[Fanfic] East of the Sun and- [part 1/2]
Title: East of the Sun and-
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Author: plalligator
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Sherlock/John
Rating/Warnings: Um..PG-13? I'm so bad at this ratings thing, guys, I really am. I haven't got a clue. Warnings for a fairy tale adaptation with one pretty vague sex scene and occasional musings upon narrative casuality.
Summary: John rather thinks he might have been something else before he was, well, John. A discarded coat, maybe, worn through at the elbows, frayed and stained; or some bright-eyed bird or mammal; or a few inky, smudged sheets of newspaper; or a handful of rich, red clay.
Notes: Deanon from sherlockbbc_fic for this prompt.
You would not believe what I went through trying to post this, because apparently I chose the time when the LJ decided to update RTE and there were millions of bugs, including the spacing being generally shot to hell and the LJ cuts not working, and the save not working...I actually tried three days ago, and after two hours I had not gotten anywhere with it. So. Hooray for fixed RTE! Except I still have to screw around with HTML to get the LJ cuts to work, but whatevs.
EDIT: numberthescars has made an amazing movie poster-thing based on this fic and it is amazing. Everyone reading this fic should check it out. People who aren't reading this fic should also check it out. :)
::
ab initio (from the beginning)
John wakes up, memories exploding in his mind like a firework and flaring for a moment before fading into inky blackness.
-something seems to press down on him and it hurts his skin and causes liquid to trickle down his neck, his temples, his spine (heat); and small things that are rough when he touches them but feel soft and yielding and velvety under his feet, like they might bury him forever (sand); and loud, sharp cracking noises that bombard his ears (gunfire)-
He opens his eyes.
::
ab extra (from beyond)
There are some people who stand out. They can’t help it. They simply aren’t able to live only in the realms of the mundane and the commonplace.
There are some people whose lives echo and resonate, because they are made to be the stuff of legends, of myths, of night-tales and ghost-stories.
The world, in a strange way, recognizes them. It accepts them as brethren, as its own. It takes an interest. Because the world is dominated by humans and humans are dominated by stories.
Sherlock Holmes is one of those people. A presence so overbearing and blazingly intense that he changes the world to suit him, rather than the other way around. His influence is in no small part due to volumes of words etched into a million consciousnesses, the whispers of ink and paper. They speak of things never written, or at least never written in this time and in this place.
The world knows that sometimes there’s only one way things will happen; only one way the stories will carry on.
So the world makes John Watson, and offers him up like a sacrifice.
::
He gets up. It seems he has a limp, but there’s a cane standing right by the bed. A cane by the bed, a gun and a laptop in a desk drawer, a few clothes folded neatly in a bureau. This seems perfectly reasonable to John. It also seems perfectly reasonable to put on the clothes and take the cane and the coat folded over a chair and go outside.
Strangely enough, he’s not thinking anything like “Why am I here?” or “Who am I?” or “Where did I come from?” or even “How did I just pop into existence like that?” Because there’s really no question that he did.
He’s thinking things like ”Milky Way Galaxy-Orion-Cygnus Arm-Solar System-Earth-Europe-Great Britain-England-London-” and on and on until he can triangulate his position down to the street, the words thick and rich on his tongue, though he doesn’t speak them aloud. They taste of life, sharp and heady.
::
John’s not at all sure what it takes to create life outside of the normal means-procreation, that is-but he imagines arcane symbols and rites with blood sacrifices and potions that can take some animal or object and transform it into a living, breathing, flesh-and-blood person.
He rather thinks he might have been something else before he was-well, John. A discarded coat, maybe, worn through at the elbows, frayed and stained; or some bright-eyed bird or mammal; or a few inky, smudged sheets of newspaper; or a handful of rich, red clay. Any of these things, or all of them.
He’s vaguely aware that this might seem more than a little insane to other people. But to him it seems just as reasonable as the coat and the cane and going outside.
::
He doesn’ t remember the man Mike, but that’s predictable. He’s only been alive for a few hours. What’s surprising it that the man Mike remembers him. That shouldn’t be strictly...possible. But then again, John fancies he might see something else flickering in the man’s close-set eyes, something other than amiability and joviality. He wouldn’t be surprised if he never saw Mike ever again-if no one saw Mike ever again. If he just vanished as suddenly as John had appeared.
::
John’s life-all six hours of it so far-is full of surprises. But by far the most surprising thing is what Sherlock tells him about himself. It’s not as if John remembers anything, other than the brief flashes of sun and sand and war. But Sherlock’s deductions fall into place around him neatly and easily, interlocking and connecting until they cover him completely.
He wonders what this is what it feels like to have a past. It’s strangely constricting, but not entirely uncomfortable. As an experiment, he gives a little mental push at the bonds, as if testing their rigidity. It says something about Sherlock that the weakest point in them is the fact that Harry could be a girl’s name too. John hazards a little poke at that point and is rewarded with a most amusing display of sullen petulance courtesy of Sherlock. But other than that, the reasoning closes in on him like a warm blanket, despite the fact that he doesn’t have a past, doesn’t have a sister named Harry, has never really even been to Afghanistan.
Except-except that he does, he has, because the marks of it are etched onto his body in scars and tan lines and posture and a million other things. It’s rather gratifying to know what they mean. To know who he is.
John’s not at all lying when he calls it amazing, and he wouldn’t be at all exaggerating to say that it’s the most amazing thing he’s heard in his entire life.
::
Sherlock-a man he hadn’t even know for a day-gave him his past. John doesn’t feel indebted to him, as such, but he can tell that Sherlock is a fascinating, brilliant, unique man. And John already loves life, and if there are exciting things in it like mysterious killings and confronting criminals and secrets and puzzles he wants to to be a part of it.
Also, there’s the fact that deep down, he kind of feels like he doesn’t really have a choice. He’s Sherlock Holmes flatmate. That’s just-what he is.
It’ll be alright as long as Sherlock doesn’t find out.
::
a contrario (from the opposite)
At first glance, John Watson is rather boring.
At second glance, he’s interesting, what with the limp and the gun and the willingness to follow Sherlock into danger.
But at third glance-at third glance a truly bizarre picture begins to emerge. Everything about John shows all the marks of the war, and even of life before the war. But there is something curiously blank about John. He never mentions his sister, or any of his family outside of the first time in the taxi. He never mentions his time in the army, or anything specific about the circumstances of his injury. He never talks about himself at all.
One of the first things John does upon moving into the flat is to warn Sherlock in no uncertain terms to never enter John’s room. With any other person, Sherlock would disregard the warning. But he can tell when some lines are not meant to be crossed. Usually he crosses them anyway, but the point is that he knows they’re there. He doesn’t know why he doens’t feel the urge to cross this one. He chalks it down to the fact that he-absurdly-doesn’t want to scare away John, but he knows John wouldn’t leave that easily.
He still heeds John’s warning.
::
ab inconvenienti (from an inconvenient thing)
Every night, John falls asleep once the sun goes down, as quickly as smoothly as turning off a light. Falling asleep might not be the right words for it. It’s more like losing consciousness very, very, quickly. But it’s completely without fail: as soon as the sun has slipped below the horizon, he’ll find himself shutting his eyes. One minute he’s awake and the next-the next it’s morning and he feels like he didn’t so much as blink.
He never wakes up in the middle of the night, or tosses and turns in his sleep. He never dreams, except for once-the dream of Afghanistan when he first woke.
He is very, very careful to hide this from Sherlock. As time goes on, he discovers that if there’s enough light, he can keep himself conscious at nighttime. It helps if he keeps moving-on a case with Sherlock, chasing some criminal all over London. The adrenaline gives him an extra surge of strength and buys him time, but each minute past sundown is more and more of strain. His body gets sluggish and clumsy, his tongue thick and dry in his mouth. If it gets bad enough he loses the ability to form words. Then comes the trouble breathing, and his thoughts begin to meander until he can barely string two words together even if his mouth would open.
Like a clockwork toy running down.
So whenever he sees the last rays of sunlight filter down through fog and reflect off the buildings opposite so just a pale gleam of gold lights 221B, he makes some excuse to Sherlock and retreats to his room with his laptop as if he’s intending to blog. But instead he just lays down on his bed just in case Sherlock looks in-which is unlikely-it will at least look like John is asleep.
At least in that way it’s rather lucky normal sleeping habits are something that Sherlock never really grasped. He seems to write off John’s peculiar habit as a a boring thing that normal people do, because sleep is boring in Sherlock’s world.
::
a capite ad calcem (from head to heel)
It’s after the pool-not even late at night anymore, more like early morning-and one minute John’s brain is thinking of nothing more that getting up to his room before he passes out, or shuts down, or whatever it is that he does; and then he kind of stumbles and automatically throws his hands out to cushion his fall while Sherlock reaches out to steady him, his coat sleeve hitching up just a little.
He’s not sure how it happens, but John’s fingers brush the inside of Sherlock’s wrist right in the area of bare skin between coat sleeve and glove and he can feel Sherlock’s pulse through the tips of his fingers, can feel blood pound through his veins under cover of thin, sensitive skin and delicate bones. The very touch is practically burning his fingers, and he shifts his hand just a little, blunt nails barely scraping the skin. It’s true he’s not in the most coherent state of mind, but there’s no way he can miss the little involuntary jerk and shiver that courses through Sherlock’s body, any more than he can miss the minute inhale of breath Sherlock gives.
For one brief, sparkling moment everything hangs motionless and tenuous, filled with possibility.
And then he’s got Sherlock’s wrist in a bruising grip and Sherlock is roughly dragging a hand through John’s hair and they’re stumbling together now, legs tangling together and faces pressed close, lips clashing in messy kisses full of heat and desperation.
By the time they reach Sherlock’s bedroom-the closest one-they’ve already shed their clothes all over the flat and there’s nothing to do but tumble into bed together and learn everything.
It’s like a hot wire run through John’s veins, and for more reasons than one. With Sherlock’s hands, with Sherlock’s mouth on him he doesn’t feel the pressing slowness that forces his body into immobility.
”I’ve found it,” John thinks, awash in a haze of pleasure, and then can’t think anything after that because the feeling overwhelming him won’t fit into the confines of words. It swells against the inside of his ribs, wordless and joyful, and bursts out into the open air, spreading its wings, and settles neatly into the space of 221B, where it fits perfectly. Found it, found it...
He’s nearly positive he hears Sherlock say, in choked, nearly panicked tone like the words are being torn out of him
“You-I thought Moriarty-I thought you-I thought-I would-almost lost you-“
And he’s nearly positive that what he says back is
“Never.”
::
Surprisingly, Sherlock falls asleep like a log right afterward. They’re still all tangled together, sticky and bonelessly exhausted, but John feels his vision begin to dim and his breathing begin to slow and he knows his borrowed time is used up. A rush of sheer, instinctual panic-panic at being discovered, at revealing this part of himself to Sherlock-fills him, and he doesn't even think. It's pure fight-or-flight response, the urge to run and hide like an animal about to die, and he’s out of his mind with terror because every nerve in his body is screaming that as much as Sherlock is right, letting him find out about John’s origins or vaguely supernatural, inhuman quirks is wrong, wrong, wrong.
He extricates himself from Sherlock and leaves him lying there, barely making it up the stairs to his own room. He can’t even get his fingers to move enough to lock the door, so he just collapses on the bed.
::
ab hinc (from here on)
John wakes up, showers, and dresses in a numb stupor. He can hear all the while Sherlock banging around in the kitchen, obviously in a foul mood. Unfortunately, John knows exactly why.
Even after John is dressed, he spends another ten minutes dawdling, eventually just sitting on his bed and staring at the wall.
Well, he has to face it sometime.
He leaves his room and goes to the kitchen.
Sherlock notices his presence immediately, unsurprisingly.
“Why?” His tone is brusque and clipped, and he’s not doing too good a job of hiding the hurt in it, though there’s no outward sign of it in his face. He turns away and begins to pace. “I know you probably only went to your room, I would have known if you left the flat, but you still-I mean, was it something I-“ He takes a breath, seemingly unable to continue. Sherlock’s not one for conventional relationships, but he’s also too possessive for his own good, John knows.
For roughly three seconds, John’s mind frantically flips through all the lies he could tell. But in the end, he decides to go with the truth, or at least as much of it as he can bear to speak aloud, making sure to look Sherlock square in the eyes.
“It wasn’t because of you, if that’s what you mean,” he says quietly, firmly. “Never because of you. Believe, it wasn’t my choice to-leave you like that.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrow, and he looks for all the world like a bloodhound that’s just found a new trail.
“Wasn’t...your choice?”
“No-Sherlock, please. Don’t ask. Just-don’t. It’s not something you can control, it’s not something I can change. And it’s not something I can tell you. Just leave this alone.” He supposes he means the words to sound stern, but they mostly just come out tired. And maybe just a tiny bit desperate.
Sherlock subjects John to his most intense stare.
“John...” John tenses, not knowing what he’s going to hear next. “John, you know-it’s all fine.”
He grins the grin of someone sharing a private joke with a friend, and John, after a moment, grins back.
Yes. It’s all fine. It will all be fine. Everything is good, everything is well. He is safe and he is home.
I’ve found it.
::
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Author: plalligator
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Sherlock/John
Rating/Warnings: Um..PG-13? I'm so bad at this ratings thing, guys, I really am. I haven't got a clue. Warnings for a fairy tale adaptation with one pretty vague sex scene and occasional musings upon narrative casuality.
Summary: John rather thinks he might have been something else before he was, well, John. A discarded coat, maybe, worn through at the elbows, frayed and stained; or some bright-eyed bird or mammal; or a few inky, smudged sheets of newspaper; or a handful of rich, red clay.
Notes: Deanon from sherlockbbc_fic for this prompt.
You would not believe what I went through trying to post this, because apparently I chose the time when the LJ decided to update RTE and there were millions of bugs, including the spacing being generally shot to hell and the LJ cuts not working, and the save not working...I actually tried three days ago, and after two hours I had not gotten anywhere with it. So. Hooray for fixed RTE! Except I still have to screw around with HTML to get the LJ cuts to work, but whatevs.
EDIT: numberthescars has made an amazing movie poster-thing based on this fic and it is amazing. Everyone reading this fic should check it out. People who aren't reading this fic should also check it out. :)
::
ab initio (from the beginning)
John wakes up, memories exploding in his mind like a firework and flaring for a moment before fading into inky blackness.
-something seems to press down on him and it hurts his skin and causes liquid to trickle down his neck, his temples, his spine (heat); and small things that are rough when he touches them but feel soft and yielding and velvety under his feet, like they might bury him forever (sand); and loud, sharp cracking noises that bombard his ears (gunfire)-
He opens his eyes.
::
ab extra (from beyond)
There are some people who stand out. They can’t help it. They simply aren’t able to live only in the realms of the mundane and the commonplace.
There are some people whose lives echo and resonate, because they are made to be the stuff of legends, of myths, of night-tales and ghost-stories.
The world, in a strange way, recognizes them. It accepts them as brethren, as its own. It takes an interest. Because the world is dominated by humans and humans are dominated by stories.
Sherlock Holmes is one of those people. A presence so overbearing and blazingly intense that he changes the world to suit him, rather than the other way around. His influence is in no small part due to volumes of words etched into a million consciousnesses, the whispers of ink and paper. They speak of things never written, or at least never written in this time and in this place.
The world knows that sometimes there’s only one way things will happen; only one way the stories will carry on.
So the world makes John Watson, and offers him up like a sacrifice.
::
He gets up. It seems he has a limp, but there’s a cane standing right by the bed. A cane by the bed, a gun and a laptop in a desk drawer, a few clothes folded neatly in a bureau. This seems perfectly reasonable to John. It also seems perfectly reasonable to put on the clothes and take the cane and the coat folded over a chair and go outside.
Strangely enough, he’s not thinking anything like “Why am I here?” or “Who am I?” or “Where did I come from?” or even “How did I just pop into existence like that?” Because there’s really no question that he did.
He’s thinking things like ”Milky Way Galaxy-Orion-Cygnus Arm-Solar System-Earth-Europe-Great Britain-England-London-” and on and on until he can triangulate his position down to the street, the words thick and rich on his tongue, though he doesn’t speak them aloud. They taste of life, sharp and heady.
::
John’s not at all sure what it takes to create life outside of the normal means-procreation, that is-but he imagines arcane symbols and rites with blood sacrifices and potions that can take some animal or object and transform it into a living, breathing, flesh-and-blood person.
He rather thinks he might have been something else before he was-well, John. A discarded coat, maybe, worn through at the elbows, frayed and stained; or some bright-eyed bird or mammal; or a few inky, smudged sheets of newspaper; or a handful of rich, red clay. Any of these things, or all of them.
He’s vaguely aware that this might seem more than a little insane to other people. But to him it seems just as reasonable as the coat and the cane and going outside.
::
He doesn’ t remember the man Mike, but that’s predictable. He’s only been alive for a few hours. What’s surprising it that the man Mike remembers him. That shouldn’t be strictly...possible. But then again, John fancies he might see something else flickering in the man’s close-set eyes, something other than amiability and joviality. He wouldn’t be surprised if he never saw Mike ever again-if no one saw Mike ever again. If he just vanished as suddenly as John had appeared.
::
John’s life-all six hours of it so far-is full of surprises. But by far the most surprising thing is what Sherlock tells him about himself. It’s not as if John remembers anything, other than the brief flashes of sun and sand and war. But Sherlock’s deductions fall into place around him neatly and easily, interlocking and connecting until they cover him completely.
He wonders what this is what it feels like to have a past. It’s strangely constricting, but not entirely uncomfortable. As an experiment, he gives a little mental push at the bonds, as if testing their rigidity. It says something about Sherlock that the weakest point in them is the fact that Harry could be a girl’s name too. John hazards a little poke at that point and is rewarded with a most amusing display of sullen petulance courtesy of Sherlock. But other than that, the reasoning closes in on him like a warm blanket, despite the fact that he doesn’t have a past, doesn’t have a sister named Harry, has never really even been to Afghanistan.
Except-except that he does, he has, because the marks of it are etched onto his body in scars and tan lines and posture and a million other things. It’s rather gratifying to know what they mean. To know who he is.
John’s not at all lying when he calls it amazing, and he wouldn’t be at all exaggerating to say that it’s the most amazing thing he’s heard in his entire life.
::
Sherlock-a man he hadn’t even know for a day-gave him his past. John doesn’t feel indebted to him, as such, but he can tell that Sherlock is a fascinating, brilliant, unique man. And John already loves life, and if there are exciting things in it like mysterious killings and confronting criminals and secrets and puzzles he wants to to be a part of it.
Also, there’s the fact that deep down, he kind of feels like he doesn’t really have a choice. He’s Sherlock Holmes flatmate. That’s just-what he is.
It’ll be alright as long as Sherlock doesn’t find out.
::
a contrario (from the opposite)
At first glance, John Watson is rather boring.
At second glance, he’s interesting, what with the limp and the gun and the willingness to follow Sherlock into danger.
But at third glance-at third glance a truly bizarre picture begins to emerge. Everything about John shows all the marks of the war, and even of life before the war. But there is something curiously blank about John. He never mentions his sister, or any of his family outside of the first time in the taxi. He never mentions his time in the army, or anything specific about the circumstances of his injury. He never talks about himself at all.
One of the first things John does upon moving into the flat is to warn Sherlock in no uncertain terms to never enter John’s room. With any other person, Sherlock would disregard the warning. But he can tell when some lines are not meant to be crossed. Usually he crosses them anyway, but the point is that he knows they’re there. He doesn’t know why he doens’t feel the urge to cross this one. He chalks it down to the fact that he-absurdly-doesn’t want to scare away John, but he knows John wouldn’t leave that easily.
He still heeds John’s warning.
::
ab inconvenienti (from an inconvenient thing)
Every night, John falls asleep once the sun goes down, as quickly as smoothly as turning off a light. Falling asleep might not be the right words for it. It’s more like losing consciousness very, very, quickly. But it’s completely without fail: as soon as the sun has slipped below the horizon, he’ll find himself shutting his eyes. One minute he’s awake and the next-the next it’s morning and he feels like he didn’t so much as blink.
He never wakes up in the middle of the night, or tosses and turns in his sleep. He never dreams, except for once-the dream of Afghanistan when he first woke.
He is very, very careful to hide this from Sherlock. As time goes on, he discovers that if there’s enough light, he can keep himself conscious at nighttime. It helps if he keeps moving-on a case with Sherlock, chasing some criminal all over London. The adrenaline gives him an extra surge of strength and buys him time, but each minute past sundown is more and more of strain. His body gets sluggish and clumsy, his tongue thick and dry in his mouth. If it gets bad enough he loses the ability to form words. Then comes the trouble breathing, and his thoughts begin to meander until he can barely string two words together even if his mouth would open.
Like a clockwork toy running down.
So whenever he sees the last rays of sunlight filter down through fog and reflect off the buildings opposite so just a pale gleam of gold lights 221B, he makes some excuse to Sherlock and retreats to his room with his laptop as if he’s intending to blog. But instead he just lays down on his bed just in case Sherlock looks in-which is unlikely-it will at least look like John is asleep.
At least in that way it’s rather lucky normal sleeping habits are something that Sherlock never really grasped. He seems to write off John’s peculiar habit as a a boring thing that normal people do, because sleep is boring in Sherlock’s world.
::
a capite ad calcem (from head to heel)
It’s after the pool-not even late at night anymore, more like early morning-and one minute John’s brain is thinking of nothing more that getting up to his room before he passes out, or shuts down, or whatever it is that he does; and then he kind of stumbles and automatically throws his hands out to cushion his fall while Sherlock reaches out to steady him, his coat sleeve hitching up just a little.
He’s not sure how it happens, but John’s fingers brush the inside of Sherlock’s wrist right in the area of bare skin between coat sleeve and glove and he can feel Sherlock’s pulse through the tips of his fingers, can feel blood pound through his veins under cover of thin, sensitive skin and delicate bones. The very touch is practically burning his fingers, and he shifts his hand just a little, blunt nails barely scraping the skin. It’s true he’s not in the most coherent state of mind, but there’s no way he can miss the little involuntary jerk and shiver that courses through Sherlock’s body, any more than he can miss the minute inhale of breath Sherlock gives.
For one brief, sparkling moment everything hangs motionless and tenuous, filled with possibility.
And then he’s got Sherlock’s wrist in a bruising grip and Sherlock is roughly dragging a hand through John’s hair and they’re stumbling together now, legs tangling together and faces pressed close, lips clashing in messy kisses full of heat and desperation.
By the time they reach Sherlock’s bedroom-the closest one-they’ve already shed their clothes all over the flat and there’s nothing to do but tumble into bed together and learn everything.
It’s like a hot wire run through John’s veins, and for more reasons than one. With Sherlock’s hands, with Sherlock’s mouth on him he doesn’t feel the pressing slowness that forces his body into immobility.
”I’ve found it,” John thinks, awash in a haze of pleasure, and then can’t think anything after that because the feeling overwhelming him won’t fit into the confines of words. It swells against the inside of his ribs, wordless and joyful, and bursts out into the open air, spreading its wings, and settles neatly into the space of 221B, where it fits perfectly. Found it, found it...
He’s nearly positive he hears Sherlock say, in choked, nearly panicked tone like the words are being torn out of him
“You-I thought Moriarty-I thought you-I thought-I would-almost lost you-“
And he’s nearly positive that what he says back is
“Never.”
::
Surprisingly, Sherlock falls asleep like a log right afterward. They’re still all tangled together, sticky and bonelessly exhausted, but John feels his vision begin to dim and his breathing begin to slow and he knows his borrowed time is used up. A rush of sheer, instinctual panic-panic at being discovered, at revealing this part of himself to Sherlock-fills him, and he doesn't even think. It's pure fight-or-flight response, the urge to run and hide like an animal about to die, and he’s out of his mind with terror because every nerve in his body is screaming that as much as Sherlock is right, letting him find out about John’s origins or vaguely supernatural, inhuman quirks is wrong, wrong, wrong.
He extricates himself from Sherlock and leaves him lying there, barely making it up the stairs to his own room. He can’t even get his fingers to move enough to lock the door, so he just collapses on the bed.
::
ab hinc (from here on)
John wakes up, showers, and dresses in a numb stupor. He can hear all the while Sherlock banging around in the kitchen, obviously in a foul mood. Unfortunately, John knows exactly why.
Even after John is dressed, he spends another ten minutes dawdling, eventually just sitting on his bed and staring at the wall.
Well, he has to face it sometime.
He leaves his room and goes to the kitchen.
Sherlock notices his presence immediately, unsurprisingly.
“Why?” His tone is brusque and clipped, and he’s not doing too good a job of hiding the hurt in it, though there’s no outward sign of it in his face. He turns away and begins to pace. “I know you probably only went to your room, I would have known if you left the flat, but you still-I mean, was it something I-“ He takes a breath, seemingly unable to continue. Sherlock’s not one for conventional relationships, but he’s also too possessive for his own good, John knows.
For roughly three seconds, John’s mind frantically flips through all the lies he could tell. But in the end, he decides to go with the truth, or at least as much of it as he can bear to speak aloud, making sure to look Sherlock square in the eyes.
“It wasn’t because of you, if that’s what you mean,” he says quietly, firmly. “Never because of you. Believe, it wasn’t my choice to-leave you like that.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrow, and he looks for all the world like a bloodhound that’s just found a new trail.
“Wasn’t...your choice?”
“No-Sherlock, please. Don’t ask. Just-don’t. It’s not something you can control, it’s not something I can change. And it’s not something I can tell you. Just leave this alone.” He supposes he means the words to sound stern, but they mostly just come out tired. And maybe just a tiny bit desperate.
Sherlock subjects John to his most intense stare.
“John...” John tenses, not knowing what he’s going to hear next. “John, you know-it’s all fine.”
He grins the grin of someone sharing a private joke with a friend, and John, after a moment, grins back.
Yes. It’s all fine. It will all be fine. Everything is good, everything is well. He is safe and he is home.
I’ve found it.
::