Fic: Your Visible Ghost 2/3 (Sherlock BBC)
Oct. 2nd, 2012 04:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
anactoriaTitle: Your Visible Ghost
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
anactoria
Characters/pairing: Sherlock/John, Sherlock/Others
Rating: R
Warnings/contains: Non-con, rape aftermath, angst.
Part 1
Morning. Daylight and traffic noise levels indicate approximately 8 AM. He has slept through the night—through necessity rather than desire; the body imposing its dictates once again—and now his limbs feel leaden and sluggish, the inside of his mind hollow and light, both of them unbearably slow.
No John.
Blink; concentrate; remember. The last thing he recalls: being shaken out of dreams where he was helpless and hurt again, and where he didn’t cry out because he knew no one was coming. Because they were already there and they were staring and they knew and he felt ashamed, and that was unexpected, wasn’t it? He didn’t have much experience with shame, didn’t know what to do with it, and it should have been interesting because it was new but he’d just wanted to run away and then—
And then there had been John.
John’s hand on his shoulder, solid and warm; John snatching it back as though caught doing something he shouldn’t. As though he thought Sherlock too fragile to be touched.
(—and he might be right, that’s the worst part, he might be right and Sherlock doesn’t know and not knowing is unacceptable and he’ll have to do something about that just so he can stop thinking about it and—)
He remembers taking John’s hand and replacing it, watching John’s expression carefully all the while. (Confused frown, but no protest.) Wondering how long it would take for John to move. (Long enough for him to sink back into sleep, obviously.) It was certainly a test—that much he knows—but now he has no idea what to do with the result. That’s new, too, and he’s already certain he doesn’t like it.
Did John pass? Did he?
Inconclusive. Not enough data. Unacceptable.
John’s frequent, irritating (necessary) reminders about food and medicine and sleep: overly solicitous? The behaviour of a doctor toward a patient, a carer toward an invalid? Or just the same patient concern he’s come to expect from his flatmate (partner, friend, words frankly inadequate)? Just John?
The soft, sad expression with which John regards him—in brief, surreptitious sideways glances, for long moments when he thinks that Sherlock isn’t looking: pity? Something else? Something more?
The relationship between pity and disgust: not something with which Sherlock has much first-hand experience. Neither emotion would serve him well in his line of work, so he has learned well to suppress them both.
But they’re intimately entangled. Anyone with half a functioning brain knows that. Biological in origin. Disgust: a survival mechanism, keeping us away from things likely to be harmful—venomous creatures, poisonous substances, the sick. And pity: a dirty evolutionary trick, really, ensuring care and therefore survival for the most vulnerable of the species. They don’t just intersect; they’re practically conjoined. We fear contamination even as we open our arms. It’s why people buy copies of the Big Issue without ever looking the vendor in the eye; why turning on the waterworks is such an effective tool for gathering evidence. A few sniffles, and the suspect’s concentration on whatever lie he or she may have been telling wavers. Getting rid of him becomes priority number one.
Pity and disgust: rare to find one without the other.
John is rare. How rare is he?
Sherlock knows what John felt for him, before all this. Not the precise intensity of the feelings, or when they started (though he has a few theories), but their nature and exactly where they were headed—that’s obvious.
(He wouldn’t have minded. Might even have welcomed it, might have found the inclination to face this thing head-on and try—)
He doesn’t know how they will have changed, how far the sight of his humiliation will have warped them. (And it will have done. It could hardly be otherwise.) He thinks that knowing the precise degree to which he is ruined in John’s eyes might actually be worse than ignorance.
But the prospect of an emotional disturbance has never been enough to stop Sherlock Holmes finding out what he needs to know. His curiosity is still stronger than his fear. That much of himself he still has.
(—and if there is anything else in the back of his mind, any ridiculous notion about gentle hands and comfort and warmth, any stupid, stupid hope, it’s nothing, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter—)
* * *
John pads up the stairs to his bedroom towelling his hair dry, then groans when he registers the overflowing laundry basket. He’s been meaning to do it, and it’s not as if he’s done much lately except sit around the flat giving Sherlock worried looks, but he just keeps forgetting. He'll do it today, though; hasn't got much choice, he's down to his last pair of socks, and his only clean jumper is lying around somewhere in the living room. Still, he reckons he can be excused for being a bit distracted.
After last night, though, he feels as though the cloud of worry that’s been hanging over him has lifted a tiny bit. It wasn’t exactly much—a touch, a few words, though that’s as much as they’ve managed in days—but somehow, it seemed like progress.
Eventually, he locates a serviceable pair of jeans, turns around, and then starts in fright, because how long has his bedroom door been open, and how long has Sherlock been standing in the doorway?
“Jesus,” he says, but he can’t help smiling, because Sherlock is up and about and apparently wants to speak to him, and that has to be good, right? “Sherlock, can you not do that? You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days. You know what, it’s actually pretty unfair of someone with your love of dramatic exits and stomping around to be good at stealth-sneaking too…”
At length, John registers that he’s rambling and shuts up, because Sherlock is still just standing there and looking at him.
“Um… Sherlock?” he asks, after a second. “Are you—was there something you wanted? That can’t wait until I’ve got dressed?”
“Hmm.” Sherlock takes a step forward, and he’s looking at John so intently that John feels like a specimen trapped under glass, dissected by the steely focus of those eyes. “Yes,” Sherlock is saying. “Yes. In fact, your being dressed would be a distinct disadvantage for what I have in mind.”
John just stares at him. And Sherlock advances on him, deft fingers moving to the top button of his shirt and working it open, and then the next, and—Christ, John has watched Sherlock’s hands and thought about this dozens of times, but never like this, this is too soon and too strange and definitely not right and—
And Sherlock is practically on top of him. John actually takes a step back, holding up both of his hands. “Whoa there,” he manages, “hang on a minute. Sherlock. What the fuck is going on?”
“Don’t be obtuse, John.”
“It’s a bit hard not to be when you’re confusing the shit out of me.”
“You have romantic feelings for me.” Well, he can’t exactly argue with that one. “I’ve come to suspect that the reverse may also be true. There’s no logical reason we shouldn’t act on them.”
Sherlock’s gaze and his voice are perfectly level, so much so that anyone other than John could be forgiven for thinking nothing’s wrong at all. His shirt is hanging open now. John can see the bruises fading on his skin. Christ, does Sherlock have any idea what he looks like right now? How much John just wants to pull him into an embrace, hold him close and stroke his hair and promise him that everything’s going to be okay—as if it could possibly be true?
John doesn’t do any of that. Can’t. He’s too afraid—of hurting Sherlock, of giving the wrong impression and encouraging him—so he just drops his arms back to his sides and stands there, paralysed.
Sherlock takes another step. His stride is longer and he’s standing very close to John now, close enough to kiss him, and he leans down and—
“No.”
“John?” Sherlock’s voice cracks on his name, and for the briefest moment he looks stricken. John wants to reach out to him and say that he’s sorry, he’ll do anything Sherlock wants—and then the walls go up, and Sherlock’s expression changes.
He steps back, away from John.
“It’s fine,” he says. “I understand.”
“Really?”
“Of course. That was inappropriate. I understand.”
Oh God, oh fuck, this is bad. Sherlock doesn’t give a shit about inappropriate, he never has, and he’s never felt the need to pretend for John before. “Sherlock.” John holds out a hand. “Look, why don’t you just sit down? Let’s talk about this, okay, let’s just—”
“There’s no need.” He smiles, and it’s like a light going out. Then, again: “It’s fine.” He turns on the spot, and leaves the room.
John gets dressed in a hurry after that. He leaves his hair to dry as it will, deciding he doesn’t care about the cold, and pulls on his jacket.
When he sticks his head into the living room, Sherlock gives him a brief nod of acknowledgement, but says nothing. He still has that awful, bland, shut-off expression on his face.
“Right then,” John says. “I’m off out. See you in a bit.”
He doesn’t quite know where he’s planning to go, or who he’s going to talk to. When one of Mycroft’s cars rolls up outside the door, he’s honestly quite glad to have the decision taken out of his hands.
* * *
He almost finds himself hoping that Mycroft will be annoying. That he’ll raise his eyebrows and tap his umbrella and come over all coolly supercilious, like actually giving a shit is something he can delegate, and John can pretend not to see through the act and relieve a bit of frustration by telling him to fuck off. It does occur to him that under normal circumstances that might not be the wisest thing to do, but God knows he needs to rage against something, and telling the British Government to fuck off seems marginally less unwise than putting his fist through a window. Marginally.
Most of him is angry at the world for letting this happen to Sherlock and at the sick bastards who did it. Part of him is angry at Sherlock for being so damn difficult to help.
The rest of him hates the second part a little.
But for once, Mycroft doesn’t drag him out to some deserted building in the middle of nowhere, or keep him waiting until lunchtime. Instead, he just nods politely when John walks into the office, says, “Have a seat, Doctor Watson,” and leans forward across his desk, doing that steepled-fingers thing that John has come to associate so automatically with Sherlock that it’s slightly disconcerting on anybody else.
“Yes?” John says, after a moment. “What do you want, Mycroft?”
“I thought I should keep you informed.” There’s a slim white folder on the desk. He slides it toward John. “The… perpetrators. James Thomas. Lee—”
“Don’t.”
“Mmm?”
John shoves the folder away. “Don’t tell me their names. Don’t show me who they are. Unless you think you can get me off six charges of murder.”
Mycroft takes back the folder without comment. “The evidence linking them to the series of murders my brother was investigating before his unfortunate… accident—”
“Accident?” John’s on his feet before he knows what he’s doing, because Mycroft sounds so conversational and delicate, like he’s spinning a government scandal for the papers, not talking about his brother who’s locked away in some personal hell inside his skull where no one can reach him. “Jesus fucking—fuck, Mycroft. He didn’t fall over and twist his ankle, he got raped, and now he’s—”
“Yes, Doctor Watson, I am aware of that.” Mycroft’s lips have thinned, and he pins John with his version of the patented Holmes family you’re a moron stare—except that where Sherlock in one of his moods is steely, Mycroft is like reinforced titanium. Then he sighs. “Sit down.”
John does.
“As I was saying,” Mycroft continues, after a moment, “the evidence linking these men to the murders is incontrovertible. Trial will be merely a formality. They won’t be seeing the outside of a prison any time soon.” A brief, unpleasant smile. “Or any time, in fact. Each of them is, of course, also guilty of a number of other, shall we say… unsavoury crimes. If that fact should become common knowledge, well, I doubt that anyone will be sympathetic enough to put much effort into discovering the source of the rumours.”
He pauses. John wonders if this is supposed to be making him feel better. A number of other unsavoury crimes. He wonders how many other people they’ve hurt.
Then he decides that, actually, if they have to suffer even a tenth of what they’ve made Sherlock suffer—well, yes, that will make him feel better. He doesn’t even wonder what that says about him.
“I’ll trust you to pass on the news at an appropriate moment,” Mycroft says, after a minute.
“Yeah.” John nods. “Course.” Then he frowns. “But you could’ve just phoned to tell me that. Mrs Hudson’s got a landline. What did you need to drag me into your office for?”
Oh. There’s the you’re a moron look again. “John.” Mycroft squeezes his eyes closed momentarily, and John thinks that’s the closest thing to an actual emotion he’s ever seen from him. “How is he?”
“Honestly?” John feels his shoulders sag. “I don’t know.”
“You likely know better than anyone else.” Mycroft tilts his head to one side. “’And now he’s—’ something. That’s what you said earlier. And now he’s what, John?”
John sighs. “He’s hardly spoken to me since he got out of the hospital. Or to anyone else. He just sits there. And it’s not like that thing he normally does, where his body’s in the room but his brain’s on, I don’t know, Jupiter or something, it’s like he’s trapped in there. And I don’t know how to get him out. Like I said, he doesn’t even speak to me most of the time. And then this morning he tried—” He breaks off, uncertain. Sherlock would kill him for telling Mycroft about that, he knows, but he’s frankly desperate and there’s no one else on the planet who might know what’s going on inside Sherlock’s head. And really, he’s probably fucked things up royally already. It can’t make things much worse.
“Tried what?” Mycroft prods.
“To shag me, Jesus bastard Christ.” He exhales hard. “I really, I just, I don’t know. Your guess is as good as mine. Sorry.”
“Ah,” is all that Mycroft says, with this little frown, as if John’s just told him that the bakery’s all out of cream buns and he’ll have to have a scone instead. Then: “I see.”
“You see?” John can feel the anger starting to bubble up in him again. If he’s told Mycroft about this and he’s not even getting any advice for his trouble he will be really fucking livid. “Well, what do you see, Mycroft? Because I don’t see, and this really isn’t helping.” He hears himself waver a little at the end there, voice threatening to undermine him, sliding past ‘sharp’ and into ‘pleading’.
Oh, God. Fuck it.
“Please?” he says.
Mycroft considers him for a moment. “My brother has little, if any, experience in matters of the heart, Doctor Watson. That doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have one.”
More talking-round-in-circles. Wonderful. “Really. Thanks. I hadn’t worked that one out.”
“On the contrary. I suspect you’re probably more aware of the fact than he is. Or, at least, more willing to be aware of it.”
“Look, I know it’s probably genetic or something, but could we just try not to be cryptic about this? Please?”
Mycroft goes as on as though John hasn’t said anything. “You’re aware, of course, that Sherlock considers himself… above the common mass of humanity. He’s rarely bothered to be circumspect with his views on that score.”
“If by that you mean he’s got no don’t-say-things-that-will-get-you-punched filter, then yeah,” John says. Then he remembers Sherlock’s face on those awful videos, him snarling something at one of the men that John hadn’t been able make out and getting a heavy-handed clout to the cheek in return, and his sneer faltering and finally fading, and feels sick.
“Quite,” says Mycroft. He doesn't smile, for which John is grateful. “He does like to believe that he’s a purely cerebral creature. He likely feels that any crime against his person ought not to affect him, since it is, after all, merely a vehicle for his mind; that he ought to be above such… ordinary concerns.”
“Right.” John scrubs at his eyes. “So what you’re saying is, he feels like he shouldn’t be feeling awful—which probably isn’t making him feel any less awful—and his way of proving that he’s fine is trying to get my pants off.”
“You’ve lived with my brother for some time, now. You know as well as I do that when unsettled, he’s not always quite as rational as he would have us believe. The idea of being seen as a victim is unlikely to sit well with him.”
“Okay. Well.” That makes as much sense as anything Sherlock ever does, he supposes. Not that he knows what to do about it. “So what do you suggest?”
“I can’t decide your course of action for you, Doctor Watson.”
John decides against questioning that statement.
“You were right, I think, in not taking his behaviour this morning at face value. However.” Here, Mycroft eyes him sternly. “Don’t make the mistake of waiting for him to come to you. Sherlock has long adopted a stance of wilful ignorance towards his own emotions. I doubt that he’s in any position to change for the better now.” John thinks he actually sees the stern expression waver for a nanosecond, but that could just be a trick of the light. “Don’t let him think that he’s alone.”
John is pretty sure that it's a bit late for that. Knowing it fills him half with rage and half with cold, helpless, awful despair, but he says nothing. What good could it do?
Mycroft has stopped talking, and is just looking at him. Belatedly, John realises he’s being dismissed. He gets to his feet.
“Doctor Watson,” Mycroft says, just before he reaches the door. John turns to face him. “There is one piece of advice I will give you.”
That tone of voice, John recognises. Finally, something he can make sense of in all of this—not that it’s exactly much comfort right now.
“Don’t worry, you don’t have to give me the ‘hurt him and I’ll kill you’ talk,” he says. “I’m a big brother too, remember?” He resists the urge to rub his temples; he’s starting to get a headache. “I just wish I could promise not to and know it wasn't a lie.”
Suddenly and briefly, Mycroft looks very weary. “Honestly,” he says, “I’m more worried about his hurting himself.”
He closes his eyes.
“Go home, John.”
* * *
John manages to persuade Anthea-or-whatever-her-name-is-today to drop him off a ten-minute walk from Baker Street. His head is whirling and in the car he still feels like he’s being scrutinised. He just needs a few minutes to be alone and think without anybody analysing him.
Everything Mycroft said sounded so simple and obvious, and made John want to kick himself for not having worked it out. But then Mycroft has years of experience on him—and only has to deal with Sherlock remotely. It seems unfair that he gets to come out with all the clever conclusions and sound like he knows what he’s talking about, while John is the one who has to try and help. And John thinks he’d be entirely justified in resenting that. Only he can’t, because all he wants in the world is to see Sherlock be Sherlock again, and he actually thinks he’d lie down in front of a moving train if somebody told him it would help.
If only it were that simple.
He stops off in a newsagent’s on the way back to the flat, buys a two-pinter of milk and a paper. Not that Sherlock won’t be able to tell him where he’s been in two seconds flat, of course. If Sherlock is even speaking to him at the moment. He can’t have been gone more than a couple of hours, even allowing for London traffic. Must be about lunchtime, although John's not hungry.
He wonders whether Sherlock will still have his expressionless mask in place, whether he will have retreated back behind his wall of silence.
Although it’s a pretty gloomy day, John can’t see any lights on in the flat. He unlocks the door with his pulse beginning to quicken. There’s no sign of life in Mrs Hudson’s flat either—she must be out—and shit, this is the first time Sherlock’s been properly on his own since he got out of hospital, isn’t it? And after this morning John wouldn’t be even remotely surprised if he went and did something really stupid, and if anyone can go out and find drugs or life-threatening situations or something else dangerous and thoroughly illegal to do at one in the afternoon—
By the time John reaches the top of the staircase, he’s taking them two at a time.
None of the lights in the flat are on. Neither is the telly. It’s quiet.
Oh, God.
He hears a muffled sob from the direction of the sofa.
John is across the room and beside it before he's even noticed his feet are moving.
Sherlock is curled up on the sofa like he does when he’s having a strop, back turned on the rest of the room. He’s gone quiet at the sound of John’s footsteps, but his shoulders are still shaking, and his face is buried in something beige and woolly. John realises that it’s his jumper, the one he left on the back of his armchair last night. He’d actually thought he couldn’t feel any worse, but he does.
Christ. What’s he supposed to do? Slightly hysterically, his brain calls up what Mycroft said about Sherlock not wanting to be seen as a victim, and Normal, he thinks, just be normal.
“If you’re going to get snot on my clothes, I will have to start making you do the laundry once in a while.” He keeps his voice as light and gentle as he can.
Sherlock doesn’t say anything, and John sighs inwardly.
“Mycroft wanted to talk to me,” he tries, instead, after a moment.
“I know.” Sherlock’s voice is muffled, quiet. “One of his drivers collected you. Engine noise. It’s very distinctive.” He sniffs. “No doubt so you could both fuss over me like a troublesome child at a parent-teacher evening. If both of you would just mind your own business—”
“Sherlock.” John’s voice comes out a touch harsher than intended, but it has the effect of stopping Sherlock in his verbal tracks. He pauses; steadies himself. “If what happens to my best friend is none of my business,” he goes on, more softly, “I really don’t know what is. People are allowed to care about you, aren’t they?”
He’s left himself wide open for a sarky retort right there, he knows, but he doesn’t get one. He isn’t sure whether to take that as a good sign or a bad one.
“Besides,” he adds, rather lamely, when Sherlock still hasn’t replied a moment later, “you’re a troublesome adult, not a troublesome child, and believe me, that’s much worse.”
Sherlock rolls over to look at him, then, and instead of the expected glare, his expression is just so lost and so empty, and John feels a hollow open up right at his heart.
“Don’t, John,” says Sherlock.
“Don’t?”
“Don’t act as though this morning never happened. Don’t pretend we can just—carry on.” He sounds exhausted. Hopeless. And even though John knows that going along with—with whatever was in Sherlock’s head this morning—would’ve been a disaster, he can’t help feeling like it’s his fault.
“I’m sorry,” he sighs, Sherlock gives a tiny shake of his head, and John sinks to his knees beside the sofa. He wants to stay close to Sherlock and reassure him, and he thinks that he ought to stay far away for fear of causing any more damage. He doesn’t know what to do so he just looks at Sherlock helplessly.
“Why should you be?” Sherlock says. “I should have known better.”
John frowns. “Better than what?”
“Than to expect—” He breaks off, swallows. “You saw everything, John. It’s only natural that your feelings toward me have changed. I should simply have accepted the fact and not allowed myself to think otherwise. Not—not been stupid.” His voice turns venomous. Only John knows the venom isn't really directed at him and, fucking hell, he actually wishes it was.
Sherlock closes his eyes. When he turns his face away John has to struggle not to reach out and stop him.
“Sherlock,” he says. “Really. You honestly think—what, that because I saw what they did to you I don’t respect you anymore? You think I’m that disloyal?”
A sigh. “You’re human, John.”
John steels himself. “And so are you, and guess what, I already knew that.”
At that, Sherlock actually turns back to face him, eyes open.
“Please, just listen to me. You know how you’re always on at me to pay attention, well, just for a minute, just give me a chance.” John takes a deep breath, and when Sherlock doesn’t show any sign of being about to interrupt him, he goes on: “Okay, so you bleed when someone cuts you. Not as much or the same way as the rest of us, maybe, but you do. You’re not a computer, even if sometimes it seems like you wish you were. And that doesn’t change anything, that’s why I—why you mean so much to me. Seeing you get hurt breaks my fucking heart, Sherlock, but it doesn’t mean that I see you any differently.” He bites his lip. “Honestly, I think that’s just you projecting.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “Don’t try to tell me what I think,” he spits—because of course anger’s more comfortable than admitting that he might be wrong or afraid—but there's hardly any force behind it. He still sounds so tired. John holds up his hands placatingly, anyway.
“Okay, okay,” he says. “But—just let me tell you what I think?”
After a moment, Sherlock nods.
“Like you said,” John goes on, “I saw everything. I know they hurt you. I know they used me to hurt you. And I just—I didn’t want to make things any worse.” He swallows. “Rape in the military happens, Sherlock. I know people don’t always react how you’d expect, or even how they expect. They think they’re fine and then something sets them off, and that makes it even harder for them to get better. There’s nothing wrong with taking a bit of time to recover, Jesus Christ. And—and just because I don’t want to hurt you doesn’t mean I think you’re, I don’t know, broken. It doesn’t mean I think you’re not you any more.” He pauses for breath; tries to gauge Sherlock’s reaction. He can’t, so he ploughs on. “I still think you’re amazing. I still think you’re an insufferable twat.” I still love you, he thinks, but doesn’t say, because that would be too much for both of them right now. “And I know you probably still won’t listen to anything I say, but maybe you should, I don’t know, consider the possibility that someone caring about you isn’t a bad thing?”
He’s aware that his voice is rising to a desperate pitch, so he shuts up.
Sherlock doesn’t look angry any more. He doesn’t—well, he actually looks utterly bewildered, and John thinks dimly that if this were any other situation he’d want to grab his phone and take a picture just for proof. But right now all he wants is to get through to Sherlock, and he still doesn’t know whether he has.
His hand trembles as he reaches out. He hardly dares to breathe, and he really doesn’t know if this is a good idea. Sherlock’s cheeks are still hot and damp from crying. John trails his thumb down one, brushing away tears that have already stopped.
Sherlock doesn’t flinch. “What do you expect me to say, John?” he says, after a moment.
John shrugs. “I don’t know. You don’t have to say anything. Just—just let people be kind to you? Try, please?”
He doesn’t get an answer to his question, exactly. But when Sherlock closes his eyes and turns minutely into his touch, John can’t help feeling a tiny flicker of hope.
They stay like that until John’s knees start to protest and he gets pins and needles in his left foot. Sherlock, without opening his eyes, says: “You’re uncomfortable. You should move.”
“It’s alright,” John says, and then wonders if Sherlock is trying to hint that he wants to be left alone again. Not that hinting is Sherlock’s style, under normal circumstances, but nothing about the way things are right now is normal.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock opens his eyes long enough to give John the you’re a moron look and wriggles upright on the couch. It takes John a moment to realise he’s being invited rather than dismissed.
Funny; he’s never felt so nervous about sitting on his own sofa before.
He gets gingerly to his feet, grimaces at the cramp in his muscles, and sits down.
Don’t make the mistake of waiting for him to come to you, Mycroft said—but it’s been years since he and Sherlock shared a house. Perhaps he’s forgotten just how much like taming a wild animal living with his brother can actually be. Wild and—lest John forget—currently still wounded. So he just sits there; tries to smooth the lines of tension out of his body by sheer force of will. And after a moment, he realises Sherlock has opened his eyes and is studying him. John looks round to face him fully.
Sherlock’s drawn his knees up in front of him. He’s drumming on them with his fingers as though he’s not quite sure what to do with all his limbs.
“It’s alright,” John, says, again. “If you want—well, you know.” He actually isn’t quite sure he knows himself whether he means If you want me to fuck off (which isn’t alright, not really) or If you want me to never leave again (which probably shouldn’t be, but is.)
Sherlock doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking at him.
“Or—or if you don’t,” he adds, weakly. “That’s fine too.”
After a moment, Sherlock gives a nod. He still doesn’t reply, though, and at length John has to look away. He can feel the silence turning awkward, and he grabs the remote and switches on the telly just to break it.
But after a few minutes of trying to concentrate on “My Parents Never Told Me I Was Adopted – And Now I’m Engaged To My Sister!” he feels a warm weight settle against his side. His heart skips, but outwardly all he does is turn his head to give Sherlock what he hopes is a reassuring smile, and gently slide an arm around his shoulders.
Sherlock doesn’t shrug it off. And then he sort of sinks against John a little further, and eventually ends up with his head in John’s lap, pillowed on John’s crumpled, slightly-damp and definitely-in-need-of-washing beige jumper. Like a cat that wants to be stroked, and John can’t resist the urge to reach down and run his fingers through those dark curls. His hands are unsteady (great, he can hit a target dead-on from the next building, but he can’t manage this) until Sherlock gives this soft little hum of something that John optimistically takes for contentment, and actually doesn’t seem to mind.
And they stay there, hardly moving, except that when John catches a tangle with his fingers, Sherlock takes his hand and traps it between both of his own and doesn’t let it go. And a couple of times he even looks up to make disparaging remarks at the telly. And when John remembers, halfway through the afternoon, that he hasn’t eaten and gets up to make toast, sighing, “Don’t suppose I can tempt you,” in the tone of one who already knows the answer will be no, Sherlock waits a moment and then says, “I’ll have jam on mine,” and goes back to staring at the TV with more intentness than Jeremy Kyle can possibly merit.
When John hands him a plate, he makes a face and says, “Ugh, raspberry,” and John informs him that the Tesco Metro round the corner has a fine and varied selection of jams on its shelves, and Sherlock is welcome to choose any one he’d like should he actually, you know, go there.
Sherlock rolls his eyes, but he eats most of a slice with minimal complaining, and even deigns to pick at a couple of spring rolls when John decides to order in for tea.
They gravitate towards one another as though it’s inevitable, unconscious—only John is aware of every touch, every breath, every look. Of how Sherlock is warm and human beneath his fingers, not cold and glacial, and of every momentary hesitation, every tremble, every unreadable flicker that crosses his face. Of the fact that, although he seems to want this, it’s not easy for him. Everything they have here, now, in this room, is still fragile.
But when they end up curled together on the sofa again after dark, and Sherlock is enumerating, with just the barest trace of his usual irritation, the various reasons why wanting to watch Top Gear makes John an idiot of the first water (though apparently not too much of an idiot to use as a pillow)—well, he thinks their world might slowly be becoming a place they can live in again.
* * *
It’s early—only half ten or so—when John finds himself yawning. But then today has left him with rather more on his plate than he expected when he got up this morning. Not that that’s not a good thing, for whatever value of ‘good’ they’re working with at the moment, but it’s no surprise that his brain seems to have decided it’s had enough and wants to go to bed.
He yawns again, and Sherlock shifts onto his back to look at John.
“Don’t stay up on my account,” Sherlock says. “Get some sleep, if you’re tired.”
His face is expressionless, but it’s not exactly like him to be concerned about putting John out. The fact he’s even thinking about it probably means he wants John to stay more than he’s willing to let on.
John thinks he might be starting to work this thing out.
“What about you?” he says. “You should try to catch a few hours. When was the last time you even went to bed?”
“I’m fine here.”
“Will you sleep?”
“Will you stop fussing if I say ‘yes’? Honestly, John, I don’t see what you’re so bothered about. I’ve gone without for longer, before now.”
“Yes, I remember. I also remember Lestrade having to help me get you into the taxi. Hauling you around the place is not easy, believe me. Too much limb.”
Sherlock arches an eyebrow. “You should have seen me before we met. I’m sure Lestrade could provide you with a few anecdotes.”
John decides to ignore that. He’s going to have to offer, since Sherlock clearly isn’t up to asking for anything just yet. Not that John can blame him, really—even though things feel about a hundred times less awkward than they did this morning, it’s only been a matter of hours. The equilibrium they seem to have reached is still precarious. John’s afraid, really, to push it even this far.
Still. Needs must. “Would it help if I was there?” he asks. Then he remembers the state Sherlock’s bedroom was in last time he saw it. “Or—if you came in with me?”
Sherlock looks at him, consideringly.
“Just to sleep,” he adds, immediately. “Some people find it does. Helps them. To relax.”
The considering look turns opaque, and then it’s replaced by a hint of a frown. “I wouldn’t know. I doubt I’m the most relaxing person to share a bed with.”
John shrugs. “You fidget less when you read. Bring a book or something. If you want.”
“Mmm.” Sherlock doesn’t show any sign of moving, though. After a moment, John carefully disentangles himself and disappears into the kitchen to get a glass of water.
When he comes back through the living room to head up the stairs, Sherlock is still frowning, eyes fixed on the empty air above his face.
John isn’t exactly sure how to proceed. He’s extended the invitation, and feels like it’s still hanging in the air, even though Sherlock still hasn’t shown any sign of moving off the sofa by the time John gets to his room. In the end, he just turns on his bedside lamp, switches the overhead light off and changes into the pair of pyjamas stuffed at the back of his bottom drawer. He prefers to sleep in his boxers, but that seems like too much intimacy right now. He gets under the covers, and waits.
And that sense of waiting, of course, means he can’t get to sleep. He can’t stop yawning, either, but however tightly he closes his eyes, and however hard he tries not to listen out for movement in the flat—for any indication of what Sherlock is doing, downstairs—he just ends up lying rigidly on his back. His heartbeat feels just a touch faster than it should, the warm dimness in his room vibrating with something that’s part expectancy, part worry.
He doesn’t think the suggestion was too much. He won’t let himself start thinking that he’s fucked everything up again. Not yet.
Then John hears footsteps on the stairs, and when he opens his eyes, there is a shadow in his doorway.
Sherlock is carrying a book—a heavy-looking one—and he’s using both hands to hold it in front of him, like a shield. And he’s sort of… hovering. Uncertain; unreadable, too. Until John shifts across to the far side of the bed, and smiles the most ordinary, least nervous smile he can manage, and says, “Alright?”
A beat, and then Sherlock says, “Of course.”
He doesn’t bother to get undressed, just stretches out atop the covers on his stomach and props himself up on his elbows to read.
“You’re sure the light won’t keep you awake?” he asks, and John rolls his eyes.
“Army, Sherlock, remember? I’ve slept in much worse than this, believe me.” John rolls onto his side, and looks up into Sherlock’s face, which is close enough to his that he’s suddenly aware he’d have difficulty explaining this away to anyone who happened to walk in on them. Yes, okay, they’ve been sitting pressed close together all day, but something about the situation and the dim lighting makes it suddenly more noticeable.
Apparently the noticing shows on his face, because Sherlock is looking at him intently. “John,” he begins, uncharacteristically soft, “if you’d prefer…”
“No, I wouldn’t prefer.” John reaches up to brush Sherlock’s cheek with his thumb again, then lets his hand drop back to his side “I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t mean it. It’s fine.” He risks a tiny smile. “Now stop pretending you’ve grown a considerate streak and read your—whatever it is you’ve got there, will you?”
Sherlock raises an eyebrow, but then turns back to his book.
The page he’s studying looks to be covered in—chemical formulae? One of his old uni textbooks, maybe? Not most people’s idea of light reading, but then Sherlock was never likely to bring Dan Brown or JK Rowling to bed with him, was he? Really, this is one of the lesser oddities John’s encountered from him.
Catching him looking, Sherlock gives John a yes, and? look. John just shakes his head. Then he closes his eyes, and turns over.
“Night, Sherlock,” he says.
* * *
John wakes up, once, sometime in the small hours. Sherlock’s asleep, head pillowed right on top of the open textbook.
In the lamplight, John can make out some of the scrawl in the margins. Sherlock’s handwriting, if a little loopier and more flamboyant than it is now. Headmaster, says one of the notes. TOOTHPASTE! says another. No doubt they mean something too important and complex for John’s ordinary mind to grasp—or at least, they did, to Sherlock’s undergraduate self.
Sherlock’s hand is resting on the pillow, inches from John’s face. Soft and open in sleep, all those elegant lines relaxed.
John resists the urge to press it to his lips. Maybe one day, though, they’ll both be strong enough for him to give in.
Part 3
Author:
anactoria Characters/pairing: Sherlock/John, Sherlock/Others
Rating: R
Warnings/contains: Non-con, rape aftermath, angst.
Part 1
Morning. Daylight and traffic noise levels indicate approximately 8 AM. He has slept through the night—through necessity rather than desire; the body imposing its dictates once again—and now his limbs feel leaden and sluggish, the inside of his mind hollow and light, both of them unbearably slow.
No John.
Blink; concentrate; remember. The last thing he recalls: being shaken out of dreams where he was helpless and hurt again, and where he didn’t cry out because he knew no one was coming. Because they were already there and they were staring and they knew and he felt ashamed, and that was unexpected, wasn’t it? He didn’t have much experience with shame, didn’t know what to do with it, and it should have been interesting because it was new but he’d just wanted to run away and then—
And then there had been John.
John’s hand on his shoulder, solid and warm; John snatching it back as though caught doing something he shouldn’t. As though he thought Sherlock too fragile to be touched.
(—and he might be right, that’s the worst part, he might be right and Sherlock doesn’t know and not knowing is unacceptable and he’ll have to do something about that just so he can stop thinking about it and—)
He remembers taking John’s hand and replacing it, watching John’s expression carefully all the while. (Confused frown, but no protest.) Wondering how long it would take for John to move. (Long enough for him to sink back into sleep, obviously.) It was certainly a test—that much he knows—but now he has no idea what to do with the result. That’s new, too, and he’s already certain he doesn’t like it.
Did John pass? Did he?
Inconclusive. Not enough data. Unacceptable.
John’s frequent, irritating (necessary) reminders about food and medicine and sleep: overly solicitous? The behaviour of a doctor toward a patient, a carer toward an invalid? Or just the same patient concern he’s come to expect from his flatmate (partner, friend, words frankly inadequate)? Just John?
The soft, sad expression with which John regards him—in brief, surreptitious sideways glances, for long moments when he thinks that Sherlock isn’t looking: pity? Something else? Something more?
The relationship between pity and disgust: not something with which Sherlock has much first-hand experience. Neither emotion would serve him well in his line of work, so he has learned well to suppress them both.
But they’re intimately entangled. Anyone with half a functioning brain knows that. Biological in origin. Disgust: a survival mechanism, keeping us away from things likely to be harmful—venomous creatures, poisonous substances, the sick. And pity: a dirty evolutionary trick, really, ensuring care and therefore survival for the most vulnerable of the species. They don’t just intersect; they’re practically conjoined. We fear contamination even as we open our arms. It’s why people buy copies of the Big Issue without ever looking the vendor in the eye; why turning on the waterworks is such an effective tool for gathering evidence. A few sniffles, and the suspect’s concentration on whatever lie he or she may have been telling wavers. Getting rid of him becomes priority number one.
Pity and disgust: rare to find one without the other.
John is rare. How rare is he?
Sherlock knows what John felt for him, before all this. Not the precise intensity of the feelings, or when they started (though he has a few theories), but their nature and exactly where they were headed—that’s obvious.
(He wouldn’t have minded. Might even have welcomed it, might have found the inclination to face this thing head-on and try—)
He doesn’t know how they will have changed, how far the sight of his humiliation will have warped them. (And it will have done. It could hardly be otherwise.) He thinks that knowing the precise degree to which he is ruined in John’s eyes might actually be worse than ignorance.
But the prospect of an emotional disturbance has never been enough to stop Sherlock Holmes finding out what he needs to know. His curiosity is still stronger than his fear. That much of himself he still has.
(—and if there is anything else in the back of his mind, any ridiculous notion about gentle hands and comfort and warmth, any stupid, stupid hope, it’s nothing, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter—)
John pads up the stairs to his bedroom towelling his hair dry, then groans when he registers the overflowing laundry basket. He’s been meaning to do it, and it’s not as if he’s done much lately except sit around the flat giving Sherlock worried looks, but he just keeps forgetting. He'll do it today, though; hasn't got much choice, he's down to his last pair of socks, and his only clean jumper is lying around somewhere in the living room. Still, he reckons he can be excused for being a bit distracted.
After last night, though, he feels as though the cloud of worry that’s been hanging over him has lifted a tiny bit. It wasn’t exactly much—a touch, a few words, though that’s as much as they’ve managed in days—but somehow, it seemed like progress.
Eventually, he locates a serviceable pair of jeans, turns around, and then starts in fright, because how long has his bedroom door been open, and how long has Sherlock been standing in the doorway?
“Jesus,” he says, but he can’t help smiling, because Sherlock is up and about and apparently wants to speak to him, and that has to be good, right? “Sherlock, can you not do that? You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days. You know what, it’s actually pretty unfair of someone with your love of dramatic exits and stomping around to be good at stealth-sneaking too…”
At length, John registers that he’s rambling and shuts up, because Sherlock is still just standing there and looking at him.
“Um… Sherlock?” he asks, after a second. “Are you—was there something you wanted? That can’t wait until I’ve got dressed?”
“Hmm.” Sherlock takes a step forward, and he’s looking at John so intently that John feels like a specimen trapped under glass, dissected by the steely focus of those eyes. “Yes,” Sherlock is saying. “Yes. In fact, your being dressed would be a distinct disadvantage for what I have in mind.”
John just stares at him. And Sherlock advances on him, deft fingers moving to the top button of his shirt and working it open, and then the next, and—Christ, John has watched Sherlock’s hands and thought about this dozens of times, but never like this, this is too soon and too strange and definitely not right and—
And Sherlock is practically on top of him. John actually takes a step back, holding up both of his hands. “Whoa there,” he manages, “hang on a minute. Sherlock. What the fuck is going on?”
“Don’t be obtuse, John.”
“It’s a bit hard not to be when you’re confusing the shit out of me.”
“You have romantic feelings for me.” Well, he can’t exactly argue with that one. “I’ve come to suspect that the reverse may also be true. There’s no logical reason we shouldn’t act on them.”
Sherlock’s gaze and his voice are perfectly level, so much so that anyone other than John could be forgiven for thinking nothing’s wrong at all. His shirt is hanging open now. John can see the bruises fading on his skin. Christ, does Sherlock have any idea what he looks like right now? How much John just wants to pull him into an embrace, hold him close and stroke his hair and promise him that everything’s going to be okay—as if it could possibly be true?
John doesn’t do any of that. Can’t. He’s too afraid—of hurting Sherlock, of giving the wrong impression and encouraging him—so he just drops his arms back to his sides and stands there, paralysed.
Sherlock takes another step. His stride is longer and he’s standing very close to John now, close enough to kiss him, and he leans down and—
“No.”
“John?” Sherlock’s voice cracks on his name, and for the briefest moment he looks stricken. John wants to reach out to him and say that he’s sorry, he’ll do anything Sherlock wants—and then the walls go up, and Sherlock’s expression changes.
He steps back, away from John.
“It’s fine,” he says. “I understand.”
“Really?”
“Of course. That was inappropriate. I understand.”
Oh God, oh fuck, this is bad. Sherlock doesn’t give a shit about inappropriate, he never has, and he’s never felt the need to pretend for John before. “Sherlock.” John holds out a hand. “Look, why don’t you just sit down? Let’s talk about this, okay, let’s just—”
“There’s no need.” He smiles, and it’s like a light going out. Then, again: “It’s fine.” He turns on the spot, and leaves the room.
John gets dressed in a hurry after that. He leaves his hair to dry as it will, deciding he doesn’t care about the cold, and pulls on his jacket.
When he sticks his head into the living room, Sherlock gives him a brief nod of acknowledgement, but says nothing. He still has that awful, bland, shut-off expression on his face.
“Right then,” John says. “I’m off out. See you in a bit.”
He doesn’t quite know where he’s planning to go, or who he’s going to talk to. When one of Mycroft’s cars rolls up outside the door, he’s honestly quite glad to have the decision taken out of his hands.
He almost finds himself hoping that Mycroft will be annoying. That he’ll raise his eyebrows and tap his umbrella and come over all coolly supercilious, like actually giving a shit is something he can delegate, and John can pretend not to see through the act and relieve a bit of frustration by telling him to fuck off. It does occur to him that under normal circumstances that might not be the wisest thing to do, but God knows he needs to rage against something, and telling the British Government to fuck off seems marginally less unwise than putting his fist through a window. Marginally.
Most of him is angry at the world for letting this happen to Sherlock and at the sick bastards who did it. Part of him is angry at Sherlock for being so damn difficult to help.
The rest of him hates the second part a little.
But for once, Mycroft doesn’t drag him out to some deserted building in the middle of nowhere, or keep him waiting until lunchtime. Instead, he just nods politely when John walks into the office, says, “Have a seat, Doctor Watson,” and leans forward across his desk, doing that steepled-fingers thing that John has come to associate so automatically with Sherlock that it’s slightly disconcerting on anybody else.
“Yes?” John says, after a moment. “What do you want, Mycroft?”
“I thought I should keep you informed.” There’s a slim white folder on the desk. He slides it toward John. “The… perpetrators. James Thomas. Lee—”
“Don’t.”
“Mmm?”
John shoves the folder away. “Don’t tell me their names. Don’t show me who they are. Unless you think you can get me off six charges of murder.”
Mycroft takes back the folder without comment. “The evidence linking them to the series of murders my brother was investigating before his unfortunate… accident—”
“Accident?” John’s on his feet before he knows what he’s doing, because Mycroft sounds so conversational and delicate, like he’s spinning a government scandal for the papers, not talking about his brother who’s locked away in some personal hell inside his skull where no one can reach him. “Jesus fucking—fuck, Mycroft. He didn’t fall over and twist his ankle, he got raped, and now he’s—”
“Yes, Doctor Watson, I am aware of that.” Mycroft’s lips have thinned, and he pins John with his version of the patented Holmes family you’re a moron stare—except that where Sherlock in one of his moods is steely, Mycroft is like reinforced titanium. Then he sighs. “Sit down.”
John does.
“As I was saying,” Mycroft continues, after a moment, “the evidence linking these men to the murders is incontrovertible. Trial will be merely a formality. They won’t be seeing the outside of a prison any time soon.” A brief, unpleasant smile. “Or any time, in fact. Each of them is, of course, also guilty of a number of other, shall we say… unsavoury crimes. If that fact should become common knowledge, well, I doubt that anyone will be sympathetic enough to put much effort into discovering the source of the rumours.”
He pauses. John wonders if this is supposed to be making him feel better. A number of other unsavoury crimes. He wonders how many other people they’ve hurt.
Then he decides that, actually, if they have to suffer even a tenth of what they’ve made Sherlock suffer—well, yes, that will make him feel better. He doesn’t even wonder what that says about him.
“I’ll trust you to pass on the news at an appropriate moment,” Mycroft says, after a minute.
“Yeah.” John nods. “Course.” Then he frowns. “But you could’ve just phoned to tell me that. Mrs Hudson’s got a landline. What did you need to drag me into your office for?”
Oh. There’s the you’re a moron look again. “John.” Mycroft squeezes his eyes closed momentarily, and John thinks that’s the closest thing to an actual emotion he’s ever seen from him. “How is he?”
“Honestly?” John feels his shoulders sag. “I don’t know.”
“You likely know better than anyone else.” Mycroft tilts his head to one side. “’And now he’s—’ something. That’s what you said earlier. And now he’s what, John?”
John sighs. “He’s hardly spoken to me since he got out of the hospital. Or to anyone else. He just sits there. And it’s not like that thing he normally does, where his body’s in the room but his brain’s on, I don’t know, Jupiter or something, it’s like he’s trapped in there. And I don’t know how to get him out. Like I said, he doesn’t even speak to me most of the time. And then this morning he tried—” He breaks off, uncertain. Sherlock would kill him for telling Mycroft about that, he knows, but he’s frankly desperate and there’s no one else on the planet who might know what’s going on inside Sherlock’s head. And really, he’s probably fucked things up royally already. It can’t make things much worse.
“Tried what?” Mycroft prods.
“To shag me, Jesus bastard Christ.” He exhales hard. “I really, I just, I don’t know. Your guess is as good as mine. Sorry.”
“Ah,” is all that Mycroft says, with this little frown, as if John’s just told him that the bakery’s all out of cream buns and he’ll have to have a scone instead. Then: “I see.”
“You see?” John can feel the anger starting to bubble up in him again. If he’s told Mycroft about this and he’s not even getting any advice for his trouble he will be really fucking livid. “Well, what do you see, Mycroft? Because I don’t see, and this really isn’t helping.” He hears himself waver a little at the end there, voice threatening to undermine him, sliding past ‘sharp’ and into ‘pleading’.
Oh, God. Fuck it.
“Please?” he says.
Mycroft considers him for a moment. “My brother has little, if any, experience in matters of the heart, Doctor Watson. That doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have one.”
More talking-round-in-circles. Wonderful. “Really. Thanks. I hadn’t worked that one out.”
“On the contrary. I suspect you’re probably more aware of the fact than he is. Or, at least, more willing to be aware of it.”
“Look, I know it’s probably genetic or something, but could we just try not to be cryptic about this? Please?”
Mycroft goes as on as though John hasn’t said anything. “You’re aware, of course, that Sherlock considers himself… above the common mass of humanity. He’s rarely bothered to be circumspect with his views on that score.”
“If by that you mean he’s got no don’t-say-things-that-will-get-you-punched filter, then yeah,” John says. Then he remembers Sherlock’s face on those awful videos, him snarling something at one of the men that John hadn’t been able make out and getting a heavy-handed clout to the cheek in return, and his sneer faltering and finally fading, and feels sick.
“Quite,” says Mycroft. He doesn't smile, for which John is grateful. “He does like to believe that he’s a purely cerebral creature. He likely feels that any crime against his person ought not to affect him, since it is, after all, merely a vehicle for his mind; that he ought to be above such… ordinary concerns.”
“Right.” John scrubs at his eyes. “So what you’re saying is, he feels like he shouldn’t be feeling awful—which probably isn’t making him feel any less awful—and his way of proving that he’s fine is trying to get my pants off.”
“You’ve lived with my brother for some time, now. You know as well as I do that when unsettled, he’s not always quite as rational as he would have us believe. The idea of being seen as a victim is unlikely to sit well with him.”
“Okay. Well.” That makes as much sense as anything Sherlock ever does, he supposes. Not that he knows what to do about it. “So what do you suggest?”
“I can’t decide your course of action for you, Doctor Watson.”
John decides against questioning that statement.
“You were right, I think, in not taking his behaviour this morning at face value. However.” Here, Mycroft eyes him sternly. “Don’t make the mistake of waiting for him to come to you. Sherlock has long adopted a stance of wilful ignorance towards his own emotions. I doubt that he’s in any position to change for the better now.” John thinks he actually sees the stern expression waver for a nanosecond, but that could just be a trick of the light. “Don’t let him think that he’s alone.”
John is pretty sure that it's a bit late for that. Knowing it fills him half with rage and half with cold, helpless, awful despair, but he says nothing. What good could it do?
Mycroft has stopped talking, and is just looking at him. Belatedly, John realises he’s being dismissed. He gets to his feet.
“Doctor Watson,” Mycroft says, just before he reaches the door. John turns to face him. “There is one piece of advice I will give you.”
That tone of voice, John recognises. Finally, something he can make sense of in all of this—not that it’s exactly much comfort right now.
“Don’t worry, you don’t have to give me the ‘hurt him and I’ll kill you’ talk,” he says. “I’m a big brother too, remember?” He resists the urge to rub his temples; he’s starting to get a headache. “I just wish I could promise not to and know it wasn't a lie.”
Suddenly and briefly, Mycroft looks very weary. “Honestly,” he says, “I’m more worried about his hurting himself.”
He closes his eyes.
“Go home, John.”
John manages to persuade Anthea-or-whatever-her-name-is-today to drop him off a ten-minute walk from Baker Street. His head is whirling and in the car he still feels like he’s being scrutinised. He just needs a few minutes to be alone and think without anybody analysing him.
Everything Mycroft said sounded so simple and obvious, and made John want to kick himself for not having worked it out. But then Mycroft has years of experience on him—and only has to deal with Sherlock remotely. It seems unfair that he gets to come out with all the clever conclusions and sound like he knows what he’s talking about, while John is the one who has to try and help. And John thinks he’d be entirely justified in resenting that. Only he can’t, because all he wants in the world is to see Sherlock be Sherlock again, and he actually thinks he’d lie down in front of a moving train if somebody told him it would help.
If only it were that simple.
He stops off in a newsagent’s on the way back to the flat, buys a two-pinter of milk and a paper. Not that Sherlock won’t be able to tell him where he’s been in two seconds flat, of course. If Sherlock is even speaking to him at the moment. He can’t have been gone more than a couple of hours, even allowing for London traffic. Must be about lunchtime, although John's not hungry.
He wonders whether Sherlock will still have his expressionless mask in place, whether he will have retreated back behind his wall of silence.
Although it’s a pretty gloomy day, John can’t see any lights on in the flat. He unlocks the door with his pulse beginning to quicken. There’s no sign of life in Mrs Hudson’s flat either—she must be out—and shit, this is the first time Sherlock’s been properly on his own since he got out of hospital, isn’t it? And after this morning John wouldn’t be even remotely surprised if he went and did something really stupid, and if anyone can go out and find drugs or life-threatening situations or something else dangerous and thoroughly illegal to do at one in the afternoon—
By the time John reaches the top of the staircase, he’s taking them two at a time.
None of the lights in the flat are on. Neither is the telly. It’s quiet.
Oh, God.
He hears a muffled sob from the direction of the sofa.
John is across the room and beside it before he's even noticed his feet are moving.
Sherlock is curled up on the sofa like he does when he’s having a strop, back turned on the rest of the room. He’s gone quiet at the sound of John’s footsteps, but his shoulders are still shaking, and his face is buried in something beige and woolly. John realises that it’s his jumper, the one he left on the back of his armchair last night. He’d actually thought he couldn’t feel any worse, but he does.
Christ. What’s he supposed to do? Slightly hysterically, his brain calls up what Mycroft said about Sherlock not wanting to be seen as a victim, and Normal, he thinks, just be normal.
“If you’re going to get snot on my clothes, I will have to start making you do the laundry once in a while.” He keeps his voice as light and gentle as he can.
Sherlock doesn’t say anything, and John sighs inwardly.
“Mycroft wanted to talk to me,” he tries, instead, after a moment.
“I know.” Sherlock’s voice is muffled, quiet. “One of his drivers collected you. Engine noise. It’s very distinctive.” He sniffs. “No doubt so you could both fuss over me like a troublesome child at a parent-teacher evening. If both of you would just mind your own business—”
“Sherlock.” John’s voice comes out a touch harsher than intended, but it has the effect of stopping Sherlock in his verbal tracks. He pauses; steadies himself. “If what happens to my best friend is none of my business,” he goes on, more softly, “I really don’t know what is. People are allowed to care about you, aren’t they?”
He’s left himself wide open for a sarky retort right there, he knows, but he doesn’t get one. He isn’t sure whether to take that as a good sign or a bad one.
“Besides,” he adds, rather lamely, when Sherlock still hasn’t replied a moment later, “you’re a troublesome adult, not a troublesome child, and believe me, that’s much worse.”
Sherlock rolls over to look at him, then, and instead of the expected glare, his expression is just so lost and so empty, and John feels a hollow open up right at his heart.
“Don’t, John,” says Sherlock.
“Don’t?”
“Don’t act as though this morning never happened. Don’t pretend we can just—carry on.” He sounds exhausted. Hopeless. And even though John knows that going along with—with whatever was in Sherlock’s head this morning—would’ve been a disaster, he can’t help feeling like it’s his fault.
“I’m sorry,” he sighs, Sherlock gives a tiny shake of his head, and John sinks to his knees beside the sofa. He wants to stay close to Sherlock and reassure him, and he thinks that he ought to stay far away for fear of causing any more damage. He doesn’t know what to do so he just looks at Sherlock helplessly.
“Why should you be?” Sherlock says. “I should have known better.”
John frowns. “Better than what?”
“Than to expect—” He breaks off, swallows. “You saw everything, John. It’s only natural that your feelings toward me have changed. I should simply have accepted the fact and not allowed myself to think otherwise. Not—not been stupid.” His voice turns venomous. Only John knows the venom isn't really directed at him and, fucking hell, he actually wishes it was.
Sherlock closes his eyes. When he turns his face away John has to struggle not to reach out and stop him.
“Sherlock,” he says. “Really. You honestly think—what, that because I saw what they did to you I don’t respect you anymore? You think I’m that disloyal?”
A sigh. “You’re human, John.”
John steels himself. “And so are you, and guess what, I already knew that.”
At that, Sherlock actually turns back to face him, eyes open.
“Please, just listen to me. You know how you’re always on at me to pay attention, well, just for a minute, just give me a chance.” John takes a deep breath, and when Sherlock doesn’t show any sign of being about to interrupt him, he goes on: “Okay, so you bleed when someone cuts you. Not as much or the same way as the rest of us, maybe, but you do. You’re not a computer, even if sometimes it seems like you wish you were. And that doesn’t change anything, that’s why I—why you mean so much to me. Seeing you get hurt breaks my fucking heart, Sherlock, but it doesn’t mean that I see you any differently.” He bites his lip. “Honestly, I think that’s just you projecting.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “Don’t try to tell me what I think,” he spits—because of course anger’s more comfortable than admitting that he might be wrong or afraid—but there's hardly any force behind it. He still sounds so tired. John holds up his hands placatingly, anyway.
“Okay, okay,” he says. “But—just let me tell you what I think?”
After a moment, Sherlock nods.
“Like you said,” John goes on, “I saw everything. I know they hurt you. I know they used me to hurt you. And I just—I didn’t want to make things any worse.” He swallows. “Rape in the military happens, Sherlock. I know people don’t always react how you’d expect, or even how they expect. They think they’re fine and then something sets them off, and that makes it even harder for them to get better. There’s nothing wrong with taking a bit of time to recover, Jesus Christ. And—and just because I don’t want to hurt you doesn’t mean I think you’re, I don’t know, broken. It doesn’t mean I think you’re not you any more.” He pauses for breath; tries to gauge Sherlock’s reaction. He can’t, so he ploughs on. “I still think you’re amazing. I still think you’re an insufferable twat.” I still love you, he thinks, but doesn’t say, because that would be too much for both of them right now. “And I know you probably still won’t listen to anything I say, but maybe you should, I don’t know, consider the possibility that someone caring about you isn’t a bad thing?”
He’s aware that his voice is rising to a desperate pitch, so he shuts up.
Sherlock doesn’t look angry any more. He doesn’t—well, he actually looks utterly bewildered, and John thinks dimly that if this were any other situation he’d want to grab his phone and take a picture just for proof. But right now all he wants is to get through to Sherlock, and he still doesn’t know whether he has.
His hand trembles as he reaches out. He hardly dares to breathe, and he really doesn’t know if this is a good idea. Sherlock’s cheeks are still hot and damp from crying. John trails his thumb down one, brushing away tears that have already stopped.
Sherlock doesn’t flinch. “What do you expect me to say, John?” he says, after a moment.
John shrugs. “I don’t know. You don’t have to say anything. Just—just let people be kind to you? Try, please?”
He doesn’t get an answer to his question, exactly. But when Sherlock closes his eyes and turns minutely into his touch, John can’t help feeling a tiny flicker of hope.
They stay like that until John’s knees start to protest and he gets pins and needles in his left foot. Sherlock, without opening his eyes, says: “You’re uncomfortable. You should move.”
“It’s alright,” John says, and then wonders if Sherlock is trying to hint that he wants to be left alone again. Not that hinting is Sherlock’s style, under normal circumstances, but nothing about the way things are right now is normal.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock opens his eyes long enough to give John the you’re a moron look and wriggles upright on the couch. It takes John a moment to realise he’s being invited rather than dismissed.
Funny; he’s never felt so nervous about sitting on his own sofa before.
He gets gingerly to his feet, grimaces at the cramp in his muscles, and sits down.
Don’t make the mistake of waiting for him to come to you, Mycroft said—but it’s been years since he and Sherlock shared a house. Perhaps he’s forgotten just how much like taming a wild animal living with his brother can actually be. Wild and—lest John forget—currently still wounded. So he just sits there; tries to smooth the lines of tension out of his body by sheer force of will. And after a moment, he realises Sherlock has opened his eyes and is studying him. John looks round to face him fully.
Sherlock’s drawn his knees up in front of him. He’s drumming on them with his fingers as though he’s not quite sure what to do with all his limbs.
“It’s alright,” John, says, again. “If you want—well, you know.” He actually isn’t quite sure he knows himself whether he means If you want me to fuck off (which isn’t alright, not really) or If you want me to never leave again (which probably shouldn’t be, but is.)
Sherlock doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking at him.
“Or—or if you don’t,” he adds, weakly. “That’s fine too.”
After a moment, Sherlock gives a nod. He still doesn’t reply, though, and at length John has to look away. He can feel the silence turning awkward, and he grabs the remote and switches on the telly just to break it.
But after a few minutes of trying to concentrate on “My Parents Never Told Me I Was Adopted – And Now I’m Engaged To My Sister!” he feels a warm weight settle against his side. His heart skips, but outwardly all he does is turn his head to give Sherlock what he hopes is a reassuring smile, and gently slide an arm around his shoulders.
Sherlock doesn’t shrug it off. And then he sort of sinks against John a little further, and eventually ends up with his head in John’s lap, pillowed on John’s crumpled, slightly-damp and definitely-in-need-of-washing beige jumper. Like a cat that wants to be stroked, and John can’t resist the urge to reach down and run his fingers through those dark curls. His hands are unsteady (great, he can hit a target dead-on from the next building, but he can’t manage this) until Sherlock gives this soft little hum of something that John optimistically takes for contentment, and actually doesn’t seem to mind.
And they stay there, hardly moving, except that when John catches a tangle with his fingers, Sherlock takes his hand and traps it between both of his own and doesn’t let it go. And a couple of times he even looks up to make disparaging remarks at the telly. And when John remembers, halfway through the afternoon, that he hasn’t eaten and gets up to make toast, sighing, “Don’t suppose I can tempt you,” in the tone of one who already knows the answer will be no, Sherlock waits a moment and then says, “I’ll have jam on mine,” and goes back to staring at the TV with more intentness than Jeremy Kyle can possibly merit.
When John hands him a plate, he makes a face and says, “Ugh, raspberry,” and John informs him that the Tesco Metro round the corner has a fine and varied selection of jams on its shelves, and Sherlock is welcome to choose any one he’d like should he actually, you know, go there.
Sherlock rolls his eyes, but he eats most of a slice with minimal complaining, and even deigns to pick at a couple of spring rolls when John decides to order in for tea.
They gravitate towards one another as though it’s inevitable, unconscious—only John is aware of every touch, every breath, every look. Of how Sherlock is warm and human beneath his fingers, not cold and glacial, and of every momentary hesitation, every tremble, every unreadable flicker that crosses his face. Of the fact that, although he seems to want this, it’s not easy for him. Everything they have here, now, in this room, is still fragile.
But when they end up curled together on the sofa again after dark, and Sherlock is enumerating, with just the barest trace of his usual irritation, the various reasons why wanting to watch Top Gear makes John an idiot of the first water (though apparently not too much of an idiot to use as a pillow)—well, he thinks their world might slowly be becoming a place they can live in again.
It’s early—only half ten or so—when John finds himself yawning. But then today has left him with rather more on his plate than he expected when he got up this morning. Not that that’s not a good thing, for whatever value of ‘good’ they’re working with at the moment, but it’s no surprise that his brain seems to have decided it’s had enough and wants to go to bed.
He yawns again, and Sherlock shifts onto his back to look at John.
“Don’t stay up on my account,” Sherlock says. “Get some sleep, if you’re tired.”
His face is expressionless, but it’s not exactly like him to be concerned about putting John out. The fact he’s even thinking about it probably means he wants John to stay more than he’s willing to let on.
John thinks he might be starting to work this thing out.
“What about you?” he says. “You should try to catch a few hours. When was the last time you even went to bed?”
“I’m fine here.”
“Will you sleep?”
“Will you stop fussing if I say ‘yes’? Honestly, John, I don’t see what you’re so bothered about. I’ve gone without for longer, before now.”
“Yes, I remember. I also remember Lestrade having to help me get you into the taxi. Hauling you around the place is not easy, believe me. Too much limb.”
Sherlock arches an eyebrow. “You should have seen me before we met. I’m sure Lestrade could provide you with a few anecdotes.”
John decides to ignore that. He’s going to have to offer, since Sherlock clearly isn’t up to asking for anything just yet. Not that John can blame him, really—even though things feel about a hundred times less awkward than they did this morning, it’s only been a matter of hours. The equilibrium they seem to have reached is still precarious. John’s afraid, really, to push it even this far.
Still. Needs must. “Would it help if I was there?” he asks. Then he remembers the state Sherlock’s bedroom was in last time he saw it. “Or—if you came in with me?”
Sherlock looks at him, consideringly.
“Just to sleep,” he adds, immediately. “Some people find it does. Helps them. To relax.”
The considering look turns opaque, and then it’s replaced by a hint of a frown. “I wouldn’t know. I doubt I’m the most relaxing person to share a bed with.”
John shrugs. “You fidget less when you read. Bring a book or something. If you want.”
“Mmm.” Sherlock doesn’t show any sign of moving, though. After a moment, John carefully disentangles himself and disappears into the kitchen to get a glass of water.
When he comes back through the living room to head up the stairs, Sherlock is still frowning, eyes fixed on the empty air above his face.
John isn’t exactly sure how to proceed. He’s extended the invitation, and feels like it’s still hanging in the air, even though Sherlock still hasn’t shown any sign of moving off the sofa by the time John gets to his room. In the end, he just turns on his bedside lamp, switches the overhead light off and changes into the pair of pyjamas stuffed at the back of his bottom drawer. He prefers to sleep in his boxers, but that seems like too much intimacy right now. He gets under the covers, and waits.
And that sense of waiting, of course, means he can’t get to sleep. He can’t stop yawning, either, but however tightly he closes his eyes, and however hard he tries not to listen out for movement in the flat—for any indication of what Sherlock is doing, downstairs—he just ends up lying rigidly on his back. His heartbeat feels just a touch faster than it should, the warm dimness in his room vibrating with something that’s part expectancy, part worry.
He doesn’t think the suggestion was too much. He won’t let himself start thinking that he’s fucked everything up again. Not yet.
Then John hears footsteps on the stairs, and when he opens his eyes, there is a shadow in his doorway.
Sherlock is carrying a book—a heavy-looking one—and he’s using both hands to hold it in front of him, like a shield. And he’s sort of… hovering. Uncertain; unreadable, too. Until John shifts across to the far side of the bed, and smiles the most ordinary, least nervous smile he can manage, and says, “Alright?”
A beat, and then Sherlock says, “Of course.”
He doesn’t bother to get undressed, just stretches out atop the covers on his stomach and props himself up on his elbows to read.
“You’re sure the light won’t keep you awake?” he asks, and John rolls his eyes.
“Army, Sherlock, remember? I’ve slept in much worse than this, believe me.” John rolls onto his side, and looks up into Sherlock’s face, which is close enough to his that he’s suddenly aware he’d have difficulty explaining this away to anyone who happened to walk in on them. Yes, okay, they’ve been sitting pressed close together all day, but something about the situation and the dim lighting makes it suddenly more noticeable.
Apparently the noticing shows on his face, because Sherlock is looking at him intently. “John,” he begins, uncharacteristically soft, “if you’d prefer…”
“No, I wouldn’t prefer.” John reaches up to brush Sherlock’s cheek with his thumb again, then lets his hand drop back to his side “I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t mean it. It’s fine.” He risks a tiny smile. “Now stop pretending you’ve grown a considerate streak and read your—whatever it is you’ve got there, will you?”
Sherlock raises an eyebrow, but then turns back to his book.
The page he’s studying looks to be covered in—chemical formulae? One of his old uni textbooks, maybe? Not most people’s idea of light reading, but then Sherlock was never likely to bring Dan Brown or JK Rowling to bed with him, was he? Really, this is one of the lesser oddities John’s encountered from him.
Catching him looking, Sherlock gives John a yes, and? look. John just shakes his head. Then he closes his eyes, and turns over.
“Night, Sherlock,” he says.
John wakes up, once, sometime in the small hours. Sherlock’s asleep, head pillowed right on top of the open textbook.
In the lamplight, John can make out some of the scrawl in the margins. Sherlock’s handwriting, if a little loopier and more flamboyant than it is now. Headmaster, says one of the notes. TOOTHPASTE! says another. No doubt they mean something too important and complex for John’s ordinary mind to grasp—or at least, they did, to Sherlock’s undergraduate self.
Sherlock’s hand is resting on the pillow, inches from John’s face. Soft and open in sleep, all those elegant lines relaxed.
John resists the urge to press it to his lips. Maybe one day, though, they’ll both be strong enough for him to give in.
Part 3
