Chapter Text
“Years of love had been forgot, in the hatred of a minute.” -Edgar Allan Poe
The last thing John Watson had been expecting, well, there were a lot of things not to expect, but it certainly wasn’t Mrs. Hudson pulling up in a bright red sports car speeding as if the devil was chasing her tail down his therapist’s street.
It certainly wasn’t her interrupting his therapy session that wasn’t even beneficial. It wasn’t the helicopter and police car tracking her down, and then the both of them going away at the blink of an eye because Mycroft’s eyes and ears know no bounds.
But the most unbelievable thing is that Mrs. bloody Hudson, had played John and lied right to his face, tying him into a bond he couldn't get out of even if he tried. He made a promise he wasn’t sure he’d ever go through with.
And the lie was supposedly justifiable. The lie was Sherlock Holmes.
And there Sherlock was, in that boot of Mrs. Hudson’s flashy car, handcuffed and trembling. And there Sherlock was, with a plethora of needle scars and bruises scattered across his forearm. And there Sherlock was, drinking out of a plant vase because he was just too sodding high, too sodding ill , to sort out his wits.
And John just had to watch it.
He had to look into those watery, dull eyes and not want to pummel the snot out of the man. He also had to do such a thing, and at the same exact time, not want to give the man a hug and plead for forgiveness.
“ They don’t matter. You do.”
What significance were those words supposed to hold? Sherlock was barely keeping it—scratch that–he didn’t keep it together through the entirety of whatever hell that was. Sherlock nearly died. Culverton was caught. Sherlock began to recover from addiction. John stopped by nearly twice a week. Sherlock started to talk more like himself, and be himself. Things seemed to be..clearing up.
And then, John just stopped coming over. Sherlock stopped texting him to ask to come over. All communication was severed completely, and John was left stranded. He never felt comfortable enough…never..welcome to just pop on over. Even though there never should have been a barrier set in front of John in the first place. And that went on, for about..2-3 months. And he did nothing.
Perhaps he should’ve let his guard down, and invited Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson over. Maybe he should’ve checked to see if he got any messages from the two. He probably could’ve made an effort. Should’ve made an effort. Would’ve made an effort.
At least that’s what he’s told himself. That he’s justified because if Sherlock needed help, he would text him. They talked about it anyway. Or Mrs. Hudson. Or Molly. Or Lestrade.
“They don’t matter. You do.”
It’s almost May now. Sherlock’s birthday was in January. John kept coming until the middle of February.
That’s when it fell apart a little. That’s when they had a bit of a falling out. It was unintentional, but all more to keep eachother safe. So perhaps both were trying to hide from each other, and John would’ve been satisfied with that for a while. Until, that is..when Sherlock arrived on John’s doorstep like a baby dropped from a crane’s beak, in desperate need of something John thought he was done giving….
John’s startled from his deep slumber to hear his phone ringing on his nightstand. He squints at the clock which his bleary eyes are able to discern the time as something around 6 AM.
Quite an ordinary time for somebody to be texting him.
They totally didn’t have to wait until 3 hours passed beforehand. He groans, his back feels suddenly stiff against his starchy sheets. He fumbles with his phone but finally gets himself sorted out, and peers at the screen.
A message.
From an unknown ID.
John automatically knows it’s Mycroft from the first couple sentences.
- — Hello, John. Yes, I do see that it is early. And I am aware that it is rare for me to message you, but I am full of surprises. And you need not worry that this is some person of ill intent, you should already discern that by now.
Ever since you left my brother and your former residence, and have ceased to send any form of communication or prove sign of life, I am taking the liberty given to me to reach out to whomever I wish, and doing so to you. And my reasoning you will not argue against, let me be clear.
My brother, as you know, is self-destructive on an amazingly large scale. You also know we have taken away all of his addictive properties. And yet, he appears to be slipping back into his downward spiral….
*
Downward spiral? What has Sherlock gotten himself into, and what exactly does that entail for John? What exactly does any of this bloody mean, and why is it all coming from Mycroft Holmes, the British government himself?
*
….It is imperative that you establish communication with my brother, irrespective of your personal preference or inclination. I am not just advising you, I am ordering you. I will not let or continue to let Sherlock fall back into a pit, and you are no longer going to stay on the sidelines. You obviously can reach out to your former landlady, or Sherlock himself. And if for reasons you cannot do this task, which I assume there are none, there will be a black limousine to pick you up sometime this week.
You cannot hide from my brother, Dr. Watson. He needs you. Only you.---
*
John puffs a breath of air as he eyeballs the message over and over again, yet his brain only seems to take in those hauntingly familiar words:
“He needs you. Only you.”
“They don’t matter. You do.”
You.
It appears that John may have underestimated the extent to which Sherlock relied upon him. Maybe he even underestimated what that dependability was, and how that affected others in Sherlock’s life who were close to him. John doesn’t want to think about this at six in the morning, but at the same time— God, Mycroft is cheeky–
Of course, only Mycroft would send him such a message at this time, when John has no occupations, he’s curled up in a ball under a mound of blankets and waiting for the sun to come up.
Rosie will be awake soon anyways, he doesn’t know why he thought he could get more sleep.
He sprawls out in bed, and thinks hard.
He’s basically being held against his will to check on his best friend.
That sentence is enough to make it seem as though their relationship is being undermined—and that prospect is well within reach.
Maybe he should, what, ‘pop by’? See what’s going on and set Sherlock straight? He doesn’t need to intervene as much anymore. One may even question whether his visitation could be deemed as interference.
It’s, again, being forced to contact….why on God’s green earth should he do this? Why would Sherlock want to see him?
But he knows that if he doesn’t pick up his phone, he’ll have to face what he dreads facing. If he doesn’t reach out, and Mycroft picks him up, it’ll just prove something John already knows.
That he’s absolutely terrified of Sherlock. The Sherlock that John has to live with now . He’d go back years ago and take the old one in an instant.
And he knows it’s selfish. He knows it’s so wrong. He knows he’s at fault, wanting a different person.
And Sherlock might have been that different person, if not for him. If not for the way of John’s actions, that did nothing to course-correct their paths. Both of them fell into a pit, and John thought he was the one who fell harder.
But perhaps, he’s been a fool. Even if Sherlock, in past events, was the one who fell harder, he always got up faster. Sherlock was the one to offer a hand to lift John up. And when Sherlock was the one who couldn’t lift himself—-John stood there and watched. A mere speculator to an event that could’ve been easily fixed. Easily prevented. Easily turned into something that they would never have to speak of before it got worse.
Now it consumes Sherlock's life, and John has tried not to let it consume his. He can’t allow it to. Not when there’s more to risk.
But, once again, he's jeopardising something far more essential than his personal security.
He’s risking breaking his relationship with Sherlock. He’s risking stepping into a place where he’s not welcome. Overall, it might not turn into anything. Most likely, Sherlock wouldn’t care if he stopped over. But there’s always a risk.
And he stopped taking risks a long time ago.
He’s jolted out of his thoughts, hearing Rosie wail in the distance. He heaves himself off his bed and runs a hand through his hair. He glances back at his phone, which he put back on his nightstand. He stares at it and huffs.
He’ll call. Later. He doesn’t have a choice, now that Big Brother Holmes has taken charge. He’ll just have to..deal with it.
Because it is what it is.
Even though, deep down, it really isn’t.
More than a few hours have passed, and John decided to not go to the clinic today.
(His co-workers already hate him for numerous reasons, and they won’t be busy today anyways.)
He’s just been tending to Rosie, and that’s about all he can do without thinking about Mycroft’s message. He keeps picking up his phone to text Mrs. Hudson, (he’d rather not Sherlock, the conversation might not go as well)
He sighs as he musters the courage to find Mrs. Hudsons’s number, which is somewhere deep inside his contacts. Before he can do anything, his phone vibrates rhythmically and the ID of the caller is…speak of the devil…
Mrs. Hudson.
He sucks in a deep breath and answers the phone, holding it up to his ear.
“Hello, Mrs. Hudson?”
“John!” A very loud voice from his landlady says with relief. “Oh hello dear. I wasn’t sure if you’d pick up.”
“Of course I would,” He reassures her, “Are you alright?”
“Yes, yes. Do you happen to be free—”
“Did Mycroft put you up to this?” John interrupts her, only now she would call him out of the blue, just when this strange scenario has come about.
“What are you going on about? No! That blithering fool has certainly done enough to this family…” She trails off. “I was just wondering if you’d fancy seeing Sherlock and me. It’s been a while, and Sherlock misses you.”
“Mrs. Hudson, you do know I haven’t seen him in almost 4 months.” John tries to hold back a sigh. “And your timing is really quite random–”
“And that’s exactly why dear. He needs you..”
“No, do not pull that move. Please. I’m done with being his keeper.”
“John!” She scolds, “You were never his keeper! You’re his best friend, and I think it would be quite splendid of you if you stopped by just for a little bit.” Her tone is quivering, which makes John feel somewhat guilty.
“....When do you want me to see him?” He pinches the bridge of his nose.
It feels all too familiar to 4 months ago. But it won’t be, it can’t—
“Oh, right now. We’re outside.”
John has a right to kill this bloody woman. Every right imaginable.
“ Mrs. Hudson !” He growls, “You can’t recreate what happened 4 months ago! I’m not going to be a part of it.”
“Well, we’re already outside John. At least come out and say hello. We don’t need to come inside.” She says with almost a bored tone. As if she had prepared herself for John’s outburst, and knows she’ll get her way.
Because of course she bloody will.
“Fine. Fine! I give up.” John grits his teeth and hangs up. He stares at the front door, across from him and looks up at the ceiling for a moment.
Of course this is how it would work out, and now he has to go along like everything is fine, because of course it is. He’s just going to have a nice little chat and then go back inside. He’ll forget all about it, and everyone will be better for it.
As soon as he approaches the door, and his hand inches towards the doorknob, his entire arm akin to a bag full of sand. He begins to turn the handle, which feels like a year-long ordeal, but he manages to open it without letting all hell break loose. He walks out the door to see that same flashy red car, and Mrs. Hudson standing there. And Sherlock.
At least the man’s not handcuffed in the boot of her car, and high as a kite.
“Hi,” He pads over to the two of them, and Mrs. Hudson’s face lights up.
“John!” She instantly wraps her small arms around John and gives him a tight squeeze, which John relaxes in and lets a quick smile escape his lips.
“You realise you’re one of the most meddlesome people on earth, right?” He half-jokes, trying to avert his eyes from the familiar tall frame behind his former landlady.
“Oh, but you love me for it.” She says amusedly, as she steps to the side and lets John meet Sherlock’s gaze.
“Hey Sherlock.” He gives him a small smile, and Sherlock does the same.
“Hello John.” He sticks his hand out and John takes it in a heartbeat, even though he can feel his hand is sweating profusely.
Sherlock looks better. His right eye isn’t puffy anymore, and there are barely any remnants of when John…attacked him. He has a slight brown mark on one of his cheekbones, but his eye bags aren’t as dark and sagged. They’re still not back to normal though…
His eyes have a slightly livelier glint inside, but it’s not as pronounced as it used to be. Frankly, John can barely see it. Maybe it’s not even there, and John just wants it to exist.
The little facial hair he grew is completely gone, and it seems that his curls have been trimmed up too.
“You look good…” He releases his grip and takes a step back. “You look like..you.”
The words are a lie on his tongue.
“Thank you.” He says softly, a timidness that John has rarely ever seen before.
“So Mrs. Hudson dragged you along with her? I assume it went better than last time.” He quips, and it earns the tiniest turn of the lip from Sherlock.
“Yes. No guns were held on me, and no handcuffs had to be used. Though I must say, verbal sparring was lathered on quite heavily before I got out of the flat.” His eyes flicker as he looks to the left, and then looks back at John.
“How’s the flat…how are you?” He scrambles, as he realises Hudders has gone completely silent, just watching the two.
“The same. The flat I mean.” He nods, “I’m doing as well as I can. You?” His voice wavers a little.
“About the same.” He notices how Sherlock is splaying his fingers underneath his coat jacket, and how Sherlock has..inched away.
“Rosie’s..gotten so big. She’s brilliant. Would you…like to see her?”
You. Hypocrite.
He eyes Mrs. Hudson, who looks as if she’s ultimately pleased with that prospect.
“Oh.” He looks to the left again, but John can’t tell why. “Only if I am welcome to.”
“Yes you bloody are.” John says firmly, but there’s no kindness in his tone, like he expected there to be.
“Mrs. Hudson, are you coming too?” Sherlock turns to her, almost a panic in his eyes.
“Of course.” She smiles, and John watches how he moves towards her, almost as if he’s seeking protection. Still a scared little boy, through the acclaimed ‘impenetrable’ layers of his steely facade.
But what is it that he’s seeking protection from?
John?
He walks side by side with his two unexpected visitors, carefully eyeing Sherlock, while attempting to appear nonchalant. The man looks uncomfortable, and John can’t blame him.
He looks…tired, but not the drug-addled tired. The lonely, attempting to live decently but doesn’t know how–’m not okay but who needs to know that, tired. The look Sherlock gave him when the old lady, the victim of the bomber hired by Moriarty, had died, right on call with them. The look Sherlock gave him after their fight after Sherlock’s—what would he call it— panic attack at Dartmoor?
At least it’s not the look he gave John after being beaten to a pulp. The look of a man who’s been broken, inside-out and back again. The look of a man who thought he had something to live for, and that thing was the very reason he died. The look of someone who resigns to his corner, and gives up—-even though, the facade Sherlock displays is that he can’t give up. And he can do anything.
John wholeheartedly believed that. And there’s a side of him that still does, and always will. But the other half of him knows he can’t go back. And the future doesn’t seem all that promising, regardless of if he’s on an okay track record.
Which then Sherlock would say okay is a relative term. And he’s bloody right.
As he leads the duo up the steps, he sighs.
John, apparently in his sudden stupor, forgot to shut the front door behind himself.
He leads them inside the house, instantaneously slipping away into Rosie’s nursery to grab her.
Once he finds her, perfectly (and strangely) content with playing with a doll in the crib, mindlessly babbling.
“Hello love,” He scoops her up and inhales her sweet scent, the aroma sending a pool of warmth directly to his chest. “Sherlock’s here. I suppose he’d like to see you. And you, him?” He tightly smiles, as Rosie’s bright blue eyes flicker curiously.
“Da!” She coos, reaching up for his face. He smiles and lightly kisses her forehead.
“I didn’t think he’d be that interested in you from the start, but the man is full of surpri—” John clamps his mouth shut, walking out of the room, towards the steps leading downstairs. He listens to the middle of a conversation Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock are in.
“Oh Sherlock, don’t be such a pessimist! John isn’t a dictator, he’s your friend, dear.” Mrs. Hudson’s voice is tainted with a plea.
“I am not implying John is a dictator or someone cruel.” Sherlock’s voice sounds very quiet. “I just didn’t anticipate you bringing me here, so I apologise if I am trying my very hardest not to let my…emotion overcome me.”
Nothing in Sherlock’s tone is apologetic. And those words…they cut across John’s heart like a freshly sharpened dagger.
“Well, you best overcome it. We can’t have you in the shape you’re in for long, hmm?”
“And that’s exactly why I don’t know why I’m here. You keep telling me that I don’t..function properly. That I’m akin to a meatsack of little proportions at this point. If I am not aware, how can John assist me?” Sherlock’s tone bites a little, and Mrs. Hudson goes silent, but only for a moment.
“You just….need help dear. You might not see it, but just..talk to John Please, Sherlock. See how he is.” Her tone sounds sad and stretched. “For me?”
Silence.
“Always for you.” Sherlock’s voice trails off and John takes his cue to walk down the stairs, Rosie now squirming in his arms.
Once he is in his visitors' proximity, he begins to speak, but words can't seem to penetrate the walls of his lips.
Sherlock has already sat down on a lounge chair, his eyes transfixed on a corner of the room. Mrs. Hudson is standing beside him, locking eyes with John.
“Sherlock, John’s back.” She gently touches his shoulder and Sherlock’s eyes flicker, recognition filling them. John ignores how Sherlock slightly flinched before his eyes flickered back into reality.
“Oh.” He looks at John, then his eyes shift downwards to Rosie. “She’s bigger…and…she looks…” He looks up at John, a bit of refrain in his eyes, “She looks like you.”
“Yeah..yeah that’s kind of what happens when you have kids. Genetics and all that.” John smiles and Sherlock doesn’t return it.
He just keeps his eyes glued on Rosie, almost as if he’s trying to deduce the one year old’s darkest secrets.
“Boys, I hope the both of you don’t mind..but I have to be off quite soon for tea with Mr. Chatterjee. Sherlock, I assume you can keep yourself in one piece and get a cab? And John, you don’t mind Sherlock staying here for a bit?” Mrs. Hudson locks eyes with Sherlock, whose face looks unsurprised. She shifts her gaze to John, and she looks absolutely terrifying. Her eyes are a stone cold, and her lips are knit into a tight scowl. She is not taking no for an answer.
John should’ve seen this coming from the get-go.
“Yes.” He nods and turns to John, “I can..leave if you do not want my presence here. I could elicit ...past feelings from…the..” He looks down at his shoes and John clears his throat.
“No, it’s fine. Really, uhm…you can stay for a while.” John grimaces internally at the look of reproachfulness on Sherlock’s face.
“Perfect! Well, it was so nice seeing you John!” She hugs John and places a delicate kiss on Rosie’s cheek, who squeals.
“Oh, uh, yeah you too.” He says dazedly, as she eyes Sherlock who is looking at her with a bit of a lost expression.
“I’ll see you later dear.” She smiles softly at Sherlock who nods, his eyes wandering anywhere but her and John.
John watches her walk out the door and he closes his eyes for a moment.
Just breathe. Breathe. Sherlock isn’t the same, and neither are you.
It will be better. It has to be.
“Tea?” He asks, cracking a small smile.
Sherlock nods at John and his eyes seem to smile instead of his lips.
“Love some.” He adds, looking again at Rosie, not at John.
John prepares tea, taking a decently long time to do so. He needs time to think. But no thoughts are entering his mind. So he walks back into the living room, two mugs in one hand, baby in the other, and tries to act as composed as possible.
“Thank you.” Sherlock says quietly. He stares at the mug and barely takes a sip. John watches him tap the edge of the mug with his slender fingers, the beat oddly familiar.
“I know it’s been a while, but…I’d still really like it if we could..catch up. See what’s been going on with each other's lives?”
“Yes. I’d like that too.”
Sherlock’s tone says nothing about liking it, or wanting to do anything with talking to John, but he must persevere.
“So…are you…back to normal? I mean, cases and all that? Anything particularly difficult?” John’s lips quirk up at the sight of Sherlock easing into the couch cushions.
“Normal is relative, but yes. Lestrade’s given me some cases, but nothing too mind-bending. I am beginning to believe he is doing it on purpose.”
A flash of Sherlock’s bloodied face pops into John’s head, shaking and tears in his eyes, immobilised.
“I’m sure he’ll need you with some impossible case like…I dunno…a serial killer who murders their victims by…hair dye, or like…”
“Hair dye?” Sherlock furrows his brows, “Some things never change.” He sighs.
“What?” John swallows down some tea, which feels unusually thick in his throat.
“You still lack creativity.” He smiles slightly and John rolls his eyes, but it’s half-hearted.
“You’re right about things never changing.”
“Mmm?”
“You still like to point out to me that I’m not as clever as you.” John’s eyes flicker, watching Sherlock actually smile.
It’s not fully relaxed, and it doesn’t show his teeth all the way, but it’s something.
And, without warning, as if the universe purposely wants to ruin the smidge of normalcy that moment of three seconds transpired, a loud clap of thunder explodes in the atmosphere.
John isn’t the same as he was years ago, so he barely flinches hearing the sound akin to a gunshot.
He looks down at Rosie, who looks like she could care less about the thunder, she’s aggressively twisting a stuffed rabbit with her stubby fingers, a content look in her eyes.
He flits his eyes up and the first thing he sees is Sherlock’s hand tightly gripped on the mug, the liquid vibrating under the pressure of Sherlock’s grip. The man’s face has slackened, and his eyes are searching all over the room.
It feels like an eternity until Sherlock says something, which he does. But it’s not what John expected.
“You’ve kept your house in good shape. Not insalubrious to any degree.” Sherlock’s lip twitches as he sips his tea.
He’s shutting down everything. It may be a terrible thing, but at least it’s not a new development in Sherlock’s personality.
“Quite a vocabulary you have. And yeah, I’ve tried to keep my house not dingy and uninhabitable. What happens when you have a kid. You can’t have takeaway boxes everywhere and gun holes in walls.” John truly wasn’t intending to portray his tone as cold but it must’ve come across that way.
Because Sherlock looks away from John’s direction and sets the mug down with an impressively loud ‘thunk!’.
“ No yellow smiley faces and unpaid bills either?” His tone doesn’t match John’s. It’s quite the opposite. Reminiscent and perhaps a little bored.
Bored secretly meaning: I want to stop talking about this right now.
“I believe the bills were paid. I was the one who was paying them. You stared at the envelopes for 0.1 seconds and then tossed them onto my armchair.” John eases himself into a less defensive position, not that he meant to get into that state in the first place.
“ Bills were boring,” He locks eyes with John, “Now they are, quite literally prices we have to pay. But I must admit, we could find a better system instead of the government practically pirating our money, then giving us our said money back but in less amounts then we had originally owned. And that only happens if we’re employed. So much for boundless generosity .” Sherlock flicks his wrist forward, looking perturbed.
Right. Sherlock’s paying bills by himself now.
“It’s all a set up. But it makes the world go round.” John shakes his head. “You should tell our government that. What you said. They’d listen to the world’s most oblivious genius.” John waits to see if Sherlock will match his energy. Or he’ll be very screwed if not.
“That’s an oxymoron.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “And I have. Currently, I believe he’s in Istanbul, starting or preventing wars. Not entirely sure this time.” Sherlock grins, and John sees a shred of Sherlock’s walls being torn down.
“Sherlock, about Mycroft—he texted me…” John pauses while Sherlock’s eyebrows slightly raise. “I know. He texted me about seeing you, actually. Early this morning. I didn’t want to say anything, but I don’t want to keep things from you anymore…” The words flow out of John’s mouth before he can do anything, Rosie squirming for attention, her hands reaching for John’s face.
“Hi love,” He holds her in his lap facing towards his torso, no longer facing Sherlock, and she simmers back down to a passive state.
“I assumed my brother meddled somehow. Mrs. Hudson’s actions were quite spontaneous. I don’t think she would just.. ’drag me along’ . I’m not angry with Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, or you. It’s just a strange circumstance we have found ourselves in.” Sherlock looks very calm, but it doesn’t settle John’s nerves.
“Yeah, yeah. Can I ask you something? About coming over?” John bites his lip.
The younger man nods and waits patiently.
“Would you have come if–if Mrs. Hudson or Mycroft for that matter, didn’t bring you?”
“Would you?” Sherlock’s eyes narrow.
“Yes! O-of course, Sherlock.”
“Really, because it’s been 4 months and you’ve ceased communication with me.”
“I—”
“And don’t say you’ve been busy because if you really were, you’d let me know.” Sherlock straightens his spine.
“Sher—”
“I, in fact, wouldn’t have come. Not because I don’t want to see you. I always want to see you.” Sherlock says hastily, “It’s because we aren’t the same people and therefore, I stay with comfort of what I know. I do not know you.”
John blinks.
I do not know you.
“I didn’t mean to turn this into anything,” John scrambles.
“You didn’t. I just stated the facts, John. I don’t blame you for any of it.” Sherlock sinks back into the couch, as he flexes his fingers. “I could never blame you.”
“But why? After all this time, you never blame me. You’ve never blamed me for the crap I pulled over the years. Sod it, you jumped off a bloody building and didn’t blame me when I tackled you.” John feels anger bubble in his stomach, and he has to contain it.
“Your anger was a normal reaction after dealing with grief, frustration, depression and a myriad of emotions.” Sherlock says, his facade not breaking.
“But what about…” John doesn’t need to finish his sentence. He watches as Sherlock…flinches. His eyes turn cold, and John berates himself.
Just watching Sherlock makes him feel nothing. He feels a dark hole, bereft of what joy he felt being best friends with the man. He felt free then. Felt good. Felt unstoppable and giddy with enthusiasm because everyday, he got to be with Sherlock. An unexpected but all the more welcomed friend.
Now he feels trapped.
He feels stuck, like everything’s been caught in a freeze frame, and he can’t get his life to start moving correctly. He can’t restart that relationship with Sherlock. Well, he can, but he’s scared. The man in front of him is not the same man. Obviously, both of them know this. But..does that mean that if John tries to rekindle a relationship, Sherlock would have a different approach?
“You were…struggling with Mary. I didn’t make it any easier.” Sherlock says quietly, as if that’s that, and he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. Which John knows he can’t do.
“Listen, why don’t we just….” John feels a strange pull in his chest, looking at Sherlock’s shaky hands. “...You alright?”
“Yes.” He sniffs. “Excuse me for a moment.” He stands up and begins to walk towards John’s bathroom. John quickly grabs for Sherlock’s hand to bring him back, but Sherlock moves away out of John’s reach. Holding his arm away from John. Backing up even farther.
“Sherlock.” He intones, his eyes wide with meaning. “I’m sorry.”
“Then do better.” Sherlock says after a moment then walks away towards the bathroom door.
John hears a door shut softly and it stings more than if it had slammed.
It hits John like a brick wall, the words, as well. They weren’t aggressive. They were just instructions.
If he truly is sorry, he does have to change. He has to be the better man. Because Sherlock has always been the one to be better. He’s always been better. And John doesn’t feel like he has to fit those shoes. But he needs to feel adequate. He can’t hide, or run. He has to confront…everything. But not today. Today’s meant for seeing how he and Sherlock can start repairing the bridge. Not to meet in the middle and shake hands. Just to lay out the foundations of what the bridge used to be. To bind the tethers instead of break them. To make a stronger knot instead of using scissors to cut away layers.
He wants to call Sherlock back. Ask him…everything. Make sure he’s really okay, because John knows he’s not. He needs to know what Mrs. Hudson meant by, ‘ You just need help dear.’ Just by the lost look on Sherlock’s face when his eyes go up to look at Rosie for a moment, or the haunted glances he gives looking around the room, John knows something’s off.
God–he must hate it here. After everything—--Why didn’t—
John should’ve done something. Went over to Baker Street sooner. He should’ve crawled out of his hole of selfishness and cowardice and face him. And even though the man is only a few feet away, it feels like he could not be farther from John.
And he feels farther from the truth than he’s ever been. Perhaps the convenient truth is nearby, but he’s learned not to cling onto it. The convenient truth would be that everything is not as bad as it seems. That light will leak through the cracks of the crumbling building they are both housed in, and things will turn for the better. That’s the reality that could be easily believed.
The real, brutal truth, the truth that makes John want to scream at the world and take back the past few years in an instant, is not so easy to hear. And yet, he knows it so much better than the false comfort the alternative truth barely grants him.
He wants to dig Mary up from her grave and somehow, somehow, gain unearthly power, breathe life into her, just to strangle and unleash all his anger on her, prodding and questioning till all his questions, akin to rolling waves, crashing, full of chaos, became calm and still. He wants to bring hellfire down on the world, and yet he also wants rain.
He wants to pour and pour and pour, washing everything away, so he can gain a clean slate. He wants to move forward, but where is forward? Where should he go on the chess board?
He hears a door open and Sherlock’s figure comes into his peripheral view, snapping him out of his thoughts.
“John, I–” He says once he sits back down, his face looking uncomfortable with the vulnerability John can see seeping through.
“I am..sorry for a moment ago. It’s been a minute since I’ve engaged in actual conversation with another person besides Mrs. Hudson or Mycroft. Which…neither of them really bring solid conversational abilities to the table.” Sherlock’s tone is sarcastic but John can see it’s a cover up.
“S’ fine. Really, Sherlock. It’s been a minute as well. But maybe we could..keep moving forward from this, uh…try and do this again sometime?” He asks hesitantly, but somehow all the more earnestly.
“Yes, I-I’d like that. To try it again.” Sherlock nods.
“A fresh start?” John smiles, and he expects Sherlock to return it, but what happens, it makes John’s heart sink.
Sherlock’s eyes go numb and he looks away for a moment, as if deep in thought.
He’s only delaying the inevitable. He looks at John. Looks down. Looks back at John.
“No.” Sherlock says almost shakily, “No. We, um, we pick up where we left off. Starting fresh is too..finicky. We’d have to…restart..rebuild—I mean we can but there’s too much to–I can’t go back there–”
John watches as Sherlock continues to ramble, but John doesn’t know why he’s suddenly so… rattled? Rosie seems to pick up on this, now shifting in John's lap, soft whines coming from her lips. John quickly shushes her and focuses back on Sherlock.
“Sherlock. Sherlock . I didn’t mean restart from the beginning and forget everything. I just mean.. Be able to look back, and forward. Okay?” He watches as Sherlock..doesn’t stop. He keeps rambling, and it’s starting to alarm John.
“We can’t—After it all–it’s all my fault—it’s my fault and you let—I-my fault,” Sherlock’s voice is beginning to raise, and John watches as Sherlock’s hands splay violently, over and over and over.
It’s scaring John, his behaviour, but he has to intervene before something else happens.
“Woah, woah Sherlock. Just..calm down okay?” John says this while trying to fight off his own internalised fear, the way Sherlock looks..just like when he was—No.
No.
NO.
He is not the same person, he just needs..help. That’s what Mrs. Hudson meant. By this? God he doesn’t know. All he can do is be here in the moment and hope that’s enough.
“Sherlock, look at me.” John locks eyes with the man who’s giving the deer-caught-in-headlights-look. Rosie's whimpers have now started to become higher intensity, merging into small squeals. John bounces her on his leg, shushing her. She stills a little, but it's not much use with Sherlock losing it before John's eyes.
The slightly frantic, slightly embarrassed, slightly out of his depth detective locks eyes John, and John’s pretty positive it’s been one of the first times where Sherlock’s looked legitimately scared since…well a while ago. Desperate, panicked, confused, frustrated, vulnerable all merged into one basic emotion.
Fear.
Not of John though. John might just break down in tears if Sherlock was afraid of John..if he…
What if he is? John stares at Sherlock and contemplates the idea.
“It’s okay, alright? I didn’t mean we have to forget about anything. And I’m not forcing you to do anything. I just..want to…” The words hitch on his tongue, but he has to let them out. He’s so scared of Sherlock, so absolutely terrified but he needs to do this.
“I want to be friends with you again.”
Even though that sentence is so pathetically simple, it feels so refreshing. Exuberant even.
Sherlock stares and stares and stares until John is half convinced he needs to snap his fingers in Sherlock’s face to bring him back to reality.
“Sherlock?” He tilts his head, and really studies the pale man’s face.
Glassy eyes, clenched jaw, sweating forehead. Pupils dilated and breathing…uneven.
“Sherlock?” Panic spikes in John’s chest, and he instantly walks over to the man, standing before him. He knows what to do, yet he’s so unsure at the same time.
He, very cautiously, slips forward next to Sherlock on the couch, and brings his hand forward to touch Sherlock’s shoulder. He hesitates for a split second, then gently lays a hand on his shoulder, and Sherlock instantly whips his head towards John. Rosie cries at the movement, and John feels like he losing every semblance of control.
Calm down. Solider your way through this. Calm. Down.
“Hey, what’s going on…you…you’re scaring me a little…” John looks concernedly at Sherlock who’s frantically searching John’s face, as if he’s trying to figure out exactly what he’s looking at.
“I don’t want to..don’t..I don’t want to d…” He looks at John with a glassy look.
Oh god.
John knows exactly what’s happening.
I don’t want to die.
Is he in the middle of a flashback with the hospital and the morgue? What–what if John makes it worse? What if Sherlock’s flashback merges back to the morgue and with…John hurting him….
“Hey, hey.” John releases his grip, he’s had enough and witnessed enough flashbacks to know the consequences that spiral from touching someone in a flashback. “Sherlock, come on. Hey, it’s me. It’s John. Whatever you’re seeing, it’s not real. Culverton is gone. He’s in jail. He’s not–He can’t and won’t hurt you anymore.” John’s voice nearly dies on him, hearing a sudden whimper come from the man.
“This is..I’m sorry…” Sherlock says, almost as if he’s briefly been sucked out of his flashback, but John has a feeling they aren’t out of the woods yet.
“No, no. Don’t be sorry. It’s…” John doesn’t know what to say next. “It is what it is.”
Those words, they're just excuses. Because it can’t be left alone.
“It really isn’t.” Sherlock sniffs, seeming to completely ignore the spiral he just had. He eyes Rosie, and his face crumples, devastation marring his features.
John lets out a sad laugh, and nods.
“Yeah it seems that way. Are you alright?” He leans in a little, watching Sherlock’s grey-blue eyes flicker.
“For now.” He nods.
“Good.” John rubs his hands together, Rosie breathing in shaky little breaths, leaning into his chest.
"I'm sorry little one." Sherlock looks at Rosie, who returns the look with a wide-eyed stare.
Sherlock’s breathing goes in and out of a rapid pace for a little while longer until his chest moves in an almost even rhythm. John decides it’s best not to say anything.
“Well.” Sherlock nods. “Thank you John, now I guess I must be going.” He stands and brushes off his pant legs.
What?
“Sherlock no, uh, you’re sure you–”
Sherlock turns and gives him a performed tight smile. “I’m perfectly fine now, I apologise for the lack of clarity there. My mind plays tricks on itself.”
John can see the cracks being repaved, but it doesn’t mean they're still there.
“Sherlock..” He stands, Rosie in his arms, and Sherlock freezes, but plays it off, letting his shoulders relax.
“Please…just sit with me.” He pats down the couch next to him. “For a moment longer?”
Sherlock flickers to him, the couch, the wall, then back to him. He sighs and his eyes shine with vulnerability. Silence passes. John will wait.
Slowly, the detective sits back down, back tense against the couch.
“But just for a moment.” He says quietly.
John smirks, but it doesn’t feel real.
At least he’s sitting down.
He’ll at least take this moment.