick, too loud, snap of neck bone and one of them had gone limp on the ground, dead. His companion seemed to go into a frenzy after his partner had fallen. It was his blood he’d been covered in. In the end, he’d wound up staking the other man like some vampiric monster, a rod of discarded rebar protruding from his chest.
Distantly he heard the front door open and close- Mrs. Hudson from the sound of it with groceries for them as well as her own. He managed to smile despite the memories. She was another reason Sherlock had kept fighting. Yes, John had been his greatest motivator, but Mrs. Hudson was the mother he’d never had, Mummy had been loving in her own way, but never ‘motherly’, not like Mrs. Hudson was to both him and John. He found himself springing up to help her with the bags. “Let me,” he offered taking the bags from her hands. She often jumped when he did this, but she always gave him one of her warm smiles afterward and pretended like it never happened, something else Sherlock was deeply thankful for. He didn’t like to be reminded of how much more ‘human’ he’d become. He supposed it was due to those qualities being what he missed most about his strange and enigmatic family and after fighting for three years to keep that family, he had a new respect for those little actions. Though at times he worried himself- he was actually civil to Anderson last week.
“You don’t have to do that, dear,” Mrs. Hudson told him even as he relieved her of the shopping.
Sherlock gave her a look that said she was being foolish and started up the stairs, leaving her to follow empty handed.
She stopped her protestations and followed him up to the flat. She didn’t understand what had happened to Sherlock to change him like this, and she hoped never to; she didn’t think she’d like the answers. But she would indulge him for as long as he needed to do these little helpful things. If she didn’t know better she’d say it was some kind of penance he thought he owed, but that wasn’t like Sherlock, even the Sherlock that came back to them.
Sherlock breezed into their small kitchen and dropped the bags on a clear section of the table. A quick overview told him which items were meant for them and when Mrs. Hudson entered he was already setting things out on the table.
With a fond smile she began putting the groceries away. Watching Sherlock closely as she did so, she didn’t like how he looked, and she’d seen him in almost every state imaginable, but this- haggard and sad, his eyes puffy and red, he looked as if he hadn’t slept in weeks- worried her. She wouldn’t say anything, that would just upset him. She knew Sherlock well enough to know not to speak of such things, but this was getting ridiculous. Knowing she’d regret it, the part of her that needed to mother over Sherlock and John won out over common sense. “Sherlock, dear, you’re not looking well. Are you sleeping at all?” If she was going to cross this Rubicon, she’d get straight to the point; Sherlock would appreciate that at least.
“I’m sure it will pass, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock replied calmly.
“Oh, Sherlock,” she huffed and tutted as she put the last of their groceries away.
“I’m fine, I assure you,” he tried again.
She closed the cabinet with a soft thud and turned to look at her mad tenant. “Sherlock Holmes, you are not fine! Not by any stretch of the imagination- even one as grandiose as yours. You are anything but fine. And if no one else will say it then I will!”
A smile tugged at Sherlock’s lips. It felt good to be under Mrs. Hudson’s scrutiny, such as it was; it meant he hadn’t lost her. “Mrs. Hudson-” he began.
“Don’t ‘Mrs. Hudson’, me,” she chastised, then sighed. “You look a sight. I’m surprised that Inspector of yours keeps calling you in, the way you look.”
Sherlock didn’t say anything; he knew she was right and it was only a matter of time before Lestrade stopped calling despite the help he needed.
Mrs. Hudson placed a loving hand on his arm. “You need rest, Sherlock.” She shook her head. “I’ll make you a nice cup of tea, then to bed with you.”
“Mrs. Hudson, there’s really no need.”
“Bed, and that’s the end of it,” she added sternly.
She made them both a warm cup of Indian spiced tea, sweetened to perfection, and watched Sherlock drink his.
Sherlock obediently drank his tea then stretched out on the sofa.
“No you don’t, young man.”
“I assure you, Mrs. Hudson, this is quite sufficient.”
“Sufficient it may be, but you need a good rest in a proper bed. Go on, I’ll see to these,” she said, picking up their dishes. “Off to bed with you.”
Sherlock debated the value of arguing with her. Mrs. Hudson didn’t often put her foot down about anything with him, regardless of how she berated him, but when she did she was a force to be reckoned with. Begrudgingly, he acquiesced.
“That’s a good boy.” She smiled and gathered their cups.
“I am not a boy,” he corrected.
“Of course not, love,” she absently agreed.
Sherlock made a show of going through a stack of papers on the desk, while Mrs. Hudson took care of the dishes, hoping she’d assume he was going to bed once he’d finished with the papers. He knew it was a vain hope; once Mrs. Hudson got an idea in her head it was hard to shake, especially if it involved John or himself.
She turned to Sherlock and made a shooing noise and waved him towards his bedroom.
“Mrs. Hudson, really.” He tried to sound haughty, but he was fairly certain it came out more petulant than anything.
“Don’t mind me, dear. I’m just going to tidy up a bit before I go. You two always running off, it’s a wonder this place is even liveable,” she muttered fondly.
Sherlock understood the meaning behind his landlady’s words- she was staying to make certain he slept. Reluctantly, Sherlock went to his bedroom, dreading the consequences of sleep. But Mrs. Hudson was a stubborn woman, she had to be to put up with him, and he didn’t doubt for a moment that she would come in to check on him if she saw fit. With that in mind he lay down, praying sleep would elude him. Within seconds he was asleep.
Mrs. Hudson busied herself with straightening various piles of papers and books, careful not to disturb things terribly.
When John finally got home, it was to find Mrs. Hudson flipping nervously through a magazine at the kitchen table.
“Oh, John, thank goodness you’re home.”
“Mrs. Hudson,” he greeted, shrugging out of his coat, “is everything alright? Where’s Sherlock?” John was proud of himself for keeping the concern out of his voice, though after three years of pretending everything was okay and that his world wasn’t in a shambles he would hope he could mask a little concern.
“It’s Sherlock.” She could see John stiffen at her words. “He’s in the bedroom,” she added quickly, hoping to reassure John. “I made him. I just couldn’t stand how awful he looked.”
“And he went willingly? You never cease to amaze me, Mrs. Hudson.” Again he was impressed with how calm he sounded.
“Sherlock never does anything he doesn’t want to willingly.” She smiled impishly.
John couldn’t help but return her smile. Somehow they’d managed to get through the past three years together, where every smile had been precious. “Then what’s wrong, Mrs. Hudson?” he asked kindly.
As if on cue, a strained sound that could only be taken as a whimper came from the bedroom.
Mrs. Hudson wrung her hands and looked at the closed bedroom door.
Something in John’s stomach lurched.
“I went in and checked on him the first time…”
“It’s alright, Mrs. Hudson,” he said, even though he knew it wasn’t. After years as an army doctor, he knew the sounds of those dreams you couldn’t wake from, where horrors only imaginable showed themselves with indelible clarity. He’d had them. “You go on. I’ll keep an eye on him.”
“You’re sure?” she asked, welcoming the reprieve, but unwilling to just leave when Sherlock was in such obvious distress.
“Mrs. Hudson, you know how he is. Do you think he’s going to want to know someone saw him like this?”
She relaxed a bit; John was right, of course. She smiled shakily and patted his hand. “You’re a good man, John.”
He returned her warm smile and squeezed her hand. “I’ll look after him.”
She nodded and left.
John took a deep breath as he put the kettle on. He needed a moment to gather himself, before he faced what lay behind that closed door. He’d seen all sorts of horrors in his career, but the most haunting were the ones you couldn’t see. And for someone as proud and detached as Sherlock to be captive to those demons was frightening; whatever could shake Sherlock didn’t dwell thinking on. He shut the water off before it could properly begin to boil, having needied the excuse more than the tea. No more sounds had come from Sherlock’s room since that one eerie whine; if John was going to check on him, this was the time. He could see how troubled his sleep was and better judge whether or not to wake him; normally he wouldn’t have considered not waking him; having seen Sherlock, however, he felt that a fitful sleep would be of more use to Sherlock than none at all.
Sherlock was in bed still in his dressing gown, a light throw had been pulled and twisted around his legs- Mrs. Hudson had probably tried to cover him- and the silk of his dressing gown rucked up above his waist, even his pillow was wrapped in the intricate mass. He looked terrible and so un-Sherlock that it frightened John. But he was still fast asleep. After a brief internal debate, John slowly untangled the blanket from Sherlock’s feet, somehow managing not to get kicked by him in the process, and lay it back over him. He wished he could do more for him, but he knew whatever Sherlock was going through wasn’t something he could help with, not until Sherlock wanted his help, if he ever did. He remembered what he told Sherlock in their argument days earlier- ‘friends let people in’- he prayed Sherlock would eventually let him in.
Sherlock was not a weak man, not in any sense of the word, and he hated feeling weak. His mind was as sharp as it ever was, even with his restless and sporadic sleep. His lanky frame hid his physical power. And emotionally, well, everyone was painfully aware of how much control he had over them. He’d proven this time and again since his return- that early incident with John notwithstanding. The criminal elements of London had not remained dormant while he was away, leaving the Yard replete with cases for him to work. It had only taken a modicum of persuasion to get Lestrade to relinquish some to him. It had only taken a week to work through the first set, and the second didn’t seem much more promising, which was why the detective was currently hovering over the D.I.’s desk. “Come on, Lestrade, you must have something more interesting than these,” he flapped a handful of files at Lestrade, “for me.”
“Sherlock, they’re all good cases,” Lestrade argued.
“It’s been three years,” he scolded. “You’re telling me these are the best you can do?”
Lestrade leaned back in his chair, sighed, and rubbed his hand over his eyes. “No. I’m saying you’ve been gone, traipsing all over Europe and God knows where else for over three years. And as ridiculous as it maybe, I thought you might want to take it easy, readjust.” He shook his head and pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk. He’d started dropping case files in there three years ago. Cases that were strange or interesting or just plain impossible; cases he thought Sherlock might like. For over a year he’d kept expecting Sherlock to waltz through his door with some wild explanation for everything that happened. He had just hidden it better than most. Even once he’d given up hope, he still added files to the drawer. Some he’d go back over, trying to look at them through Sherlock’s eyes, and every now and then he even succeeded, but that could happen with any cold case. Still, he liked to think he had picked up some of the man’s methods.
Sherlock watched as Lestrade pulled handful after handful of files out of his desk. His lips twitched; apparently John wasn’t the only one who hadn’t given up on him. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
Lestrade stopped what he was doing and looked up from the files he was taking out, surprised by the honesty in Sherlock’s voice. He gave Sherlock a small smile and a nod. To say that the Sherlock who stood before him was the same one that left them would be a grave misconception. He was still brilliant and arrogant and utterly impossible, but he was kinder somehow. Lestrade would be lying if he said it wasn’t welcome, but it was still off-putting. He hated to think about what could’ve changed a man like Sherlock that way. Straightening up, he pushed the files across his desk. “There you go. Three years of strange, daunting, and unsolved.”
Sherlock swooped down on the files, gathering them up. “I’ll be in touch,” he called as he strode purposefully out of the D.I.’s office.
Just like that the old Sherlock was back and Lestrade gave a bemused smile at the familiar sight.
---
“Greg have something good for you I take it.” John commented from his computer, when Sherlock came swirling in, obviously in a better mood than when he’d left.
Sherlock smiled. “It seems the good Inspector has been setting aside cases in hopes of my return from the hereafter.”
“Really?” John sat up. He knew Greg had never lost faith in Sherlock, but he’d never thought he believed Sherlock wasn’t dead or that he would come back. It felt good, even in hindsight, to know he wasn’t alone in those beliefs.
Sherlock didn’t bother to reply, though he knew John was thinking the same thing he himself had thought at the station; instead he threw himself down onto the sofa and began sorting the files on the coffee table by order of interest and complexity.
John sighed, though it was more in contentment than anything else. Sherlock had the look of a kid at Christmas, completely giddy and slightly manic- John had missed that look; Hell, he’d missed everything about Sherlock including the noxious experiments and body parts in the fridge, or in the case of the foot, wedged up between the ice trays and some dodgy looking ham, at least he pretended it was ham. Sherlock made life interesting; everything had been so dull and bland without him. He was just waiting to wake up to tongues in the crisper and he’d finally believe life was getting back to normal. He could only smile at the absurdity and truth of the thought.
---------
The files from Lestrade had succeeded in staving off Sherlock’s boredom and were giving his mind ample fodder to occupy it with things other than sleep. Both things he would be eternally grateful for. He might even manage to keep being nice to Sally and Anderson for a few more weeks. The current case seemed simple enough, he was fairly certain the uncle’s ex-wife had done it, but he wanted to be sure and it prolonged his preoccupation. A sample of what had been mislabelled ‘soil’ had been growing in a pot on their windowsill for six days and five hours and should be viable enough for a proper examination. Sherlock stood from the microscope to scrape off a comparison sample of the mould and really you would think people could use their brains when committing a triple homicide and not go stamping about their prize garden beforehand, or at least they could change their shoes; sometimes he despaired for the criminal classes, even when they were being clever they were infinitely stupid. He peeled the film of reddish-brown slime onto the slide and began to roll up his sleeves as he turned back towards his microscope.
His fingers brushed over a slightly raised line of skin and he stopped. His eyes traced the bare edge of the scar. There were others. Not huge glaring streaks over his body, but small tiny lines and pin pricks from shoulder to elbow. The marks of one particularly unorthodox interrogator- he might not have been able to properly break someone, but he knew how to scar them. Lines ran across his skin: one set cut with a rusty blade, others simple knife wounds, all enraged and infected before they could heal, leaving Sherlock fevered and delirious for days. And when one fever broke another set of cuts would appear. The lines were light and silvery when caught in the right light, but they glared like beacons to Sherlock’s eyes.
Over those were the needle marks from slightly more traditional methods; he had lost count of the kinds of drugs and the number of times he’d been jabbed. His longer sleeved dressing gowns served to hide most of the wounds, but he had to be so very careful now. Absently rolling up his sleeves to work had become an almost traitorous movement as had the way his dressing gowns would slip from his shoulder when he was too busy or bored to notice. He felt like every second of the past three years was written on his skin and he hated it. Every time John looked at him, he felt a little more exposed, like another of the closely guarded secrets from his past had been ripped from his traitorous body. It was ridiculous, he knew- the kinds of secrets he hid would take more than a look to discover. Not even Mycroft was that good. Then again, no one knew him as well as John, no one had ever wanted to, and with that kind of knowledge came greater ability to see. The same way an expert in geology could read the history of a region in a sample of rock, he was afraid John could read his history just as easily. His mind squirmed every time; he wondered if this was how other people felt when he looked at them. If anyone noticed, no one asked. But every now and then he would see John staring at him as if he knew- wishful thinking he thought; if John knew it would be easier, but if John knew then he’d discover the rest quickly enough. At least that’s what the voice that kept Sherlock from telling John everything said, and for once in his life he let that voice guide him.
“Sherlock? Sherlock, are you even listening to me?” John asked, expecting the answer, if he even got one, to be ‘no’. He didn’t like the way Sherlock disappeared. It wasn’t something new exactly, Sherlock had always been prone to getting lost in his own head, just as he tended to have conversations with John when he wasn’t there, but there was something about the way Sherlock wasn’t there that bothered him and caused him to push until he got a reaction.
“Yes, of course. I always listen to you, John. You know that.” Sherlock was fairly certain John didn’t know that, but he should, even if that meant Sherlock had to tell him in his own roundabout way.
John was taken aback by Sherlock’s response; he really hadn’t been expecting that. “You do?” he found himself saying.
“John,” he warned, he hated repeating himself.
“Sorry, sorry, I heard you the first time.” He got up and went to the kitchen. “So, Chinese or Angelo’s?”
“Chinese, you always prefer Chinese when you’ve been thinking too much.”
“Of course, how foolish of me not to know that.”
Sherlock made a noise that was close to a chuckle and his lips quirked up.
“Oh, shut up,” John laughed and pulled out his phone to place their usual order. When he hung up he asked, “You want to tell me what’s got you so absorbed?”
Sherlock jerked and turned away from John with a shake of his head. “It’s nothing.”
“Obviously.”
That got a curious glare from Sherlock.
John walked back into the living room and sat down. “Nothing always causes you to that much distraction. I should have thought of that before- give Sherlock Holmes ‘nothing’ to think about and he’ll be busy for hours. Who knows, maybe it will even save the wall from further abuse.”
“Very funny,” Sherlock said dryly.
“It was ‘nothing’,” John said as he picked at the stack of mail on the small table beside him.
Once again the wheels of Sherlock’s brain ground to a screeching halt. He’d missed this, John, but he hated how disarming the man was. He hated how much John’s playfulness begged him to talk to him. Most of all he hated being tempted this way, this desire he had for John to know and understand was interminable, and it was only offset by his need to protect John even if only from himself and his memories. John didn’t need to know. He didn’t want John to know; the man had been through enough already. That’s what he let himself believe. But there was a part of him that yearned to tell him everything.
John was a veteran; he’d seen so much destruction and the horrors of war and Sherlock was loathe to add his own nightmares to it. It was one thing to drag John into the mundane horrors of London and her own plebeian darkness. It was another to force John into his. He’d done things he wasn’t proud of while he was gone; things that had to be done, but things that would change the way John looked at him. And that was something he couldn’t bear. It was hard enough having John so angry and hurt by his sudden reappearance. He wouldn’t risk losing John completely over the things he’d done to keep him safe.
To keep John safe. He mentally chuckled- it sounded bitter even in his head. Sherlock had a lot of time to think in the past three years, and very early he’d come to realize some very disturbing truths. The most obvious being that, despite his best efforts, he did care about people, or certain people. The second realization had come barrelling down on him on the heels of the first. He loved, was in love with John Watson. That one piece of information had sent him spiralling; of all the things he could’ve imagined happening in his life falling in love was not one of them.
It made him question things about himself he’d always believed. Sociopaths, ‘high functioning’ or otherwise, did not feel. They could mimic feelings and learn acceptable behaviours and responses, but actually suffer from emotions, no. They, he, didn’t have the capacity. Sherlock had never doubted this aspect of himself, ever since he first heard one of his tutors angrily tell his mother that he ‘must be some sort of sociopath’. He’d been confused at first, not understanding, but he did what he always did whenever he discovered a gap in his knowledge- he researched it. What he found seemed to be a perfect fit for his nature and he’d embraced it. It left him able to focus on the important things without all those emotional distractions. It had become an integral part of who he was. If he wasn’t a sociopath, which his feelings for John, and to a lesser extent Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, seemed to negate, what was he? He certainly wasn’t ‘normal’. Even John had thought he was a machine, unfeeling and emotionless. Three years on and he still didn’t have an answer, all he really knew was he didn’t like having these feelings; they confused him and caused him to doubt.
“Sherlock?” A voice said softly, a warm hand resting on his arm.
The touch caused Sherlock to snap to attention, pulling away roughly from John’s hand and shaking his half-rolled sleeves back down. “I’m fine.” He pushed past John and back to the microscope. He could barely remember what he’d been working on, but anything was better than having to face John when he had that caring look in his eyes, the one that made Sherlock wonder if John cared for him as much as he cared for John. And that was something he definitely was not ready to talk about. “How long before dinner arrives?” he asked, just to have something to say, a change of subject.
John sighed and edged closer to Sherlock and his microscope, leaning back against the table comfortably. “I know you know exactly how long it takes between the time I call and when the doorbell rings,” he said calmly, watching his friend closely.
Sherlock heaved a heavy, exaggerated sighed. “You’re the one who’s always trying to get me to ‘make conversation’,” he bit out, accusingly, and a bit too defensively.
“Yeah.” John nodded his head slowly, looking away and back again. “And you just decided to try it out on me, now.”
Cool opal eyes looked condescendingly at John.
John decided to let Sherlock’s disturbingly lame excuse slide. “Alright. At least you’re trying.” He watched Sherlock for a minute more, trying to work out what had set him off. He knew it was pointless to try to figure out what was going on in his friend’s mind; part of him feared that even Sherlock didn’t know.
“Is there something else?”
For a moment John considered saying, ‘yes’, but just then the doorbell rang. “That’ll be dinner then.”
“Obviously,” Sherlock said, adjusting the focus on the microscope.
“Right.” He pushed himself away from the table. “Clear a spot,” he said as he grabbed his wallet and headed down the stairs. The moment was gone and John knew that by the time he returned Sherlock would be Sherlock again and all traces of the distracted man would be gone.
Part II
Master Post
Master Post: Art
.
Author: heavenlyxbodies
Pairing: John/Sherlock (mostly pre-slash)
Rating: R (for disturbing imagery)
Spoilers: general S2
Feedback: Makes me happy, just play nice
Disclaimer(s) can be found here
Beta: phnx_reader, any remaining mistakes are mine, and probably me ignoring her advice.
Warnings/Squicks (nota bene- some of these warnings are for things only mentioned in passing, but as the entire work may contain triggers I wanted to try to cover everything): may contain triggers, disturbing imagery, torture, PTSD, flashbacks, mentions/description of death of non-canon characters
Summary: Sherlock returns, whole, but battered and not just on the outside. There are things he's done, things he's discovered that he can't tell John. But the signs are there and it's only a matter of time before those secrets come out. Deals with Sherlock and what happened in those three years and how he copes with it now (mainly the latter), and how John copes with him.
Written for johnlockbigbang 2012
AN1: This was spawned by a Tumblr conversation between myself and silkmoth101 in response to this amazing gif set by tumblr user airdotcaptain. I would never have gone ahead with this if it hadn’t been for Silky (even if it’s not as long as she’d have liked- sorry, love).
AN2: Likewise, without mialoco’s putting up with my constant whining babbling and random dropping of ideas on her I doubt I would have pulled this off.
AN3: And of course, my Arthur, who, despite not being a part of the fandom, put up with my last minute editing and second guessing, served as an alpha, and will provide a huge chunk of the hand holding once I post this, lol.
AN4: And finally a huge *hug* and THANK YOU to tinnny for the absolutely amazing art!
~~~~~~~~~
Lestrade had called not a week after Sherlock’s miraculous return asking for his help. Sherlock jumped at the chance to be doing something that didn’t involve trying to keep John from being executed. A real case. A body and killer. Nice and simple. He didn’t even care if it was so mundane that he could have solved it just from Lestrade’s description- It. Was. A. Case. He grabbed his coat and scarf, and turning a mischievous smile at John, asked, “Coming?”
“Sure,” he answered prosaically, standing to find his own jacket. He was still adjusting to the idea that Sherlock was back, still trying not to jump every morning when he came downstairs to find him laid out on the sofa lost in thought, still trying not to wake-up breathless and confused when he heard the sad strains from Sherlock’s midnight violin sessions. Long ago, John had used his phone to record Sherlock playing- it was one of his own compositions- and when Sherlock was ‘dead’, John would listen to it sometimes, let himself pretend his life was back to ‘normal’ with Sherlock just downstairs playing and thinking, and that his death had been nothing more than a horrible nightmare. Now, it was all a nightmare, and there were times John wasn’t sure which part was more horrifying- being without Sherlock, being led to believe he was dead, or having him here, alive and acting as if nothing had happened, like he’d just popped off to the shops, which would have been its own brand of terrifying, but the point remains.
They sat in silence in the cab on the way to the crime scene. It wasn’t an awkward silence, but it wasn’t the warm quiet they were used to. John wondered if Sherlock even noticed; well, he would notice, that’s what he does, but would he question it or simply throw it out like so much extraneous information? He didn’t like to think about the answer; it always left him moody and irritable.
Once at the scene, Sherlock had sent John off to talk to the witness who found the body, while he inspected the scene and the body itself.
“What did he say?” Sherlock asked when he heard John approaching.
“Alan Mercer, 29, was walking home from seeing his girlfriend two streets up.”
“Useless,” Sherlock snapped, too engrossed in his examination to notice John’s slight flinch.
“He said he saw a lump in the alleyway and came to take a look. Saw the blood and called 999.”
“Idiot, he’s lying. No one would just come to check out a lump in an alley. He was here for another reason.”
“Some people would.” John countered. That dark irritable mood he’d been avoiding was crashing down on him with every flippant word out of Sherlock’s mouth.
Sherlock finally looked away from the body to give John a pointed ‘don’t be stupid’ look. It was gone in a flash as Sherlock returned his attention to the body.
John’s jaw tensed and he tried not to grit his teeth. Closing his small pad, he stuck it and his pen in his jacket and walked off. He couldn’t do this right now, couldn’t pretend everything was just as it was, and that Sherlock hadn’t disappeared from his life for over three years.
“John?” Sherlock called over his shoulder, still focused on the dead body in front of him. “John, what else?”
When the other man didn’t answer, Sherlock whipped around looking for him. John wasn’t there. If it was possible, Sherlock’s normal ghostly pallor lost another three shades.
“Sherlock? What is it?” Lestrade asked, trying to get his attention.
Sherlock tuned the D.I. out and closed his eyes. This wasn’t happening. Couldn’t be happening. Moriarty’s network had been destroyed and he was home, back in London, with John; only John wasn’t there. He squeezed his eyes tighter trying to ground himself. This had happened too many times when he was gone. Sleep would sneak up on him and the next thing he knew he was at some run-of-the-mill crime scene and he’d turn to talk to John, who wasn’t there. He’d ask Lestrade where John had gone. He’d give Sherlock a sad, apologetic look and tell him that John was dead, killed by a sniper bullet the day Sherlock returned, and then he’d ask if Sherlock was really up to this, being there, working the case. But by that point Sherlock was gone, vision spinning out of control throwing up images of John, blood oozing from the hole in his head, his skull completely blown away, brain matter scattered on the ground. Sherlock did his best not to sleep while he was away, but the memories remained, no matter how hard he tried to delete them.
He opened his eyes and whirled back towards Lestrade and the body. “Which way did he go?” he demanded.
“Sherlock.”
“Which way?” he growled.
“That way.” Lestrade waved his hand in the direction John had walked off.
Sherlock turned on his heels and, resisting the urge to go tearing after him, strode purposefully in the direction his friend had gone.
“Sherlock,” Lestrade called after the retreating figure. “Sherlock, the body!” He tried to keep the annoyance and frustration out of his voice, though he knew full well the man would pick up on it instantly.
To his surprise, Sherlock turned to him and said emphatically, “Not now, Greg.”
The D.I. stared, shocked to the core by Sherlock’s words, more so than he’d been when the man had returned from the dead. Still reeling, he nodded and let Sherlock go.
“What was that about?” Donavon asked, sauntering up behind her boss.
“He called me ‘Greg’.”
---
Once Sherlock knew the direction John had disappeared in it was easy for him to deduce where he was going. Sherlock navigated the few streets with precision and cut across the too green grounds of the cemetery towards his own grave.
Sure enough, John was there, apparently having a row with his headstone. “-answer me that, will you? What’s… what’s wrong with me? You just waltz back after three years. And what do I do? I take it. I let you. You bastard!” He huffed, clenching and unclenching his fist. “I don’t know what I expected. Not this. I didn’t expect you to change, I’ve never expected that.” He chuckled a dry humourless laugh. “I wouldn’t know what to do if you ever did. Probably assume the world was ending.” Sighing, “It did the last time you did anything outside of your definition of ordinary. I guess that’s why I’m here; I’ve gotten used to talking to you here. Three years, Sherlock. Three years and I had to go on alone. And you can’t even… you won’t tell me anything! You just fly back into our lives like nothing happened, like the last three years didn’t happen. You were dead, Sherlock, dead. Do you have even the slightest idea what that was like for us? What we went through? Do you even care?”
“Of course, I care!” Sherlock exclaimed from behind him as if it was the most obvious thing in the world; to him it was. Everything he’d done, everything he’d gone through was for them, to keep them safe. To keep John safe. And hadn’t that been a revelation- Sherlock Holmes, self-professed sociopath, didn’t just care, he loved.
“Do you?” he asked the headstone angrily. “Do you know how long it took me to be able to go back to Baker Street?”
“Six months and eighteen days,” Sherlock said softly, “and by all accounts you hadn’t meant to.”
John should’ve been upset that Sherlock had known, but he really wasn’t that surprised. Of course he’d have Mycroft watching him, and Mrs. Hudson, too, no doubt. And Sherlock was right, he hadn’t meant to stay that night; he’d only come by to help Mrs. Hudson pack what remained of Sherlock’s things, though he knew that had been a ploy to get him to come by, an offer to claim anything of Sherlock’s that held sentiment for him. He snorted- sentiment. It was all rather blurry after that; he supposed the stress had gotten to him- it took so little to set him off in those early days- but he’d woken up on the sofa with one of Sherlock’s blankets draped over him. After that it had become easier to slowly move his life back into the only place he could remember or even think of calling home. He took a fortifying breath. “Yes, well, we had to live it, Sherlock, every day.”
“I know, John. Don’t you think I know?”
Something wavered in Sherlock’s voice, a small tremor, nothing more, but it was like a cannon in John’s ears. For the first time since he came back, Sherlock sounded less than his perfect clinical self.
“Do you honestly believe these past three years were easy on me?”
John finally turned around to face his friend. He had to force himself not to suck in a breath. Sherlock looked as shaken as his voice sounded. It was a sight he had only seen once before and no matter how much more human it proved Sherlock to be, it was something John had hoped never to see again.
“‘cause they weren’t,” Sherlock continued. “Knowing you were here, that Moriarty’s men were out there waiting. I had to, John.”
At that moment John wanted nothing more than to hold Sherlock and tell him it was okay, that he understood and everything would be alright, but he couldn’t do that, not yet, there were too many unanswered questions, too much anger and frustration to work through. “Why won’t you tell me what happened, where you were, anything? That’s what friends do, Sherlock, they let them in.” He was getting angry again. “Unless, I’m not worth it, then fine. Just… fine.”
“John,” he called, desperation seeping into the word. “I can’t... Not yet. Someday, but not now.”
John didn’t want to hear it. He wanted Sherlock to trust him. To care enough to tell him. John straightened himself and did an almost military turn and began to walk away. He didn’t see the way Sherlock sagged and fell against the tree at his graveside. He didn’t see the shallow panting breaths that came as he watched his one true friend walk away.
------
John was tucked into his chair in their living room when his phone pinged. He debated checking it for all of two seconds, he was still upset, but if Sherlock needed him, he’d go; although if it was to fetch his phone he might find himself inserting it into an unwelcoming orifice.
“Sherlock, if you w-”
“Not Sherlock, John.”
“Greg. Is everything alright? Sherlock didn’t get into it with Anderson again, did he?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s just, well, have you seen him?”
“Not since earlier. We had a bit of a row.”
“Damn it.”
“Greg, what’s wrong?”
“He just left.”
“It’s Sherlock, he does that.”
“Not like this, John. He was… different.”
“How d’you mean?” John had a flash of the shaken Sherlock he’d seen in the cemetery.
“He was all agitated when he realized you’d left. I tried to… Well, he just left; looking for you.”
“Yes, well, he found me.”
“John, you don’t understand, I’m worried about him.”
John felt a cold weight settle in his stomach, there were many things one felt towards Sherlock Holmes, and between them he and Lestrade had felt most of them, but the way Lestrade had spoken… “What happened, Greg?”
“That’s it exactly- he called me Greg.”
John froze. Sherlock barely knew other people had first names, let alone would call them by one. Mycroft, himself, Donavon when he was feeling particularly scathing, and occasionally John’s girlfriends, but that was likely because he never paid attention or cared to find out if they had surnames, were the only real exceptions. “Okay. Thanks, Greg. I’ll find him.”
---
“You know, for a genius you’re a bit of an idiot,” John said conversationally, coming up behind Sherlock.
“John.”
It made John flinch at the relief Sherlock conveyed in that simple word. If that much of his emotion was showing through, he could only imagine what Sherlock was really feeling and how much that would hurt him. He slid down the tree and sat next to his best friend. “You know. Friends have fights.”
“Do they?”
“Oh, yes. Take me, for example, I once had a row with my best friend, and I was so angry, you have no idea, well, you probably do, but it didn’t mean that I stopped caring. He’s still my best friend… and I’d be lost without him.”
“Would you?”
John nodded.
“Even after three years?”
“Definitely.” John smiled and looked away. “Come on, let’s go home. And text Greg, he’s worried about you. Gave him a scare calling him by his first name.”
“I did?” he asked curious, more from calling him Greg than from the D.I.’s concern.
“Mmm,” John said as he stood. As they walked out of the cemetery side by side, John reminded Sherlock casually, “I’m still mad.”
“I know,” Sherlock answered, sounding more like himself than he had when John found him.
John shook his head and smiled. However angry he was, he needed Sherlock in his life; nothing felt right without him.
*********
“How is he?” Mrs. Hudson asked quietly, sipping her tea.
John shrugged. “He says he’s fine, but… he’s Sherlock.”
“He doesn’t look fine,” she said, shaking her head.
John looked over at his flat mate huffing at the files Lestrade had given him, muttering to himself things like ‘Obvious’ and ‘boring’. “I know. But he won’t talk about it.” He turned his attention back to his own cup and Mrs. Hudson. “You know how he is.”
Mrs. Hudson fiddled with her cup. “What about Mycroft?”
John tensed at the name. His last contact with Mycroft had been awkward at best. The man was still nursing a broken nose and rather impressive black eye from the meeting, and John was only sorry he hadn’t gotten another shot in, though he had calmed down quite a bit since then. It didn’t mean that Mycroft hadn’t deserved it. “I’m not sure Mycroft would be the best person to talk to about this.”
“But he’s his brother,” Mrs. Hudson insisted.
“Yes, a brother who helped make us believe he was dead for three years. And that’s about as close to affectionate as I think Mycroft can get.” He sipped his tea. “Besides, it’s not as if he’d want his help.”
There was a snort from the living room.
Both John and Mrs. Hudson looked over at Sherlock.
He scowled at a file, and bit out, “If you must natter about me and my brother dear, could you at least do it quietly, or better yet, somewhere else.”
Mrs. Hudson flushed and looked around as if she thought they should leave. John placed a hand on her wrist to calm her and keep her in place.
“Yes, and you’d still deduce our conversation and be just as arrogant and offended, so we may as well have it here- at home.”
Sherlock sat up straighter and huffed, “I’m not offended.”
John and Mrs. Hudson shared a knowing look.
“Of course not, Sherlock.” John placated, but Sherlock went back to his files and John went back to his tea with Mrs. Hudson.
Sherlock drifted on the edge of sleep. John was out for the day, he still insisted on working even though Sherlock had made sure he wouldn’t have to. Sherlock found it was a blessing and a curse. He’d discovered since his return that he hated having John out of his sight for long; his body started to betray him then, it was like going through withdrawal with an extra dose of fear. Sherlock didn’t like succumbing to emotion and he always seemed to overcompensate for it while he fought to get his self-control back- both John and Mrs. Hudson had been on the receiving end of his moods, something that just added to his own internal battle and frustration.
On the other hand, it gave him a chance to rest. He didn’t dare when John was home. He knew from the last year (or more) that his dreams would disturb the residents of surrounding rooms. Sherlock wasn’t ready for either John or Mrs. Hudson to know about the dreams. Days like this gave him the time to rest, he still had to be careful not to fully sleep, but he could drift; at least then he could pull himself into consciousness before anyone had to know his thoughts. As he let himself rest, visions and memories crept into his brain. He was tired, so, so tired, and there was blood everywhere. Not much of it was his, but it had been messy- he hated it when it was messy.
Despite what most of the Yard thought, Sherlock did not ‘get off’ on killing. In fact, it repulsed him. He remembered the way his stomach would churn and roll unpleasantly at what he’d done, what he’d had to do. At the time he always managed to push the horrible feeling away with the simple thought that he was one step closer to ensuring John’s safety. But it didn’t stop the blood. He didn’t often have to resort to killing, thank God. He twitched on the sofa as he remembered in glorious Technicolor every moment of that particular day. They’d gotten the upper hand on him. Two of them, what they lacked girth they made up for in stealth and ability. It had been pure luck, yet another concept Sherlock hadn’t believed in until his ‘death’, that he’d been able to defeat them. A quick, too loud, snap of neck bone and one of them had gone limp on the ground, dead. His companion seemed to go into a frenzy after his partner had fallen. It was his blood he’d been covered in. In the end, he’d wound up staking the other man like some vampiric monster, a rod of discarded rebar protruding from his chest.
Distantly he heard the front door open and close- Mrs. Hudson from the sound of it with groceries for them as well as her own. He managed to smile despite the memories. She was another reason Sherlock had kept fighting. Yes, John had been his greatest motivator, but Mrs. Hudson was the mother he’d never had, Mummy had been loving in her own way, but never ‘motherly’, not like Mrs. Hudson was to both him and John. He found himself springing up to help her with the bags. “Let me,” he offered taking the bags from her hands. She often jumped when he did this, but she always gave him one of her warm smiles afterward and pretended like it never happened, something else Sherlock was deeply thankful for. He didn’t like to be reminded of how much more ‘human’ he’d become. He supposed it was due to those qualities being what he missed most about his strange and enigmatic family and after fighting for three years to keep that family, he had a new respect for those little actions. Though at times he worried himself- he was actually civil to Anderson last week.
“You don’t have to do that, dear,” Mrs. Hudson told him even as he relieved her of the shopping.
Sherlock gave her a look that said she was being foolish and started up the stairs, leaving her to follow empty handed.
She stopped her protestations and followed him up to the flat. She didn’t understand what had happened to Sherlock to change him like this, and she hoped never to; she didn’t think she’d like the answers. But she would indulge him for as long as he needed to do these little helpful things. If she didn’t know better she’d say it was some kind of penance he thought he owed, but that wasn’t like Sherlock, even the Sherlock that came back to them.
Sherlock breezed into their small kitchen and dropped the bags on a clear section of the table. A quick overview told him which items were meant for them and when Mrs. Hudson entered he was already setting things out on the table.
With a fond smile she began putting the groceries away. Watching Sherlock closely as she did so, she didn’t like how he looked, and she’d seen him in almost every state imaginable, but this- haggard and sad, his eyes puffy and red, he looked as if he hadn’t slept in weeks- worried her. She wouldn’t say anything, that would just upset him. She knew Sherlock well enough to know not to speak of such things, but this was getting ridiculous. Knowing she’d regret it, the part of her that needed to mother over Sherlock and John won out over common sense. “Sherlock, dear, you’re not looking well. Are you sleeping at all?” If she was going to cross this Rubicon, she’d get straight to the point; Sherlock would appreciate that at least.
“I’m sure it will pass, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock replied calmly.
“Oh, Sherlock,” she huffed and tutted as she put the last of their groceries away.
“I’m fine, I assure you,” he tried again.
She closed the cabinet with a soft thud and turned to look at her mad tenant. “Sherlock Holmes, you are not fine! Not by any stretch of the imagination- even one as grandiose as yours. You are anything but fine. And if no one else will say it then I will!”
A smile tugged at Sherlock’s lips. It felt good to be under Mrs. Hudson’s scrutiny, such as it was; it meant he hadn’t lost her. “Mrs. Hudson-” he began.
“Don’t ‘Mrs. Hudson’, me,” she chastised, then sighed. “You look a sight. I’m surprised that Inspector of yours keeps calling you in, the way you look.”
Sherlock didn’t say anything; he knew she was right and it was only a matter of time before Lestrade stopped calling despite the help he needed.
Mrs. Hudson placed a loving hand on his arm. “You need rest, Sherlock.” She shook her head. “I’ll make you a nice cup of tea, then to bed with you.”
“Mrs. Hudson, there’s really no need.”
“Bed, and that’s the end of it,” she added sternly.
She made them both a warm cup of Indian spiced tea, sweetened to perfection, and watched Sherlock drink his.
Sherlock obediently drank his tea then stretched out on the sofa.
“No you don’t, young man.”
“I assure you, Mrs. Hudson, this is quite sufficient.”
“Sufficient it may be, but you need a good rest in a proper bed. Go on, I’ll see to these,” she said, picking up their dishes. “Off to bed with you.”
Sherlock debated the value of arguing with her. Mrs. Hudson didn’t often put her foot down about anything with him, regardless of how she berated him, but when she did she was a force to be reckoned with. Begrudgingly, he acquiesced.
“That’s a good boy.” She smiled and gathered their cups.
“I am not a boy,” he corrected.
“Of course not, love,” she absently agreed.
Sherlock made a show of going through a stack of papers on the desk, while Mrs. Hudson took care of the dishes, hoping she’d assume he was going to bed once he’d finished with the papers. He knew it was a vain hope; once Mrs. Hudson got an idea in her head it was hard to shake, especially if it involved John or himself.
She turned to Sherlock and made a shooing noise and waved him towards his bedroom.
“Mrs. Hudson, really.” He tried to sound haughty, but he was fairly certain it came out more petulant than anything.
“Don’t mind me, dear. I’m just going to tidy up a bit before I go. You two always running off, it’s a wonder this place is even liveable,” she muttered fondly.
Sherlock understood the meaning behind his landlady’s words- she was staying to make certain he slept. Reluctantly, Sherlock went to his bedroom, dreading the consequences of sleep. But Mrs. Hudson was a stubborn woman, she had to be to put up with him, and he didn’t doubt for a moment that she would come in to check on him if she saw fit. With that in mind he lay down, praying sleep would elude him. Within seconds he was asleep.
Mrs. Hudson busied herself with straightening various piles of papers and books, careful not to disturb things terribly.
When John finally got home, it was to find Mrs. Hudson flipping nervously through a magazine at the kitchen table.
“Oh, John, thank goodness you’re home.”
“Mrs. Hudson,” he greeted, shrugging out of his coat, “is everything alright? Where’s Sherlock?” John was proud of himself for keeping the concern out of his voice, though after three years of pretending everything was okay and that his world wasn’t in a shambles he would hope he could mask a little concern.
“It’s Sherlock.” She could see John stiffen at her words. “He’s in the bedroom,” she added quickly, hoping to reassure John. “I made him. I just couldn’t stand how awful he looked.”
“And he went willingly? You never cease to amaze me, Mrs. Hudson.” Again he was impressed with how calm he sounded.
“Sherlock never does anything he doesn’t want to willingly.” She smiled impishly.
John couldn’t help but return her smile. Somehow they’d managed to get through the past three years together, where every smile had been precious. “Then what’s wrong, Mrs. Hudson?” he asked kindly.
As if on cue, a strained sound that could only be taken as a whimper came from the bedroom.
Mrs. Hudson wrung her hands and looked at the closed bedroom door.
Something in John’s stomach lurched.
“I went in and checked on him the first time…”
“It’s alright, Mrs. Hudson,” he said, even though he knew it wasn’t. After years as an army doctor, he knew the sounds of those dreams you couldn’t wake from, where horrors only imaginable showed themselves with indelible clarity. He’d had them. “You go on. I’ll keep an eye on him.”
“You’re sure?” she asked, welcoming the reprieve, but unwilling to just leave when Sherlock was in such obvious distress.
“Mrs. Hudson, you know how he is. Do you think he’s going to want to know someone saw him like this?”
She relaxed a bit; John was right, of course. She smiled shakily and patted his hand. “You’re a good man, John.”
He returned her warm smile and squeezed her hand. “I’ll look after him.”
She nodded and left.
John took a deep breath as he put the kettle on. He needed a moment to gather himself, before he faced what lay behind that closed door. He’d seen all sorts of horrors in his career, but the most haunting were the ones you couldn’t see. And for someone as proud and detached as Sherlock to be captive to those demons was frightening; whatever could shake Sherlock didn’t dwell thinking on. He shut the water off before it could properly begin to boil, having needied the excuse more than the tea. No more sounds had come from Sherlock’s room since that one eerie whine; if John was going to check on him, this was the time. He could see how troubled his sleep was and better judge whether or not to wake him; normally he wouldn’t have considered not waking him; having seen Sherlock, however, he felt that a fitful sleep would be of more use to Sherlock than none at all.
Sherlock was in bed still in his dressing gown, a light throw had been pulled and twisted around his legs- Mrs. Hudson had probably tried to cover him- and the silk of his dressing gown rucked up above his waist, even his pillow was wrapped in the intricate mass. He looked terrible and so un-Sherlock that it frightened John. But he was still fast asleep. After a brief internal debate, John slowly untangled the blanket from Sherlock’s feet, somehow managing not to get kicked by him in the process, and lay it back over him. He wished he could do more for him, but he knew whatever Sherlock was going through wasn’t something he could help with, not until Sherlock wanted his help, if he ever did. He remembered what he told Sherlock in their argument days earlier- ‘friends let people in’- he prayed Sherlock would eventually let him in.
Sherlock was not a weak man, not in any sense of the word, and he hated feeling weak. His mind was as sharp as it ever was, even with his restless and sporadic sleep. His lanky frame hid his physical power. And emotionally, well, everyone was painfully aware of how much control he had over them. He’d proven this time and again since his return- that early incident with John notwithstanding. The criminal elements of London had not remained dormant while he was away, leaving the Yard replete with cases for him to work. It had only taken a modicum of persuasion to get Lestrade to relinquish some to him. It had only taken a week to work through the first set, and the second didn’t seem much more promising, which was why the detective was currently hovering over the D.I.’s desk. “Come on, Lestrade, you must have something more interesting than these,” he flapped a handful of files at Lestrade, “for me.”
“Sherlock, they’re all good cases,” Lestrade argued.
“It’s been three years,” he scolded. “You’re telling me these are the best you can do?”
Lestrade leaned back in his chair, sighed, and rubbed his hand over his eyes. “No. I’m saying you’ve been gone, traipsing all over Europe and God knows where else for over three years. And as ridiculous as it maybe, I thought you might want to take it easy, readjust.” He shook his head and pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk. He’d started dropping case files in there three years ago. Cases that were strange or interesting or just plain impossible; cases he thought Sherlock might like. For over a year he’d kept expecting Sherlock to waltz through his door with some wild explanation for everything that happened. He had just hidden it better than most. Even once he’d given up hope, he still added files to the drawer. Some he’d go back over, trying to look at them through Sherlock’s eyes, and every now and then he even succeeded, but that could happen with any cold case. Still, he liked to think he had picked up some of the man’s methods.
Sherlock watched as Lestrade pulled handful after handful of files out of his desk. His lips twitched; apparently John wasn’t the only one who hadn’t given up on him. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
Lestrade stopped what he was doing and looked up from the files he was taking out, surprised by the honesty in Sherlock’s voice. He gave Sherlock a small smile and a nod. To say that the Sherlock who stood before him was the same one that left them would be a grave misconception. He was still brilliant and arrogant and utterly impossible, but he was kinder somehow. Lestrade would be lying if he said it wasn’t welcome, but it was still off-putting. He hated to think about what could’ve changed a man like Sherlock that way. Straightening up, he pushed the files across his desk. “There you go. Three years of strange, daunting, and unsolved.”
Sherlock swooped down on the files, gathering them up. “I’ll be in touch,” he called as he strode purposefully out of the D.I.’s office.
Just like that the old Sherlock was back and Lestrade gave a bemused smile at the familiar sight.
---
“Greg have something good for you I take it.” John commented from his computer, when Sherlock came swirling in, obviously in a better mood than when he’d left.
Sherlock smiled. “It seems the good Inspector has been setting aside cases in hopes of my return from the hereafter.”
“Really?” John sat up. He knew Greg had never lost faith in Sherlock, but he’d never thought he believed Sherlock wasn’t dead or that he would come back. It felt good, even in hindsight, to know he wasn’t alone in those beliefs.
Sherlock didn’t bother to reply, though he knew John was thinking the same thing he himself had thought at the station; instead he threw himself down onto the sofa and began sorting the files on the coffee table by order of interest and complexity.
John sighed, though it was more in contentment than anything else. Sherlock had the look of a kid at Christmas, completely giddy and slightly manic- John had missed that look; Hell, he’d missed everything about Sherlock including the noxious experiments and body parts in the fridge, or in the case of the foot, wedged up between the ice trays and some dodgy looking ham, at least he pretended it was ham. Sherlock made life interesting; everything had been so dull and bland without him. He was just waiting to wake up to tongues in the crisper and he’d finally believe life was getting back to normal. He could only smile at the absurdity and truth of the thought.
---------
The files from Lestrade had succeeded in staving off Sherlock’s boredom and were giving his mind ample fodder to occupy it with things other than sleep. Both things he would be eternally grateful for. He might even manage to keep being nice to Sally and Anderson for a few more weeks. The current case seemed simple enough, he was fairly certain the uncle’s ex-wife had done it, but he wanted to be sure and it prolonged his preoccupation. A sample of what had been mislabelled ‘soil’ had been growing in a pot on their windowsill for six days and five hours and should be viable enough for a proper examination. Sherlock stood from the microscope to scrape off a comparison sample of the mould and really you would think people could use their brains when committing a triple homicide and not go stamping about their prize garden beforehand, or at least they could change their shoes; sometimes he despaired for the criminal classes, even when they were being clever they were infinitely stupid. He peeled the film of reddish-brown slime onto the slide and began to roll up his sleeves as he turned back towards his microscope.
His fingers brushed over a slightly raised line of skin and he stopped. His eyes traced the bare edge of the scar. There were others. Not huge glaring streaks over his body, but small tiny lines and pin pricks from shoulder to elbow. The marks of one particularly unorthodox interrogator- he might not have been able to properly break someone, but he knew how to scar them. Lines ran across his skin: one set cut with a rusty blade, others simple knife wounds, all enraged and infected before they could heal, leaving Sherlock fevered and delirious for days. And when one fever broke another set of cuts would appear. The lines were light and silvery when caught in the right light, but they glared like beacons to Sherlock’s eyes.
Over those were the needle marks from slightly more traditional methods; he had lost count of the kinds of drugs and the number of times he’d been jabbed. His longer sleeved dressing gowns served to hide most of the wounds, but he had to be so very careful now. Absently rolling up his sleeves to work had become an almost traitorous movement as had the way his dressing gowns would slip from his shoulder when he was too busy or bored to notice. He felt like every second of the past three years was written on his skin and he hated it. Every time John looked at him, he felt a little more exposed, like another of the closely guarded secrets from his past had been ripped from his traitorous body. It was ridiculous, he knew- the kinds of secrets he hid would take more than a look to discover. Not even Mycroft was that good. Then again, no one knew him as well as John, no one had ever wanted to, and with that kind of knowledge came greater ability to see. The same way an expert in geology could read the history of a region in a sample of rock, he was afraid John could read his history just as easily. His mind squirmed every time; he wondered if this was how other people felt when he looked at them. If anyone noticed, no one asked. But every now and then he would see John staring at him as if he knew- wishful thinking he thought; if John knew it would be easier, but if John knew then he’d discover the rest quickly enough. At least that’s what the voice that kept Sherlock from telling John everything said, and for once in his life he let that voice guide him.
“Sherlock? Sherlock, are you even listening to me?” John asked, expecting the answer, if he even got one, to be ‘no’. He didn’t like the way Sherlock disappeared. It wasn’t something new exactly, Sherlock had always been prone to getting lost in his own head, just as he tended to have conversations with John when he wasn’t there, but there was something about the way Sherlock wasn’t there that bothered him and caused him to push until he got a reaction.
“Yes, of course. I always listen to you, John. You know that.” Sherlock was fairly certain John didn’t know that, but he should, even if that meant Sherlock had to tell him in his own roundabout way.
John was taken aback by Sherlock’s response; he really hadn’t been expecting that. “You do?” he found himself saying.
“John,” he warned, he hated repeating himself.
“Sorry, sorry, I heard you the first time.” He got up and went to the kitchen. “So, Chinese or Angelo’s?”
“Chinese, you always prefer Chinese when you’ve been thinking too much.”
“Of course, how foolish of me not to know that.”
Sherlock made a noise that was close to a chuckle and his lips quirked up.
“Oh, shut up,” John laughed and pulled out his phone to place their usual order. When he hung up he asked, “You want to tell me what’s got you so absorbed?”
Sherlock jerked and turned away from John with a shake of his head. “It’s nothing.”
“Obviously.”
That got a curious glare from Sherlock.
John walked back into the living room and sat down. “Nothing always causes you to that much distraction. I should have thought of that before- give Sherlock Holmes ‘nothing’ to think about and he’ll be busy for hours. Who knows, maybe it will even save the wall from further abuse.”
“Very funny,” Sherlock said dryly.
“It was ‘nothing’,” John said as he picked at the stack of mail on the small table beside him.
Once again the wheels of Sherlock’s brain ground to a screeching halt. He’d missed this, John, but he hated how disarming the man was. He hated how much John’s playfulness begged him to talk to him. Most of all he hated being tempted this way, this desire he had for John to know and understand was interminable, and it was only offset by his need to protect John even if only from himself and his memories. John didn’t need to know. He didn’t want John to know; the man had been through enough already. That’s what he let himself believe. But there was a part of him that yearned to tell him everything.
John was a veteran; he’d seen so much destruction and the horrors of war and Sherlock was loathe to add his own nightmares to it. It was one thing to drag John into the mundane horrors of London and her own plebeian darkness. It was another to force John into his. He’d done things he wasn’t proud of while he was gone; things that had to be done, but things that would change the way John looked at him. And that was something he couldn’t bear. It was hard enough having John so angry and hurt by his sudden reappearance. He wouldn’t risk losing John completely over the things he’d done to keep him safe.
To keep John safe. He mentally chuckled- it sounded bitter even in his head. Sherlock had a lot of time to think in the past three years, and very early he’d come to realize some very disturbing truths. The most obvious being that, despite his best efforts, he did care about people, or certain people. The second realization had come barrelling down on him on the heels of the first. He loved, was in love with John Watson. That one piece of information had sent him spiralling; of all the things he could’ve imagined happening in his life falling in love was not one of them.
It made him question things about himself he’d always believed. Sociopaths, ‘high functioning’ or otherwise, did not feel. They could mimic feelings and learn acceptable behaviours and responses, but actually suffer from emotions, no. They, he, didn’t have the capacity. Sherlock had never doubted this aspect of himself, ever since he first heard one of his tutors angrily tell his mother that he ‘must be some sort of sociopath’. He’d been confused at first, not understanding, but he did what he always did whenever he discovered a gap in his knowledge- he researched it. What he found seemed to be a perfect fit for his nature and he’d embraced it. It left him able to focus on the important things without all those emotional distractions. It had become an integral part of who he was. If he wasn’t a sociopath, which his feelings for John, and to a lesser extent Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, seemed to negate, what was he? He certainly wasn’t ‘normal’. Even John had thought he was a machine, unfeeling and emotionless. Three years on and he still didn’t have an answer, all he really knew was he didn’t like having these feelings; they confused him and caused him to doubt.
“Sherlock?” A voice said softly, a warm hand resting on his arm.
The touch caused Sherlock to snap to attention, pulling away roughly from John’s hand and shaking his half-rolled sleeves back down. “I’m fine.” He pushed past John and back to the microscope. He could barely remember what he’d been working on, but anything was better than having to face John when he had that caring look in his eyes, the one that made Sherlock wonder if John cared for him as much as he cared for John. And that was something he definitely was not ready to talk about. “How long before dinner arrives?” he asked, just to have something to say, a change of subject.
John sighed and edged closer to Sherlock and his microscope, leaning back against the table comfortably. “I know you know exactly how long it takes between the time I call and when the doorbell rings,” he said calmly, watching his friend closely.
Sherlock heaved a heavy, exaggerated sighed. “You’re the one who’s always trying to get me to ‘make conversation’,” he bit out, accusingly, and a bit too defensively.
“Yeah.” John nodded his head slowly, looking away and back again. “And you just decided to try it out on me, now.”
Cool opal eyes looked condescendingly at John.
John decided to let Sherlock’s disturbingly lame excuse slide. “Alright. At least you’re trying.” He watched Sherlock for a minute more, trying to work out what had set him off. He knew it was pointless to try to figure out what was going on in his friend’s mind; part of him feared that even Sherlock didn’t know.
“Is there something else?”
For a moment John considered saying, ‘yes’, but just then the doorbell rang. “That’ll be dinner then.”
“Obviously,” Sherlock said, adjusting the focus on the microscope.
“Right.” He pushed himself away from the table. “Clear a spot,” he said as he grabbed his wallet and headed down the stairs. The moment was gone and John knew that by the time he returned Sherlock would be Sherlock again and all traces of the distracted man would be gone.
Part II
Master Post
Master Post: Art
.