Daylight and distance
Notes: Third part of Eating us alive, again, following Sherlock's ED for the second time. Promise to have them all up soon. A special thanks to Laura who has been an amazing support during this journey.
Summary: Just…tomorrow. When the darkness can't hide them and comfort them.
-x-
It took John a moment after waking up to remember why he wasn’t supposed to be alone in his own bed. Something was missing; someone was missing.
Sherlock.
The events of yesterday came back and John sat up too quickly. The world threatened to become black and he leaned back to allow the blood to catch up with his head. That had been stupid, but maybe he needed the extra time to grasp the situation? No, there was nothing to grasp, or if it was, he wouldn’t be able to do it during these few seconds before he could get up.
Still with his eyes closed, John tried to locate Sherlock in the flat, but it was too quiet. Disturbingly quiet. The thought of what that might mean forced John out of bed and, maybe a bit paranoid, the first place he went was the bathroom - no way in hell he would leave Sherlock on the tile floor longer than absolutely necessary.
To his relief, the bathroom door was wide open and the room empty.
John found Sherlock, fully dressed, hunched over his computer in the sitting-room and it took him a while before he managed to connect this sight in front of him with the images from yesterday. It was hard - no, it was impossible - for him to see it, even now when he knew. Rather than ease his guilt, the insight made him angry. At himself, at Sherlock…at the world.
Why was life hard?
“Oh, good, you’re up,” Sherlock said, but frowned disapprovingly when he looked up and saw John’s emotional state. “Don’t be like that. Go and get dressed, I think we have a case.”
“Err…. No,” John shook his head, “I have work and you….”
“You should definitely not be like that,” Sherlock frown grew deeper, “I worked on three cases last month. Nothing has changed.”
John blinked, that was the stupidest thing he had ever heard! How could he even…?
“You asked me to come home so I could pick you up off the bloody floor!” John reminded him and tried his hardest to not explode, but he was very close to failing, “I’m not going to pretend that didn’t happen.”
“I’m not asking you to do that.”
“Yes, you are,” John paused and took a deep breath to calm down; nothing was to be gained by getting angry. Nothing whatsoever. Not like all that much would be gained by reasoning either, but at least he would be able to look himself in the mirror afterwards.
“Hardly.”
“What are you asking, then?” John wondered with a despondent gesture, “That I act like nothing is wrong and just let you run around London? Because that’s pretending it didn’t happen. You decided to tell me because something has changed and you’re scared.”
Sherlock opened his mouth, but closed it again and turned back to the computer without answering. John wished they were back in his bed, without all the barriers of clothes and the insecurity the daylight brought.
Naked and honest in the darkness, it felt like the title to a bad sentimental novel.
“Stop staring at me,” Sherlock muttered, “I’m not going to wither away in front of your eyes.”
“You promise?” John wished his voice didn’t sound so weak, so pleading. So close to tears. He wished he could still be angry. At least it made Sherlock look up again, with some of John’s own pain and fear visible in his eyes.
“I wish I could….” Sherlock whispered and John put his hand over his eyes. To hide Sherlock’s guilt from him and his tears from Sherlock. Hopefully he would still have a vacancy in his schedule at 10:15 so he could lock himself in his room and cry for an hour.
Oh, he looked forward to that.
“John?”
With a deep sigh John removed his hand and blinked a couple of more times to make sure the tears would disappear, well aware Sherlock noticed. He couldn’t fall apart, because if he did, Sherlock would try to protect him from more pain. That would be devastating and John meant what he had said - he was rather sad than unknowing.
“I’m okay,” Sherlock told him when John finally met his eyes and they looked at each other with identical reassuring smiles that hid pain and doubt and fear. A reflex, a defence mechanism. Something completely unnecessary when they were just the two of them, because who were they trying to fool?
“But not fine?” John tried to specify.
“No, not fine.”
John wet his lips, trying to decode what Sherlock tried to tell him. A small hope fluttered in his chest; he didn’t dare to believe it, but Sherlock had never claimed to be okay when he hadn’t had it under control. It didn’t match what John had seen yesterday though, at all.
“How come…. I mean, why did you…. What happened yesterday?”
What had scared Sherlock enough to tell him? Because obviously, he had managed to keep it hidden for a while and would surely have been able to do it forever and ever if he wanted to. Or had he just become too exhausted to keep on hiding it?
The question was left unanswered, to no real surprise, and John walked over to sit next to Sherlock on the sofa, leaving an appropriate amount of space between them. Daylight. Terrible thing.
“How long have you been…not fine then?”
“Since the case with the modchips,” Sherlock answered with great reluctance, carefully picking his nails.
“That was…in December,” John recalled and his mouth grew dry, “Sherlock, that’s seven months ago.”
“31 weeks.”
“You should have told me sooner,” John couldn’t stop himself from uttering the words, nor prevent the soft reprehension to seep through. He shouldn’t scold Sherlock for not telling him earlier, not even if it was meant to be loving and supporting.
Sherlock obviously thought the same, because he turned his head with a defiant glare.
“Should I?” He wondered, voice matching the look in his eyes for a moment before he shook his head, “John, that case was terrible…. You had nightmares for eight nights, you jumped every time a car drove by too fast for weeks and you almost broke down at the crime scene in Walworth in January.”
John wet his lips again and nodded. The modchip case had been a truly terrible case, it really had, and he got chills just thinking about it. It had ego-centric to believe that he was the only one who had been affected.
“Don’t pretend I’m the only one with secrets,” Sherlock muttered and reached out to close the computer before getting up. John grabbed hold of the back his suit jacket, making him stop but not turn around.
“Please sit down again,” John’s plead got drowned in a sigh.
“Let go of me,” Sherlock demanded. John obeyed and Sherlock straightened his jacket - even though not really necessary - before he turned around with a sigh, “Go to work. Get dressed and go to work.”
“No, I’m not going anywhere,” John started to protest but Sherlock gave him such a worn look that he stopped.
“Yes, you are,” Sherlock told him firmly, “You need be away from me for a while.”
“That’s not-“
“Yes, it is, and I need to not have you here.”
John wanted to protest again before he realised that what Sherlock said was right; they needed to get away from each other for a couple of hours. What Sherlock would use the time for he couldn’t say, but personally, John needed it to throw a fit and cry a bit.
“Text me if there’s anything,” John sighed and got on his feet, surrendering.
Sherlock nodded.
“I’m serious, text me,” John put a hand on his arm, “We don’t have to talk about it, yet, but I’ll pick you up off whatever floor you need me to. Always. Okay?”
Sherlock nodded again and met his eyes.
“Nothing happened yesterday,” Sherlock said, sounding as if he was trying to convince them both of this. John’s eyes grew wide.
“’Nothing’ as…as in ‘you didn’t’?” John felt the same small hope as before tremble in his chest, “Like in…in ‘you haven’t’?”
“I haven’t….” Sherlock whispered, crossing his arms protectively over his chest and taking a step away from John. Not even the silent devastation Sherlock radiated could stop the flood of complete relief to wash over John and it almost knocked him over. Sherlock had told him so he could stop him! He had called him to get help. This really was progress!
“Sherlock, can you look at me?” John asked and placed both his hands on Sherlock’s crossed arms. For a moment he even considered to take the step that Sherlock had backed away, but he allowed him at least that space and when Sherlock finally obeyed he smiled at him, “I’m so proud of you and we’ll manage this, I promise you we will.”
“I’m not really okay,” Sherlock whispered, looking and sounding very guilty, “I don’t think I’m even close.”
“I know; I can see that.”
And he really could. When Sherlock just let his guard down it was obvious; the exhaustion from the sleepless nights, the fear and the insecurity, even the shame. The shame was the worst part to see, but John was so grateful (and honoured in an odd way) that Sherlock let him in behind the façade. He hoped, he really hoped, that Sherlock wouldn’t regret that he allowed him to see this part. Sherlock just looked so vulnerable, like when he had come to bed last night, when he had allowed someone else be strong for him for a moment. John promised himself to always be strong when Sherlock didn’t have the strength to be.
“How long has it been this much not-fine?” John asked in a low voice, keeping the hold on Sherlock’s arms light if he wanted to back away, flee. This time, John would let him go if he needed to.
“Almost five weeks,” Sherlock’s breath trembled and John just stared. Five weeks. No wonder he’d told him, no wonder he was exhausted, no wonder he was afraid of the dark…. Before Sherlock had the chance to do anything else, John hugged him.
“John….” Sherlock complained, but John just pressed his nose into Sherlock’s chest until it hurt.
“Shut up and let me, I need this,” he murmured and Sherlock unfolded his arms while he patiently stood there, allowing John to hug him. “We’ll get through this, I promise we’ll get through this. You’re not alone. You’re not alone…. You’re not alone. ”
Sherlock mumbled something into John’s hair and John let go to be able to look into his eyes. The vulnerability was still there, but the mask of control and distance slowly came back on Sherlock’s face again. John allowed it to happen and let his hands rest on Sherlock’s waist until he noticed how tense Sherlock became. John wanted to kick himself, had he really forgotten everything that went into this?
“Sorry,” he said and as soon as he removed his hand Sherlock backed away again. It always hurt when he did that.
“You’re going to be late,” Sherlock reminded him.
“I…. I….” John stuttered. It felt wrong to leave even if John felt that he needed the time apart more now than before and Sherlock probably saw it. “Text me? If there’s anything?”
“I will,” Sherlock promised, smirking, and he had almost managed to build up his façade again.
“Thank you,” John forced a smile and couldn’t resist patting him on the shoulder on his way back to his bedroom. He really was going to be late if he didn’t get dressed and had some breakfast.
Breakfast.
Food.
Damn.
John stopped in the middle of the stairs. This was right back into hell, wasn’t it?
-x-
Part IV: We're falling
Summary: Just…tomorrow. When the darkness can't hide them and comfort them.
-x-
It took John a moment after waking up to remember why he wasn’t supposed to be alone in his own bed. Something was missing; someone was missing.
Sherlock.
The events of yesterday came back and John sat up too quickly. The world threatened to become black and he leaned back to allow the blood to catch up with his head. That had been stupid, but maybe he needed the extra time to grasp the situation? No, there was nothing to grasp, or if it was, he wouldn’t be able to do it during these few seconds before he could get up.
Still with his eyes closed, John tried to locate Sherlock in the flat, but it was too quiet. Disturbingly quiet. The thought of what that might mean forced John out of bed and, maybe a bit paranoid, the first place he went was the bathroom - no way in hell he would leave Sherlock on the tile floor longer than absolutely necessary.
To his relief, the bathroom door was wide open and the room empty.
John found Sherlock, fully dressed, hunched over his computer in the sitting-room and it took him a while before he managed to connect this sight in front of him with the images from yesterday. It was hard - no, it was impossible - for him to see it, even now when he knew. Rather than ease his guilt, the insight made him angry. At himself, at Sherlock…at the world.
Why was life hard?
“Oh, good, you’re up,” Sherlock said, but frowned disapprovingly when he looked up and saw John’s emotional state. “Don’t be like that. Go and get dressed, I think we have a case.”
“Err…. No,” John shook his head, “I have work and you….”
“You should definitely not be like that,” Sherlock frown grew deeper, “I worked on three cases last month. Nothing has changed.”
John blinked, that was the stupidest thing he had ever heard! How could he even…?
“You asked me to come home so I could pick you up off the bloody floor!” John reminded him and tried his hardest to not explode, but he was very close to failing, “I’m not going to pretend that didn’t happen.”
“I’m not asking you to do that.”
“Yes, you are,” John paused and took a deep breath to calm down; nothing was to be gained by getting angry. Nothing whatsoever. Not like all that much would be gained by reasoning either, but at least he would be able to look himself in the mirror afterwards.
“Hardly.”
“What are you asking, then?” John wondered with a despondent gesture, “That I act like nothing is wrong and just let you run around London? Because that’s pretending it didn’t happen. You decided to tell me because something has changed and you’re scared.”
Sherlock opened his mouth, but closed it again and turned back to the computer without answering. John wished they were back in his bed, without all the barriers of clothes and the insecurity the daylight brought.
Naked and honest in the darkness, it felt like the title to a bad sentimental novel.
“Stop staring at me,” Sherlock muttered, “I’m not going to wither away in front of your eyes.”
“You promise?” John wished his voice didn’t sound so weak, so pleading. So close to tears. He wished he could still be angry. At least it made Sherlock look up again, with some of John’s own pain and fear visible in his eyes.
“I wish I could….” Sherlock whispered and John put his hand over his eyes. To hide Sherlock’s guilt from him and his tears from Sherlock. Hopefully he would still have a vacancy in his schedule at 10:15 so he could lock himself in his room and cry for an hour.
Oh, he looked forward to that.
“John?”
With a deep sigh John removed his hand and blinked a couple of more times to make sure the tears would disappear, well aware Sherlock noticed. He couldn’t fall apart, because if he did, Sherlock would try to protect him from more pain. That would be devastating and John meant what he had said - he was rather sad than unknowing.
“I’m okay,” Sherlock told him when John finally met his eyes and they looked at each other with identical reassuring smiles that hid pain and doubt and fear. A reflex, a defence mechanism. Something completely unnecessary when they were just the two of them, because who were they trying to fool?
“But not fine?” John tried to specify.
“No, not fine.”
John wet his lips, trying to decode what Sherlock tried to tell him. A small hope fluttered in his chest; he didn’t dare to believe it, but Sherlock had never claimed to be okay when he hadn’t had it under control. It didn’t match what John had seen yesterday though, at all.
“How come…. I mean, why did you…. What happened yesterday?”
What had scared Sherlock enough to tell him? Because obviously, he had managed to keep it hidden for a while and would surely have been able to do it forever and ever if he wanted to. Or had he just become too exhausted to keep on hiding it?
The question was left unanswered, to no real surprise, and John walked over to sit next to Sherlock on the sofa, leaving an appropriate amount of space between them. Daylight. Terrible thing.
“How long have you been…not fine then?”
“Since the case with the modchips,” Sherlock answered with great reluctance, carefully picking his nails.
“That was…in December,” John recalled and his mouth grew dry, “Sherlock, that’s seven months ago.”
“31 weeks.”
“You should have told me sooner,” John couldn’t stop himself from uttering the words, nor prevent the soft reprehension to seep through. He shouldn’t scold Sherlock for not telling him earlier, not even if it was meant to be loving and supporting.
Sherlock obviously thought the same, because he turned his head with a defiant glare.
“Should I?” He wondered, voice matching the look in his eyes for a moment before he shook his head, “John, that case was terrible…. You had nightmares for eight nights, you jumped every time a car drove by too fast for weeks and you almost broke down at the crime scene in Walworth in January.”
John wet his lips again and nodded. The modchip case had been a truly terrible case, it really had, and he got chills just thinking about it. It had ego-centric to believe that he was the only one who had been affected.
“Don’t pretend I’m the only one with secrets,” Sherlock muttered and reached out to close the computer before getting up. John grabbed hold of the back his suit jacket, making him stop but not turn around.
“Please sit down again,” John’s plead got drowned in a sigh.
“Let go of me,” Sherlock demanded. John obeyed and Sherlock straightened his jacket - even though not really necessary - before he turned around with a sigh, “Go to work. Get dressed and go to work.”
“No, I’m not going anywhere,” John started to protest but Sherlock gave him such a worn look that he stopped.
“Yes, you are,” Sherlock told him firmly, “You need be away from me for a while.”
“That’s not-“
“Yes, it is, and I need to not have you here.”
John wanted to protest again before he realised that what Sherlock said was right; they needed to get away from each other for a couple of hours. What Sherlock would use the time for he couldn’t say, but personally, John needed it to throw a fit and cry a bit.
“Text me if there’s anything,” John sighed and got on his feet, surrendering.
Sherlock nodded.
“I’m serious, text me,” John put a hand on his arm, “We don’t have to talk about it, yet, but I’ll pick you up off whatever floor you need me to. Always. Okay?”
Sherlock nodded again and met his eyes.
“Nothing happened yesterday,” Sherlock said, sounding as if he was trying to convince them both of this. John’s eyes grew wide.
“’Nothing’ as…as in ‘you didn’t’?” John felt the same small hope as before tremble in his chest, “Like in…in ‘you haven’t’?”
“I haven’t….” Sherlock whispered, crossing his arms protectively over his chest and taking a step away from John. Not even the silent devastation Sherlock radiated could stop the flood of complete relief to wash over John and it almost knocked him over. Sherlock had told him so he could stop him! He had called him to get help. This really was progress!
“Sherlock, can you look at me?” John asked and placed both his hands on Sherlock’s crossed arms. For a moment he even considered to take the step that Sherlock had backed away, but he allowed him at least that space and when Sherlock finally obeyed he smiled at him, “I’m so proud of you and we’ll manage this, I promise you we will.”
“I’m not really okay,” Sherlock whispered, looking and sounding very guilty, “I don’t think I’m even close.”
“I know; I can see that.”
And he really could. When Sherlock just let his guard down it was obvious; the exhaustion from the sleepless nights, the fear and the insecurity, even the shame. The shame was the worst part to see, but John was so grateful (and honoured in an odd way) that Sherlock let him in behind the façade. He hoped, he really hoped, that Sherlock wouldn’t regret that he allowed him to see this part. Sherlock just looked so vulnerable, like when he had come to bed last night, when he had allowed someone else be strong for him for a moment. John promised himself to always be strong when Sherlock didn’t have the strength to be.
“How long has it been this much not-fine?” John asked in a low voice, keeping the hold on Sherlock’s arms light if he wanted to back away, flee. This time, John would let him go if he needed to.
“Almost five weeks,” Sherlock’s breath trembled and John just stared. Five weeks. No wonder he’d told him, no wonder he was exhausted, no wonder he was afraid of the dark…. Before Sherlock had the chance to do anything else, John hugged him.
“John….” Sherlock complained, but John just pressed his nose into Sherlock’s chest until it hurt.
“Shut up and let me, I need this,” he murmured and Sherlock unfolded his arms while he patiently stood there, allowing John to hug him. “We’ll get through this, I promise we’ll get through this. You’re not alone. You’re not alone…. You’re not alone. ”
Sherlock mumbled something into John’s hair and John let go to be able to look into his eyes. The vulnerability was still there, but the mask of control and distance slowly came back on Sherlock’s face again. John allowed it to happen and let his hands rest on Sherlock’s waist until he noticed how tense Sherlock became. John wanted to kick himself, had he really forgotten everything that went into this?
“Sorry,” he said and as soon as he removed his hand Sherlock backed away again. It always hurt when he did that.
“You’re going to be late,” Sherlock reminded him.
“I…. I….” John stuttered. It felt wrong to leave even if John felt that he needed the time apart more now than before and Sherlock probably saw it. “Text me? If there’s anything?”
“I will,” Sherlock promised, smirking, and he had almost managed to build up his façade again.
“Thank you,” John forced a smile and couldn’t resist patting him on the shoulder on his way back to his bedroom. He really was going to be late if he didn’t get dressed and had some breakfast.
Breakfast.
Food.
Damn.
John stopped in the middle of the stairs. This was right back into hell, wasn’t it?
-x-
Part IV: We're falling