Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

How much of a tongue can I bite until we notice blood?

 

I’ll spit to the left, carry on, just smile and say you're good

 

-Dodie

 

John Watson is frantically searching for his phone, which is heard ringing throughout the entire flat. He has to find it before picking Rosie up from daycare. He is already late as it is, and now isn’t the time to lose the one thing that keeps his world going. He flips up his arm chair’s cushion, and Sherlock’s. He searches every possible surface in the living area, on top and underneath.

He searches his bedroom, his closet, under his bed, his desk, and the desk’s drawers. He searches under his bed’s covers, shakes pillows, and ends up just making more of a mess than he intended. 

He fishes around in his coats and jackets hanging near the front door of the flat.  He rummages around the kitchen, but puts his phone hunting on hold when he discovers thumbs in the cupboard. (He swears that he told Sherlock that they put restrictions on keeping body parts in appliances and cupboards.) 

Next up is the bathroom. He searches the bathroom trash, which is another new low to hit.

After about thirty minutes of futile searching, he collapses into his arm chair. The noise is reverberating from somewhere, John just can’t pinpoint the exact location . Maybe it’s just that he’s getting old or his ears are. He hopes it’s the latter. 

Not only is there noise everywhere, but it is consistent. John is beginning to equate the deafening ringing to an air raid siren. He glances at the small collection of pens, cut up ads from newspapers, old remnants of food, half of a broken teacup, multiple Swiss army knives,and many stray capsules of ammo he has discovered. 

John still hears the ringing, whoever is calling him is persistent. After considering his caller must have a death wish and collapsing on his chair, about 15 minutes worth of ringing stop. He breathes and wipes sweat formed on his brow. With a forced amount of effort, he rises from his armchair and runs a hand through his coarse, greying hair. 

I’ve lost the bloody thing. Not getting it back now. 

John is utterly, not to mention, embarrassingly defeated, finding an object he uses daily shouldn’t be so impossible to find when missing. 

After he sits in silence for a moment, to his relief, he hears footsteps go up the flat stairs, moving closer to the apartment door. 

 Sherlock.

 John scrambles to the door, and nearly rips it open, to see Sherlock, with a nasty yellow-ish purple bruise, planted on his cheek. 

Sherlock’s sea-glass eyes are flashing in all directions, everywhere but John. 

“Molly.” Sherlock answers his question before John can even open his mouth. “She called me a ‘overbearing soulless wanker.’”

“Molly...did that to you?” John asks breathlessly.

“And what were you doing with her?” John is sure Sherlock insulted Molly ferociously for him to receive an injury such as that.

Molly often acted on emotion, but slapping Sherlock wasn’t usually a regular occurrence. Well, maybe it was, and John just wasn’t aware of it. 

“Analysing hazardous chemicals. Yes, she did, John . Did you not hear what I just said?” Sherlock growls. 

“W-why?”

“You sound like you’ve been looking for something. Your phone? You have that look in your eyes when you lose it… Or is it the ‘get out of the way or I’ll punch you’ face.’’ Sherlock ignores John’s question, as John senses Sherlock just might not tell him. Sherlock walks over to the coat hanger and hangs his Belstaff up slowly. He turns around, beginning to walk forward and pauses. 

“You searched the bathroom trash, didn’t you?” He smirks and John rolls his eyes. 

“It’s the ‘If you don’t stop being an annoying twit, I’ll push you down the stairs’ face.” John replies curtly as he breathes in deeply, regaining control.

“Yes, somebody’s been calling me for an extensive amount of time and I’m just about ready to wring their neck!” John exclaims, whilst he slips backwards.

Sherlock thrusts a leg forward, then places his foot back beside his other foot, hesitant to move. Sherlock’s foot taps three times, then he opens his mouth,

“15 and a half minutes exactly.” Sherlock glances around the flat, as John welcomes the anger bubbling in his stomach, and murmurs a long string of expletives, just loud enough for Sherlock to hear. 

“ You’ve been bloody calling me?!” John is barely refraining himself from giving Sherlock another bruise. “Why didn’t–I assume-I’m such an idiot-” John digs his hands into his pockets to prevent himself from breaking Sherlock’s ever restless leg. 

“Well, I assumed you would have your phone on you, like you always do. And usually you respond. You could’ve been in da-“ Sherlock’s facial expression changes slightly then he clears his throat. 

“I’m an annoying twit.” He bites his lip awkwardly. 

‘You act like your answer is a perfectly, well-rounded solution. You still phoned me for 15 minutes.’   John holds in his inner thoughts, unsure of how to process…whatever this is. 

After a moment of intense staring, John lets his emotions get the better of him. 

“I have been listening to that awful ringtone for almost 20 minutes! You are going to help me find my bloody phone, or so help me, I will find those hazardous chemicals and  shove them down your throat!” John jabs a finger at Sherlock, who’s bemused eyes barely even meet his own. 

“It’s in my bedroom,” Sherlock steps forward, John stopping him, “On my night table.” 

“Your r-room? Why is my phone in your room?” John has become a human-shaped container of rage in a matter of seconds.

Sherlock smirks without mirth, “Why didn't you check my room?”

“Uh, hmm.” He grits his teeth, smiling through the anger, “Sherlock. No.” John is depending on sheer rationale to stop himself from tackling Sherlock to the ground. “Now, why is my phone in your room?” 

“I was downloading a new hard drive. It has all the information you need on what Mycroft and I are up to as of late. You also have an unbelievably large amount of storage I took the time to delete.”

“You know, usually, you ask someone before you go scrolling through their phones!” John seethes with venom, all the while he tries to push down the tiniest bit of..pride he feels. 

The fact that Sherlock wants John to be in on the secrets that British Intelligence tries to hide so gracefully well is the only thing redeeming Sherlock at this moment. 

“I did not scroll through your phone. I respect your privacy, not that you’ve ever had something to hide.” Sherlock sniffs as he scuffles towards his armchair and promptly sprawls his tall, toned body across the small surface. His legs are arched, hanging from the side of the chair. 

“Where is it?” John spins his heels in the direction of Sherlock’s room, an unknown territory. 

“On my desk, next to the left of the bed.” Sherlock closes his eyes for a few seconds before they shoot open. Both his hands are shaking as he repeatedly opens and closes his fists.  

John’s anger falters, concern creeping in next to it. 

 “Alright?” John inches toward Sherlock, though his torso is in the direction of his phone. 

“Hmm? Yes, fine.” Sherlock begins to tap on his thigh rhythmically.

John has learned by now that ‘fine’ is just another way of saying, ‘I’m probably going to have an existential crisis in a moment, but sure, let’s go with ‘fine’. 

“I don’t think you got that bruise from....Molly.” John's eyes move up and down, he tries his best to re-create a mediocre version of Sherlock’s deductions.

“Astute guess.” Sherlock grumbles. 

“Sherlock.” John turns his torso to match up with his legs. “How did you get that bruise?”

“Do we have ice?” Sherlock asks, avoiding John’s question. 

“Ice? Ice. Yes, we have ice.” John rubs his eyes. “You can get your ice, once you tell me how you got that bruise.” 

“Fine.” Sherlock sits upright, the curls of his rich dark hair awkwardly stick to his forehead.

“I was working on hazardous chemicals with Molly. We found traces of  alien poison on a woman in the morgue. It was still active, eating away tissue and skin, and poisons don’t often stay active once the victim has been dead for the past two weeks.  One of the rarest dead people I’ve ever had the chance to encounter. At first, we thought the woman was injected with Strychnine, but that wasn’t it. How premature it was to think it was Strychnine. Molly didn’t even think twice that it could have been different,’ Sherlock sucks in a breath, then continues, “She also noted the poison could’ve been Cyanide or at least deadly hybrid version of sodium thiosulfate, which is inaccurate, because sodium thiosulfate dilutes the symptoms of Cyanide poisoning-”

“I don’t care about the dead person! I care- I want to know about the bruise.” John stumbles over his words, and interrupts Sherlock who produces a look of resentment. 

“ Molly , eventually made a conclusion that it was an exceedingly rare form of gelsemium, which I don’t believe is true in the slightest.”  Sherlock adds then blinks. “I wasn't attacked at the morgue. Molly did not lay a hand on me.” Sherlock looks at John with a waning stare.

John, in the foreseeable future, is going to give Sherlock another bruise. Not actually, because the last time he laid a hand on Sherlock, the man ended up suffering from much more than a slap to the face.  

“I was about to call for a taxi, when a partially blind Arab man in all black approached me. He couldn’t identify me in the corner of his left eye, but his vision was 20/20 when I moved to his right. Not like that’s important to you.” Sherlock smirks, his upper lip curling into his face.

“He held a gun to my ribcage, and forced me to descend into an alleyway.”  Sherlock says with a pregnant pause, his eyebrows raised if to say ‘You can flip out and worry over me now,’

“Gun? You..okay..a gun?..I..so, an operative of some kind then?” John asks, not entirely processing that Sherlock just shared with him that he had been held at gunpoint. 

Even with the actually unsurprising information, the story slowly intrigues John. The duo hasn’t pinned down a solid case in little over a month, and John would do everything in his power to make sure that Sherlock won’t go back to cocaine. It would also just be nice for the tosser to get out of the house, though John would never admit that to Sherlock.

“Presumably. He led me to an alleyway, and kept asking me for the numerous codes to MI6's computers and software. I know nothing of these codes. I came to the conclusion he thought I was Mycroft.”

“Mycroft?” John’s eyebrows raise, the idea that some bloke could mistake Sherlock for his older brother is as amusing as it is mortifying. 

“It doesn’t matter anyways. By pure happenstance, a police officer was walking down the alleyway, and quickly noticed the gun. The man socked me in the face, hence the bruise, before running off, and shooting the officer in the arm. Quite poorly too. I called an ambulance for the officer, before clambering over here. They should be picking him up about now.” 

“I-I don’t understand, why didn't the man just shoot you on the spot?” John sits down in his armchair, leaning in to hear more. 

“He needed me alive. The gun was just an object to make me become more susceptible to telling the man the codes, which again, I don’t know.” Sherlock shrugs, his jaw clenching ever so slightly. 

“And this happened in the span of…?”

“The brawl? 5 minutes or so. I have been at the lab since 3 P.M, yesterday.” Sherlock stops tapping his pale, slender fingers, now the void of silence can only be filled by the two male’s voices. 

.....

“And you’ve only come back now?” John asks in full astonishment, as he wonders how he never realised Sherlock was gone.

 John feels a rising sense of embarrassment in his chest as he takes his hands out of his pockets, taps on his thigh, and waits for an unreadable-looking Sherlock to respond.  

“Well, I wasn’t going to come home at all, but I needed to grab some kidneys from the fridge—You don’t believe me.” Sherlock laughs dryly, when John cocks his head.  

“Nope.” John clears his throat. “No, not all.” 

“Alright. Everything is true, except that I do know the codes.” 

Sherlock's eyes flash ominously.

Why am I not surprised?

John blinks rapidly as he prepares for an explanation from his flatmate; he is engrossed in this story. Unfortunately.

“And?”

“And what?” Sherlock’s eyes lock on John’s, but John can't keep his gaze on Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes can unlock the truth, everything that John is hiding, and exploit him easily. And Sherlock is generally just hard to look at nowadays. 

“And! Shouldn’t you know where the man is?”

 “Considering I got hit in the face with the side of a gun and I was trying my hardest not to fall to the ground, ending up with an IV protruding out my forearm right along with the police officer…do you really think that I know where he went?” Sherlock counters quickly. 

“You’re bloody Sherlock Holmes! You deduce people every sodding second you can, how do you not know where your attacker fled?”

“I know how to deduce, that doesn’t mean I know everything.” 

His words grind to a halt, his hands are steepled, his pointer fingers tap against each other. His eyes widen, declaring he is in the middle of an epiphany. 

“John!” Sherlock shouts and quickly leaps off his arm chair, a shocked expression plastered on his face. 

“Oh. Oh! John don’t you see, no of course you don’t–” He clasps his hands together.  

“Sherlock…” John growls, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“His face, John! He showed me his face!” Sherlock’s eyes finally lock with John’s, who looks away unintentionally. 

 “Yes, he did...?" John swallows down that tiny ball of light growing in his chest, warmth seeping into his lungs. 

John has learned that Sherlock prefers solving crimes with murderers and crime lords who have ‘poetic’ reasons to commit their unlawful acts. 

So hearing that Sherlock is fumbling with excitement over a crime syndicate indicates Sherlock is just about willing to do anything for a case. And that statement really doesn't feel comforting.   

John keeps his emotions in check, but he begins to feel warmth pool in his chest. Sherlock is actually excited about something. He’s smiling, something that John hasn’t seen in an excruciatingly long time. 

Actually, Sherlock’s excitement is kind of alarming. He hasn’t been this…giddy since…well, Mary. And Culverton.

“He wants to get caught. He wants me to find someone. Or something.”

“Us.” John sniffs, feeling perturbed that Sherlock is overlooking the fact that John still will go to crime scenes with him and get whisked off into some form of dizzying adrenaline. Well, he at least hopes that’s what would happen. 

Now he isn’t so sure. Really, he isn’t sure at all what it would be like. 

There’ll be hell to pay for the way John has treated Sherlock.  

And you keep treating him like he’s scum, why don’t you just leave? Why not, Watson? You’ve already walked out of his life once, why not do it again?

The voice in his head nips at him, and he fights it off, just barely.   

“Yes, us. He’s leading us to somebody.”

“Boss? Mastermind? Another colleague? Sherlock, you don’t even know who the man is working for. He could’ve just been a thug.” 

“But the way he assaulted me, he had such stamina that no street-bred thug would ever..he knew how to prevent me from attacking and disarming him. I was never even given the opportunity-” Sherlock notes, his mouth making the shape of a small ‘o’. 

But no words come out. 

He shows a joyless smile in a ‘lost in train of thought’ sort of fashion and shuts his mouth, giving John a strange look. 

John wonders why Sherlock hasn’t finished his sentence, so he takes this as a sign to start talking,

“You can’t just go down to Scotland Yard and ask for an Arab man with impaired vision.” John attempts to reign Sherlock back into sanity, but as usual, is failing. 

He also is becoming more and more impatient to get out of his home, and retrieve Rosie. This excitement Sherlock is emitting, John’s scared of it. It’s too much like the old Sherlock. It’s too frighteningly…normal. He can’t look at the man for much longer or he might not be able to look at him again. 

“No. No, but there is one detail about him, one costly detail he never should’ve overlooked.” Sherlock leans in a little, the sides of his lips being tugged upwards. 

“He wasn’t wearing gloves.” Sherlock silently squeaks, like a giddy little boy revealing a rumour he knows he shouldn’t say. 

Sherlock just needs a small kick-start to go from 0 to 100 and drag John along with him. Or at least that’s what it used to be like.  Until more recently, John would follow Sherlock around and thoroughly enjoy the suspense filled mystery. 

Now, it’s nauseating just thinking about leaving the flat, with or without Sherlock Holmes.   

“Fingerprints.” John clicks his tongue in realisation. 

“He touched my face, and my coat. The fingerprints would still be on them, correct?” Sherlock’s eyebrows pinch together.  

“I assume so, as long as you haven’t rubbed your face. You’d have to go back to the lab, then Scotland Ya-”

“I can do it here.” Sherlock, with caution, grabs his coat from the coat hanger, and walks into the kitchen, which..is no longer a sea of tubes, vials and dismembered body parts. The only reason is because there’s a monster that will put anything in her mouth called Rosie that John has to steer away from the kitchen regularly. 

And that’s John’s reasoning. John also knows it’s too reminiscent for Sherlock, having his ‘drug brewing’ set up in that room. Sherlock barely goes into the kitchen anymore. 

“I have to go pick up Rosie.” John clears his throat, he stays away from the pure chaos he has grown to adore. He has begun to believe straying from Sherlock’s antics might be the wisest idea to follow. He isn’t ready to jump back in, just to drown in the sea he set sail on long ago. Even more so after just regaining his sea legs. 

“Go. Get some nicotine patches, will you?” Sherlock doesn't look John’s way as he walks over to the flat door. 

“Nope. Can’t have you doing any sort of addictive properties anymore, remember?”

Sherlock goes silent, and John closes his eyes for a moment. 

You’re not the bad guy. And neither is he.  

“I’m just getting Rosie, that’s it. Won’t be long.” John takes a small step forward as he watches Sherlock sit down noisily onto a kitchen chair. 

“You are not fun.” An irritated look wafts across Sherlock’s face, the deafening silence from before seems to not have existed. 

“I’m not irresponsible.” John corrects him as he quickly makes his way into Sherlock’s room, grabs his phone, and tries not to look around out of curiosity.

John then glides to the flat door, taking one last glance at Sherlock before hurriedly walking down the stairs.

He, without any warning, crashes into Mrs. Hudson, who is carrying a tray of tea and biscuits, the both of them barely preventing the items from painting the floor. John quickly apologises as he hears Mrs. Hudson mumble furiously. 

He shuffles down the rest of the stairs, and stops in his tracks. 

He stands there in the doorway with hesitation, as he inhales deeply. 

“Let me know when you have got your fingerprints!” John shouts from the bottom of the stairs, as he grabs Rosies’s baby carrier left by the door. 

He waits briefly for a response then submissively walks out onto the cobble steps outside. 

He notices a few wildflowers scaling up the side of the apartment, daisies and daffodils. John is baffled, seeing that type of flower growing in such an ugly place. He doesn't even know if the flowers should’ve been growing there at all. Still, he marvels at their delicate beauty for a moment before being recalled to the real world. 

It reminds him of the plastic daisy stuck in his hair… the flower the woman he cheated with noticed. 

“It was just texting .” 

The phrase doesn't satisfy the guilt John feels everyday, everywhere. Always and forever. 

He shoves the bitter memory down into the depths of his mind then unlocks his Volkswagen and clambers in. He backs out of his tight parking spot, and begins to drive to Rosie’s daycare. 

‘Sherlock needs to get out more.’ He thinks as he looks out the window, revealing a suburban utopia of eggshell white and rusted brick apartments with   autumn leaves flowing lazily in the wind. 

John has always loved the quiet serenity of his home, even though it is in one of the busiest cities to exist, disregarding New York City or Rome. After about five minutes of silence, John looks down at his phone to see a text bubble on the home screen:

16:55 NEW MESSAGE: IT WORKED. SH

John rolls his eyes as he types a quick response. He shouldn’t be texting at all, and Sherlock shouldn’t texting him, knowing John is driving. But John responds, because he just has to. After not being in contact with Sherlock due to John’s own cowardice, it’s the least he can do. Even if he’s risking his own safety. 

Once an adrenaline junkie, always an adrenaline junkie. 

- GREAT. NOW WHAT. 

16:55 NEW MESSAGE -GOING TO SEND FINGERPRINTS TO ANALYSTS AT NSY UNFORTUNATELY. SH

He turns down the road, and stops at a light, a few pedestrians crossing the road.

- THEN WHAT WAS THE POINT OF DOING IT YOURSELF?

John shakes his head as he recognizes the small building of Rosie’s daycare in a close proximity. 

16:56 NEW MESSAGE -I DON’T TRUST THE POLICE. THEY CERTAINLY SCREW AROUND ENOUGH, AND I AM NOT TAKING ANY CHANCES.

-I JUST THINK YOU’RE EXTRA.

His message whooshes as he clicks his phone off. 

He sees the entrance to the car park and pulls up, easily finding a spot. 

After exiting the car and staring at his phone to see if Sherlock will respond, he shoves his phone into his pocket and hopes he won’t have to dig it out again. 

 He smiles to himself as he sees parents coming out of the small cobblestone buildings with their children, holding hands or cradling them tightly. A few children are spinning in circles, pleased to show their parents what crafts they created during their playtime.  

He wonders if Mary would have actually enjoyed this. Parenthood. If she was committed enough to John to have a child with him, perhaps she would. But at the same time, she left as soon as her past caught up with her. So maybe Rosie…didn’t matter….

No. Of course she loved her. Of course she did. He can’t doubt that, since everything else about Mary is and was a lie. 

He clears these thoughts from his head, he’ll think about them later anyways.  

He walks over to a desk in the middle of the room, and plants his feet in front of it. He smiles and greets a grey haired, soft cheeked woman, and hands her a pager with a random 4 digit assortment of numbers pasted on the front. 

She scans it with an odd looking machine, beeping a bright red to a green. 

“Alright, Dr. Watson. Rosie is in a different room today. Looks like it is Room… 302.” She smiles, her lips smothered unevenly in a bright pink lipstick, which John has a hard time not grimacing at. She places a piece of paper down which John assumes is what she read to identify where Rosie is. 

He begins to walk forward, then stops in his tracks. He warily scans the hallway to his right then left, then eventually re-directs his gaze back to the receptionist. 

“Uhm, sorry, but I don’t usually pick up Rosie.” John blinks. ”Where is her room?”  

“I’m guessing your wife does the job, hmm?” The grey haired lady giggles, her skin crinkling at the edges of her lips. 

“Oh, no. Rosie's mother, my wife, she uhm—-she isn’t—” John sucks in a breath and becomes increasingly more impatient to get away from the stout woman. Before he can recover himself, the woman begins to speak,  

“I’m sorry.” The woman’s bright blue eyes flash a glance of sympathy towards John, but he doesn't let it sink in. “Divorce is hard, dear.” She adds. 

Oh dear God.

Unwanted distaste fills the pit of his stomach as he tries not to glare daggers at the receptionist. 

He clears his throat, and nods halfheartedly, telling her the truth is a complete waste of time. 

“Her room is down to the left. Make a right and it should be the second door down.” The woman smiles fakely and John doesn’t return it. 

“Thank you, ma’am.” He nods curtly and swiftly turns his body to the left. 

‘I know you’ve had a first hand experience with jumping off St. Bart's Sherlock, but I’m pretty sure my stomach just sodding did.’   He wrings his hands, breathes deep and swallows it down. 

He shakes off the image of Sherlock’s body falling and landing, and then seeing him live and in person just a few minutes ago. He distracts himself with the view ahead of him: 

Many families pass him with their children. He finds himself returning the innocent little smiles from the squealing kids, whilst their parents look either sleep-deprived or just as giddy. His eyes move downwards as he sees a corridor making to the right. 

He moves with the building as his eyes land on the door, 302. 

He knocks on the door, which a small, thin, blonde-haired woman opens unceremoniously. On her plain grey t-shirt, strikingly similar to the one Mary died wearing…is a name tag with a scratched smiley face pinned tightly to the cloth that says ‘Hi, I’m Clara.’

“Dr. Watson? You’re here for Rosamund, right?” She asks, the edges of her lips are thin, her face stretching with a smile. 

“Yes, that would be me.” John gives her a faint smile and steps backwards when he realises how close he is to the woman. She almost stares him down, and then steps back. John gapes at her and for a split second, he looks into those eyes, and he sees Mary. He has to use all of his power not to tell her to leave his presence immediately. 

“One moment. Rosie made a finger painting for you today.” Clara’s dark brown eyes flicker politely.  

“A masterpiece, I’m sure.”

John cannot, he cannot look at this woman anymore. He needs Rosie. So badly.  He just wants to grab and go, kind of like the Thai food he had 24 hours earlier.

Clara turns around and closes the door. 

John taps his foot, and waits.

And waits some more. 

He's sure Hell has frozen over by the time the door opens, and there is Rosie, eyes shut, cradled in a different woman’s arms. 

Thank God. 

“

She fell asleep today.” The woman’s husky, thick voice startles John, it doesn't match her outward demeanour, which is rosy-cheeked, warm eyed, and old. It seems to be the running theme at the daycare. Excluding the Mary doppelganger. 

“Mhm.” John doesn't really know what to say, he just slowly hoists Rosie out of the woman’s arms, and lets her weight rest against his body. She smells sweet and delicate, as he sighs inside with relief. Roise is warm, comforting John. 

He wants to compare Rosie to Mary, but the minute he thinks about that Claire De Lune perfume and the vanilla shampoo…

Stop it. Stop it now. 

He runs a finger through her delicate caramel-coloured tendrils of hair. Her small body, John can compare it to a piece of treasure. He’ll protect her at all costs. Rosie, his 7 month old child, is his everything. 

“Here’s her painting.” She hands John an open piece of paper, covered in a chaotic pattern of smudges. 

It isn’t even a pattern, just a complete battle scene of smudged colors. He loves it.  

“I asked her who it was for and all she would say is Da-da, and giggle.” The woman chuckles. “She’s a cutie, that one.” 

“Yes, she is.” John forces a closed smile as he steps away and gently bends down on his knees, placing Rosie in the baby carrier, keeping her strapped and warm.

She squirms a little, her eyes fluttering open.

“It’s alright, love. It’s just me.” John whispers coaxingly as Rosie cooes and her eyes slip back into a hopefully-peaceful sleep. 

 He gives her a loving glance, her resting face far too precious for the world all together. He is certain he’ll always look at her like that. 

It isn’t an option not to. 

He won’t let his world fall apart.  

Not again.

Chapter Text

You say real life’s watching paint dry

Counting numbers, is that so bad?

You’ve fallen for it all

-Lucy Rose

-WHERE ARE YOU? HAVE YOU PICKED UP ROSIE?

-ARE YOU COMING HOME SOON?

-HAVE YOU ACQUIRED THE TARGET?

-ON YOUR WAY? 

Sherlock Holmes has texted and deleted every single one of those messages, instead of sending them. He rubs his temples as he lets out a boisterous sigh. He does need Scotland Yard to run fingerprints. 

Doing the feasible task independently was ideal, and allowing Scotland Yard to do the work was not preferred..but he’ll have to let them do it anyways.

It’s been a while since he’s gone off of a ‘I’m going to experiment till my brain combusts’ spree. He’s surprised himself with the amount of energy he’s created because of this case. 

Most of his equipment has been sitting in boxes in his closet, collecting dust, rotting away. Just like him.

He doesn’t want to be the same person he was years ago. It would be too painful to try and impersonate the person he was long ago. To become the person he forgot and lost when he jumped off that godforsaken building. 

He doesn't want to say no. He doesn't want to say yes. But he knows that no matter how hard he tries, he’s never been able to live with ‘I don’t know.’ It is a hard-wired defence mechanism inside himself to say, no. No is easy. No is perfect.

But yes, yes is terrifying.

I don’t know, that is a whole new hell Sherlock doesn't want to explore. He only has a few scenarios where he has thought the words, ‘I don’t know.’  John loves the ‘ I don’t know s’ and the ‘ maybe laters ’. If John Watson can stall, he’d stall. 

Parties.

Birthdays. 

Strangers. 

Business gatherings.

Patients, whom John should be putting his full attention into. 

Co-workers.

Locum shifts.

Sherlock. 

Sherlock has yet to see John stall Rosie. Sherlock secretly hopes that he can hold Rosie again. He wants for her to wrap her small delicate little pinky around his large finger. Babies have tendencies to do such an action, but Sherlock wishes with all his being just to cherish the touch of Rosamund. He’s only seen it happen once, between John and Rosie. It had seemed so insignificant, but to John, Sherlock had known it was the highlight of his day.  Just the touch of a child is apparently all the comfort John Watson needs…

And Sherlock is not jealous.

The prospect of a grown man being jealous of a child is ridiculous as it is stupid. 

But for Sherlock, maybe it isn’t as ridiculous as it appears. 

All he wishes is to hold Rosie. He wishes to hold her like how John would let him before Mary died. Sherlock still blames himself, there is no denying it. He never understood the process of guilt and the actions and thoughts it can make you do and feel until Mary died.

She was perfect for John. Witty, humorous, considerably intelligent, putting all points aside that she used to be a deadly assassin. She was loving, and had known John Hamish Watson just as well as Sherlock did. But with remorse, Sherlock is teetering off the edge, silently watching John move on with his life.  

Sherlock feels like his place in it is shrinking drastically, he is just waiting to be swallowed whole by the void of isolation he tries so hard to ignore.

If only it is that simple. 

Sherlock hears his phone ding, the noise vibrating against the wooden table he is sitting at. He lifts his phone and reads the message,

17:56 NEW MESSAGE: GOING TO BE LATE. GRABBING GROCERIES.

DULY NOTED. DRIVE SAFE. -SH    

Sherlock places his phone down and resumes experimentation on the fingerprint. He simply has used just a bit of heat and some tape, and he has acquired a perfectly legible fingerprint. Maybe it isn’t the most dignified way to get a fingerprint, but it works just fine for Sherlock. 

17:56 NEW MESSAGE: CHICKEN MARSALA FOR DINNER? OR IS YOUR BRAIN AND STOMACH’S RELATIONSHIP STILL SOUR?

Sherlock reads the message and rolls his eyes, yet he feels noticeably stirred inside. Maybe it is the fact John takes time to do something for him. Maybe John is warming up to him again, even by just the smallest bit possible.  John is his only true friend in the entire world. He can't afford losing him.

SOUNDS FINE. AND NO. MY STOMACH IS NOT GOING TO REBEL ON ITSELF. -SH

17:57 MEW MESSAGE: IF YOU DON’T WANT THAT, I CAN MAKE US SOMETHING DIFFERENT. 

‘Clearly John’s ignoring my comment.’ Sherlock sighs audibly as he thinks about John's text for a moment. 

Us.

If John is willing to put the word ‘us’ in a sentence and actually have context behind it, Sherlock needs to fix his emotional abilities just for a night and show John that he cares. He just has to get past that wall. The wall he confides in. He’s never overcome it, but maybe he’ll find a loophole. A way to say thank you. 

             DON’T CARE. NOT PICKY. 

Sherlock hesitates to send the message. His fingers twitch above the phone. He needs to correct it.

             THAT SOUNDS GOOD. THANK YOU. 

It feels so wrong to look at it, but is probably admirable to do, which feels ridiculously ironic because Sherlock is nowhere near admirable. It bewilders him why he is even doing this. He clicks the send button and the phone releases a familiar ‘ whoosh’ . 

He anxiously waits for a response and sinks back in his seat. He is an overstimulating idiot. He is obsessing over the response of his best friend. It’s ridiculous and he knows it. 

17:57 NEW MESSAGE: GREAT.  SEE YOU SOON. JW

Tiredly, he pushes the chair he is sitting in from underneath him and stands up, running his fingers through his dishevelled curly hair. It is almost 6:00, but it could be midnight. 

Sherlock’s eyes slip into a trance, closing and opening. Staying up all night is an easy task, it is something he has done millions of times. But when he had been  with Molly Hooper in a morgue for hours, he is now convinced his IQ has lowered substantially. 

He is half-tempted to crawl into bed and sleep all his intolerable emotions away. 

Though John would worry, so Sherlock has to keep his composure. 

He’d have to stay up and be there for John. In whatever way that is. 

It is the only way to refrain from straying from the only home he has. 

The diligent manner of John’s lifestyle would not last forever, he would crack and Sherlock made a pact to be there to protect him. 

It’s the least he can do. Since he couldn’t protect Mary. 

Not that John would allow Sherlock to do such an unorthodox action. Now they both are in a wide, desolate desert with no resources. Just a will to keep living. 

And that will isn’t terribly strong at times. 

The unfathomable construct of their relationship gives Sherlock a bloody hellish headache. The bonds they made over the periods of time stick to Sherlock, whisking away all that his brain has ever thought to be true. 

He needs a tangible reason to care about their relationship. 

He needs to recognize that the John Watson he sees daily, is just a flicker of who his flatmate used to be. And similarly, he stares at himself in the mirror, just to find it difficult to recognize the figure gazing back at him. 

He should be here by now.

Sherlock walks over to his arm chair and sits in it, knowing that he wouldn’t be for long. 

He taps his fingers, then toes in a familiar pattern, his ears register that he is tapping the sequence to Daisy Bell . 

He rolls the balls of his feet against the floor. The jittery state he is in can only be decreased by John. He feels at ease when his flatmate’s presence is nearby. 

He never feels calm around Molly or Lestrade. He’s become more accustomed to comfort around Mycroft, but there’s definitely still some unease.  He never feels like he can function until John forgives Sherlock for all the idiotic notions Sherlock is committed to participate in.

He would never dare call it a ‘domestic’ feeling. Domestic attributions to society were just the sick excuse for lonely and emotionally constipated individuals with nothing better to do than become godforsaken junkies. 

Ergo, him.

So maybe there’s underlying subtext deep inside him, describing how he feels about homely things. Maybe there’s a part of him that likes the idea of home. Whatever that idea is has to be heavily influenced by quiet moments in life that Sherlock has always respected. But in his opinions, domestic bliss and simple pleasantries can only be one thing,

The world's mask. The Earth's medication. 

A mere distraction so humans wouldn’t face the creeping sense of denial on their purpose and meaning to exist. Of course, no one would acknowledge it. 

The reoccuring postponement of feelings is something Sherlock never has to battle with and/or lose.  

Because feelings hurt more than helped. Caring was the disadvantage, until Sherlock proved himself wrong. But still, there’s a wall that protects him. Alone protects him, and yet, he doesn’t want to be lonely. 

Caring was the advantage. It’s something his pathetic excuse for parents never taught him.

His parents, oddly, who are some of the most dull-brained, blank, dormant in all creative or intelligent processing people——- accomplished the impossible task of raising the famously acclaimed ‘freak’ who solved murders for a living. 

His whole life is quite odd, he’d openly admit it to anyone he is close with, because they already knew it far too well. 

Sherlock has no time for social niceties, moreover he has lack thereof.

And not to mention, Mycroft’s lacklustre attempts to tie Sherlock into some sort of social agenda always have gone catastrophically wrong. 

Sherlock quickly became accustomed to his brother's particular and bureautic actions. His brother, his parents have failed, and continue to fail. 

Sherlock is a coward. He finds that quite easy to believe. 

Maybe it isn’t his parents' fault. Maybe his upbringing is supposed to be monstrously unfortunate. 

“Sherlock! There’s a man at the door!” Mrs. Hudson breaks Sherlock’s train of thought. 

Man at the door. Not very specific are we today, Mrs. Hudson? 

  “Oh, it’s Mycroft–excuse me, how dare you just walk past me–” Mrs. Hudson calls as Sherlock hears the sound of a rhythmic stomping, three steps then an abrupt pause. Mycroft, using his ridiculous cane. 

“Hello, Brother Mine.” Sherlock hears that familiar snide voice echo through the hall. Sherlock whips around and faces the doorway and tentatively takes a step forward. 

“Why are you here?”

“Oh don’t use that tone. It’s  as if you hate me.” Mycroft smirks cynically, his eye brows making a thin ‘V’ shape.

Sherlock has always silently hated Mycroft’s stupid facial tics, but has concealed his inner opinions on such a subject. Unless he’s having a good day, then he’s going to try extra hard to lower Mycroft’s self-esteem.  

“You have it quite wrong–----I just on occasion want to slip poison into your morning tea.” 

“You could never.” Mycroft flexes his shoulders, attempting to appear taller or more threatening. It isn’t working in his favour. 

“What makes you so certain?” Sherlock can't let a completely child-like argument go to waste. 

“Because besides receiving a strange amount of serotonin from your frivolous endeavours such as solving “mysteries”, you’ve never been the one to find harming people stimulating.” Mycroft replies, matching Sherlock’s energy. 

“Stop using long words. You do it to intimidate me. Unfortunately for you, I’ve stopped being peckish around your presence since Year 4 I believe.”

“You just wish you were the only herculean person of intelligence in this room.” Mycroft’s eyes glint with a child-like competitiveness. 

“Why does it concern you that I participate in endeavours where I do or do not enjoy myself?” Sherlock asks, ignoring Mycroft’s comment as Sherlock’s eldest sibling’s calculating eyes narrow slightly, irritated. Unless the irritation is a facade and it’s really concern. Mycroft wouldn’t let down his wall that easily

“Because I’m your brother, apparently. ” Mycroft says, his lips knit into a half-baked frown.  

“We should’ve just told everyone you were adopted.” Sherlock quips and ignores the careful dip in Mycroft’s tone. Sentiment. A mistake. 

“I believe that was you, brother mine.” Mycroft rolls his eyes. “We both know Mummy has a favourite. You picked up that annoying frivolous trait I cannot stand, and I picked up her common sense.” 

“Frivolous? I think enigmatic is a better term.” 

“Or y'know, just an idiot.” Sherlock’s ears register a new voice, coming from behind Mycroft. 

“Dr. Watson. How nice of you to drop by.” Mycroft’s doesn't bother to look behind himself as he lets John walk through the doorway with Rosie cradled in his arms. 

“Last time I checked, I’m the one that lives here..?” John sniffs as Sherlock analyses him.

 The slight diagonal angle of his jacket collar discerns that he’s has been in a rush, and mysteriously no groceries are in John’s hands, only Rosie. 

 “Mmm. Yes, still keeping Baker Street in ship shape order I see.” Mycroft sniffs as he pats off the imaginary dust off his shoulders. “I just came to check up on you both and the..” He pauses for a moment, and gives his signature tight-lipped smile that’s more of a polite grimace. ”How is..he?” Mycroft eyes Rosamund condescendingly. Sherlock feels his chest tighten for a moment. 

“She.” John and Sherlock say in unison. 

“ She. ” Mycroft repeats, as he rolls his eyes.  

“Check up on us? That’s rich, even for you.” John shifts his weight, looking not particularly pleased at Mycroft’s presence. Sherlock can say the same. 

“I knew you left your apartment, with great speed I might add, so I came down to this..place in case any sort of..dispute had arisen. There are many reasons why you could’ve left him. We both know Sherlock’s mental state is quite…destructive.” Mycroft’s eyes look protective, and slightly..disgusted by John. 

Sherlock feels his face warm but keeps his head high. Still, if not for the fact that Mycroft happens to rule most of the Commonwealth and for the fact that poor decisions were made, (Mycroft is related to him), he would be apt to claw Mycroft’s eyes out. Very, very badly. 

“I’m standing right here, aren’t I?” John straightens his shoulders.

Sherlock realises he is marginally turned off that John hasn’t defended his repertoire. It is very possible John agrees with Mycroft.

 Sherlock feels a cold-gripped anxiety plunge him into a thorny bush of doubt, as he braces for more insults. 

“Sherlock isn’t pathetic, just to correct you. I’m pretty sure for someone as politically respected as you, you are the egotistical nitwit. And a pretty shoddy brother.” As the words flow out of John’s mouth, Sherlock’s seeping doubt is vanquished and immediately replaced with temporary optimism. 

Silence fills the room, John’s face slack with anger. 

“Well….now that I know Sherlock won’t burn the flat down, I will be leaving.” Mycroft sighs and turns as John taps his toes against the floor.

“If you have nothing better to do than watch us, which I am still not alright with, don’t come knocking on our door with your cane, Mycroft. If you actually care, come because you want to, not because you do it to spite Sherlock or myself.”

“I will be taking notes.” Mycroft inhales sharply and walks down the stairs, with no further comment. 

“Thank..you.” Sherlock murmurs hesitantly, turning to John. 

“He’s an idiot. So are you. He’s just the type of idiot that I can’t stand being around.”

“And what type is that?”

Sherlock watches John’s light green eyes turn an olive green, then an ocean blue. John has a rare form of sectoral heterochromia, so does Sherlock, but Sherlock’s isn’t half as captivating as John’s. John’s eyes  change colour due to lighting, but sometimes they seem to change whenever they please. John probably doesn’t even know he has heterochromia- ---another example of why Sherlock keeps track of rudimentary, insignificant things, and John is the one who pays bills and deals with fundamental life skills. 

It’s always been that way. And Sherlock’s thankful for that. 

“The type that breaks into people’s houses just to pry into their private lives. He does that to maintain power. You do it for fun.” 

Sherlock had been expecting a compliment, not whatever just came out of John Watson’s mouth. 

“That was an appallingly structured sentence.” Sherlock refuses to let his lips move upwards. 

“I just dislike your brother.” John shrugs. 

“Does that mean you dislike me?” Sherlock can't help but ask, though the question, once formed into words, becomes a terrifying topic to discuss.  John’s eyes flicker with some sort of hesitance and then he almost becomes unreadable. 

“If you wouldn’t mind grabbing the groceries at the bottom of the stairs, maybe I’ll give you your answer, you git.” John sighs as he brushes past Sherlock, and walks into the kitchen, still holding Rosie in his arms.

“Rosie’s carrier is down there too.” John adds. 

Sherlock looks at the back of John’s familiar figure, and shrugs. As he is about to venture off to complete John’s wishes, he looks down for a moment. And to his surprise, his hands are shaking. Not good. 

And just as he realises the shaking of his fingers, the emotions decide to tag along. 

Like his drug days…and Culverton..and the morgue…

He closes his eyes, and tries to flush all memories away, though he can feel them rising. Sweat forms on his neck and he becomes increasingly aware of how irritated his skin is beneath the collar of his shirt. Dizziness envelops him and his chest constricts, as if the sweet taste of air is now stripped away. His spine sends shocks of pain down his body, but there is no time to register the anxiety squeezing his spine. Liquid dribbles down his cheek, as he quickly wipes it away and trudges down the steps, unsure of what emotional purge has just overcome him.

He nearly loses his footing, trying to clear his bleary eyes and clings to the railing, head against the wall. 

In and out. Breathe.  

He breathes harshly through his nose and clears his throat. Get it together.   

He discovers a couple bags of food, and Rosie’s carrier placed haphazardly on the floor against the front door. He hoists them up, and almost drops the now heavy objects. The blood in his ears is rapidly churning, hears throbbing in his chest.

Sherlock begins to try to decipher the facts, but it is utterly pointless. The word meltdown enters his brain, but he denies it. It isn’t a meltdown. He will not allow it. 

“I’m not using, I’m not using.” Sherlock repeats to himself, as if the panic inspired mantra would install some sense of gravity in his trepidation. 

“Sherlock? What are you doing down there?” Sherlock recognizes John’s voice but ignores it.

 He uses a large amount of strength to pull himself together, and even more physical strength to lift the objects he was asked to retrieve.

Once Sherlock sees the sliver of light coming from the doorway, he gasps in relief and yet, hidden agony.  

“There you are. What—why do you look like that?” Sherlock barely processes the blur of John’s facial expression as he lets go of the baby carriage and bags of food with a loud ‘ thud’.  

“I don’t look like anything.” Sherlock flicks his wrist dismissively. 

“If hauling a couple bags and a baby carrier up some stairs was an Olympic sport, that’s what you look like.”

“Ineedtousetheloo.” Sherlock rasps in one breath as he swiftly walks past John, pleading that John won’t prevent him from moving.

Sherlock hears no abrupt exclamation behind him as he staggers down into the bathroom and clutches the sides of the bathroom sink. The fact that John does not stop or call after him is a small mercy, allowing Sherlock the liberty to break. He brings his foot up behind him and swings the bathroom door shut, as he looks up at himself in the mirror, his face revealing a large amount of fear. 

List the periodic table. Count backwards by 7’s. Recite the entire alphabet in Turkish. 

Sherlock has learned coping mechanisms to prevent panic, to stay focused at certain tasks at hand. In this case, there are no tasks at hand. There is nothing to focus on except his own mind. Himself versus himself. 

Patience, Sherlock reminds himself. Patience. Let his nervous system slowly realise there’s no danger. Nothing is attacking him.

A random flash of Moriarty's face flickers a smile then fades away, causing Sherlock to feel ironically attacked. 

“I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you.” Moriarity’s voice hisses. Sherlock recoils, gasping for air. 

He imagines Redbeard/Trevor, dashing adventurously through the woods of his childhood home, with a young Sherlock, pretending to battle great pirate lords and stealing coveted treasure. The tender memory of his past almost calms his throbbing head, but a dark storm looms above the two small boys…disrupting his pathetic inner peace. 

“Sherlock..you alright? I can hear your breathi—-You’ve been in here for a few minutes now.” John’s ‘Captain Watson’ tone startles Sherlock, who now is becoming increasingly confused that he has been in the bathroom for a good moment and not 30 seconds. 

Sherlock snaps out of his failing techniques, to contemplate if he should even respond to John. He needs John, but he doesn't want to find out if reaching out for help would be beneficial. 

 “I’ll be out in a moment,” He feigns a casual tone, hopefully assuring John behind the thin door. 

I'm not using, I’m not an addict. What is wrong with me? 

Sherlock has the answers listed in his brain, a categorised list, with excessive information that comes with each possible conclusion. He just doesn't want to face which ones might actually line up with the feelings he has no business suffering through.   

“You aren’t going to be out in a moment, are you Sherlock?” John’s muffled voice carries a tone of urgency. “Are you alright? I’d really prefer not to walk into a small bathroom with you, so I think your only option is to come out here.” 

Sherlock is enwrapped in a sense of forebode, knowing that if he turns that door-handle, there’d be questions he would be forced to answer.  

But it isn’t fair to John. 

John deserves a friend who can be able to be outright and tell the truth. To not have a labyrinth of secrets, and let the vines grow, evading him. Emotion is threatening to overcome Sherlock, but he swallows it down. He inhales sharply as he turns the door handle with his shaking fingers.

He doesn't want to talk to John, it is the simple truth. 

John is foreign territory. Sherlock doesn't know who John is anymore. 

Clearly in John’s mind, Sherlock isn’t a close friend. . so why should he have a reason to trust John?

He slowly opens the door, the frame making a subtle creaking noise, a distorted wail.  

Sherlock expects John to be waiting there with an intrigued look in his eyes. But he is not there. It is as if Sherlock has been talking to a ghost. Maybe he has, but he’d twist his mind to drive himself insane later once the world stops spinning. 

Sherlock feels..abandoned, seeing that John is no longer standing in front of him. He never feels visceral about many things, unless it is a case. He used to feel sheer joy whenever he used to solve crimes, John at his side, nothing could ever stop them. 

The world was their playground, and Sherlock could always breathe in more of the satisfaction of snuffing the flames of crime out, just to discover a whole new fire. That is until The Fall. Until Mary. Until he got too high to tell if John was even real.  Until his life was torn apart, piece by piece, until he became just as ridiculed as he was before he met John.  

He is very much alive, but has never felt more dead. 

After turning a sharp corner into the kitchen, Sherlock sees John just standing there. He has been waiting for Sherlock. John’s face is marred with so many emotions, Sherlock can’t even decipher what the man is going to act like. 

“Well?”

‘‘Well’? There is nothing to talk about. Now go and make that meal you are obsessing over.” Sherlock’s chest is pounding, an eerie tightness grips his throat, suffocating the words trying to escape his mouth. 

“Okay. Now, I know there’s something we need to talk about.” 

Sherlock doesn't feel the need to respond, there is already too much chatter in his always working brain. Sherlock blinks away the moisture at the edges of his eyes. 

“Sherlock, look at me. Your eyes are going glassy, don’t try to hide it,” John sighs, a bit of an unidentified emotion settling into its place. 

“Glassy?” Sherlock asks with no real curiosity. 

“Yes. I’ll ask this again and I want a real answer; Are you alright?” 

“Am I alright?” Sherlock says again, the words processing in his brain which feels like a rabid animal is clawing around in it.

“Yes. Are you alright?” John’s widened eyes flicker with reserved sympathy. 

“Am I alright?” Sherlock involuntarily repeats himself. John’s expression is becoming more concerned by the minute, ocean blue eyes wide, searching. . 

John nods, waiting for Sherlock’s lips to move, but Sherlock never feels the words reach the back of his throat. He never feels them reach his tongue. 

“I’m not giving up on you.” John taps his foot, and steps back, giving Sherlock room to breathe. “But I’m not going to press you.” 

Sherlock dips his head slightly and inhales deeply, ignoring his rapid pulse. 

“I’m going to try and get some sleep,” Sherlock barely lets the words form, as he staggers out of the front room, striding down the hallway leading to his quiet safe place. 

As he becomes closer to his bedroom, the idea of solace in his own space is a relieving breath of fresh air. He turns a deaf ear to the sound of quickening footsteps behind him, and once he is in the clear, he slams his bedroom door, and shuts himself inside. 

He waits for John to open the door but nothing happens. 

Because nothing ever happens between them, so why would it be any different now?

The room is dark, only a small lamp on his bedside table spreads warmth throughout the room. His blinds are shut and the curtains are drawn. His walls are a dark grey, and so is his duvet. The rest of his room has slight accents of off-white and a little olive green but nothing more.

Simple. Peaceful. Familiar. 

He lets out a heavy groan as he repeatedly kicks the door, and knocks a few stacked newspaper cutouts, an empty vase, and his alarm clock onto the floor. The vase is shattered into bits, a few shards landing on his dress shoes.  The clock has been thrown a few feet, and the newspaper scraps are littered across the floor. 

Yes, he is a big, fat drama queen of gargantuan proportions, and rarely does he ever have an excuse for his remarkably stubborn behaviour. 

Still, as he slips away onto the edge of his bed, he concludes this is differing from his usual tendencies. 

He is utterly lost, and he is hiding. Opening his mouth, opening his heart and mind to the man he used to faithfully trust, is a construct so frightening, Sherlock often forgot that he is-or has been- close friends with John Watson. He has let his emotions, ideologies, and beliefs fester into something it never should have become. He has let his irrationality fester, and skew his outlook on who to trust.

‘If you can’t trust anyone, how can you trust yourself?’

Mycroft told him that ideology when they were teenagers, and ever since it’s haunted Sherlock. And not only did it haunt him, it had become his religion. His bible. His answer to every question ever asks to him.  A question with a question.

Although he does break the oath he swears to himself when John walks into a room. And now, he is finding himself suffering from not rebelling against the rule he laid out for himself. He is following his own rule. His creation. His own demons. 

He has made his own sorrowful path, and now, in little time, he’ll welcome the beginning of his own end.

Chapter Text

     “Leave my loneliness unbroken.” –Edgar Allan Poe

  Of all the ways John expected that horrendous conversation to go, that wasn’t one of them. The conversation hasn’t even been processed enough to be put in the category of a conversation. 

You ran away. I should’ve known you would, and every day I still beg to differ.

He has been at Sherlock’s heels, biting at his ankles, hoping for a reaction, and all he got is a half-baked excuse and some stomping feet. 

John Watson is sick of trying and getting no reaction or answers in return. 

Maybe he should’ve been more generous. Not wanting anything in return, and just watching Sherlock do anything but pick up on his desperate behaviour.  

Sherlock’s sometimes ‘delayed’ ability to express emotion is something John is used to. But if John’s honest, Sherlock is the most human person he’s ever met. If John didn’t notice how Sherlock appeared just moments before, would Sherlock be in his bedroom, probably staring into the abyss? 

He is even more concerned about the fact that Sherlock has been in the bathroom for 5 minutes or so, even though maybe it doesn't seem that concerning and more appalling. 

Sherlock doesn't have any idea of this, but John had heard Sherlock breathing heavily and mumbling behind the bathroom door. 

“John!” Mrs. Hudson breaks John’s train of thought, calling from the bottom of the stairs. His body jolts, Rosie awake in his arms, fidgeting uncomfortably. 

“John! Can you come down here please!” Mrs. Hudson calls again.

“Eh-Wait-One minute!” John responds, Rosie now wailing in discomfort. 

Of everyone here, you’re the one who acts the least like a toddler” John grumbles, glancing at Rosie, as he grabs her formula cup from the kitchen counter, and gives the bottle to her. She coos gratefully and begins sucking on the cup’s straw. Though John’s mind is still all over the place, he makes his way downstairs to see just what in the whole of Britain Mrs. Hudson needs him for. 

“Mrs. Hudson?” He asks loudly as his fingers brush against the railing leading down to her floor. 

“John!” Mrs. Hudson turns around a corner, a hurried smile spreading on her face. 

 “I have a question for you, you see I saw Sherlock down just right here, not just 10 minutes ago. Is the dear alright?” Mrs. Hudson’s deep brown eyes flicker with concern. 

“That’s actually what I’m trying to figure out. Did you..see what happened?” John’s chest tightens as he locks eyes with Mrs. Hudson. 

“Oh, I came out of my bedroom, I heard some sort of ruckus and ever since we had that break-in, oh I get so nervous about who could be outside my room. Especially in my nightie, goodness sakes..”

John uses more mental energy than needed not to facepalm. 

“Mrs. Hudson.” He feels his face crease with annoyance, even if its’ not intentional. 

“I was getting to my point, John.” She huffs, “I came out just as Sherlock was picking up some groceries and Rosie’s carrier near the door. I suppose he didn't hear me, but he looked dreadful! His chest was heaving, his fingers were shaking terribly, and they already shake too much. He needs some medication or something to take the edge off, I know I d-–-” Mrs. Hudson pauses for a moment. John feels 5 years of his life being stripped away. 

”I thought he was going to burst!” Mrs. Hudson clasps John’s hands empathetically, “Is he using again, John?” She adds, as John without hesitation shakes his head.

“No. We’d know. He can’t be. Not after all the work he went through and is still going through to get off it.” John rips apart his doubt and tries to force the edges of his lips to curl upwards. 

“He’s still going to hurt himself. He’s done enough of that already.” She shakes her head, a knowing look in her eyes. 

“C-Can you elaborate please?” John lets go of his landlady’s hand. 

 Mrs. Hudson glances at Rosie lovingly, John doesn’t know what he wants to hear from Mrs. Hudson, but at this point, he might take anything.  

“Well dear, I just think that Sherlock always aims for success, wouldn’t you agree? He just..chooses more destructive ways to reach his goal. And even when it doesn’t work out the way his funny brain thinks it will, you don’t help the situation when you act like a child!” 

“I–” 

“You are the best thing that has happened to him, and he walked right away from you, John. And you did too. Now he's trying to redeem himself. I don’t think he truly knows how to ask for help, and he doesn't want to hurt you either, just as much.” 

“Yeah, but that’s been the running theme with him, for as long as I’ve known him at least.” John points out as Mrs. Hudson just stares. 

He doesn't ask for help until it’s too late. 

I know Sherlock is extremely stubborn. But so are you, dear.” Mrs. Hudson smiles as John bites his tongue. 

“Sherlock isn’t very amenable. He-he puts up a barricade. We’re always in this..verbal sparring match… I don’t have many options, do I?” John is trying his hardest to listen to Mrs. Hudson, but being extremely experienced in the argumentative category of his relationship with Sherlock isn’t helping Mrs. Hudson’s case.

“That pain, it never goes away. But it’ll stay if you don’t confront and help the man who so desperately wishes that his mistakes would go away and that you two wouldn’t be already so broken apart.” Mrs. Hudson’s eyebrows raise slightly. 

“Take it from me, dear. I’ve lived a full life, and it hasn’t been perfect. It’s not supposed to be. Help him and you’ll make mistakes again. Don’t help him, and I’m sure you’ll make more mistakes. You can’t change your past John. But I think you should just try and talk to him.”

 “Tha-” John clamps his mouth shut, as Mrs. Hudson cuts him off. 

 “My boy, you don’t have to do any of this. But for the better of you and of him, and me , please just deal with him!” Mrs. Hudson sighs as John nods, confidence fills his chest as guilt drops in his stomach. 

“Understood, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you for..” John can't bring himself to finish the sentence.

“I know, John. I’m always here for you two-”

“But you're not our housekeeper.” John smiles and Mrs. Hudson returns it. 

He shrugs for a moment, the silence of that moment teetering towards awkward.

“I guess I better confront the tosspot?” John inhales then exhales, trying to banish all dread he feels far too often. His comment earns a smirk and a dubious glance from Mrs. Hudson. 

He isn’t necessarily comfortable engaging with Mrs. H, whereas Sherlock can whip up a frighteningly long conversation-or argument- in a matter of seconds.

He wishes he has Sherlock’s verbose mannerisms sometimes, it certainly would improve his confidence levels. 

They’d probably sky-rocket, if John is honest with himself. As John after thanking Mrs. Hudson for a moment of guidance, he makes his way up the stairs, taking his time, pondering on just how he would confront Sherlock, and not provoke him. Unbeknownst to the residents’ of 221b Baker Street, Sherlock is in such a state John might not be able to reap anything for Sherlock’s benefit. Or his own.

Chapter Text

“I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone

 

Or wake at night alone,

 

I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again, 

 

I am to see to it that I do not lose you.”--Walt Whitman

 

Sitting in his room, cross legged, remaining on the edge of his bed, Sherlock is nervously tapping his fingers away. He curls his toes repeatedly, and every few minutes stands up, spins around slowly in a full circle, then flops back onto the bed with a unsatisfied bounce. 

He fears the conversation he will have soon with John. Furthermore, he has come to the conclusion that he would prefer it if the conversation would be brief and rather apathetic. So he’s taking extensive preparation of his mannerisms, even if it won't really benefit himself. 

It's not like he can really help it, John's anger and emotional stability switches faster than Sherlock can predict.

Sherlock's learned after many screaming matches and headaches that John’s habitual arguments have a straight-forward order.

Become instantly confused, go from 1 to 100, lash out, probably show some form of internal turmoil from prior traumatic events, then sum up the argument with a big fat ‘I don’t know why I put up with you.’

Sherlock can see it all play out beautifully in his head. If the conversation he's bound to have goes sideways, he won't have to have it get better or for him to heal. He doesn't deserve that yet, he finds.  Better yet, John would procrastinate. However, Sherlock hears the slight echo of footsteps working their way up the stairs. They went down the stairs not just a few minutes ago. He can hear a piercing wail from Rosie---Rosie would be a lifesaver. Rosie is a commitment John can not ignore, and Sherlock is. 

He’s not even a commitment.  

He steals a glance at himself in a mirror across the room. 

His face is pale, even though his skin tone is already ghostly. His dark, purplish veins contrast against his pallid skin, as he is reminded how much weight he has lost during his time away. And it is even more noticeable how he never got any back.  His frame is still tall, and toned, but not as toned as it used to be. He can feel his ribs against his skin when he goes to touch them. He still has markings of bruises in raw areas.

They are all a muted green to deep purple, mustard yellow and blood red are in the mix of the ugly painting on his skin. His scars, unnoticeable to the naked eye, are always distinguishable to him.

He can always see them.

The ones on his back, he can still feel the searing pain when the electrical cord slashed open his skin. He has many tiny needle pricks scaling up his forearm, and a few minor scars cascading his neck, which are the least visible out of all the clothing-covered scars. 

Whoever made up the phrase, your scars tell stories of who you are, and how strong you have become was clearly unaware that I exist. Sherlock thinks as he tries not to look down at his needle scars. All they do is remind you of mistakes, and what those mistakes made you lose. 

Sherlock’s thoughts discontinue as his bedroom door opens, John stands there, awaiting Sherlock’s permission to come in. 

“Hi.” John gives Sherlock a small smile, a lot of refrain is controlling his expression. Sherlock is too put out to give one back. 

John eyes the mess caused by Sherlock’s sudden outbreak of emotions, but says nothing and walks around the shattered bits of the vase, though he does nearly trip over the clock’s input cord. 

“If you’re going to try and get me to open up my mind and speak with clarity, and tell the truth about what’s going on, it’s a pipe dream, John.” Sherlock ignores him as he shuts the door behind him, which Sherlock notes is..an interesting approach.

He pulls up a chair that is resting against a wall and sits down slowly.

“Rosie’s in her crib right now, but she should be having dinner with the two of us, so I want to make this brief,” John sighs, “This is as…hard for me as it is for you.”

That’s a bald faced lie. You weren’t a fugitive for 2 years, had to stay in hiding for months, and then jump right back into life just to have it taken away from you. 

He knows this isn’t true. The minute Sherlock jumped back in, John lost his life too. He lost Mary, and it is another mistake Sherlock owes, one of the largest weights on his breaking back.

“This won’t come out easily. You’re hoping I’ll get into a fit and do some door slamming and not talk to you, preferably for the rest of tonight and tomorrow, and forget all about..this.” John taps his foot, and rests his eyes on Sherlock. Sherlock is still hoping John would go volcanic and give up, but maybe that scenario isn’t in the clear. 

“I can’t do that. Because that will get us nowhere.” John sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“Then what do you propose we do?” Sherlock sniffs.

Sherlock can tell John is doubting what to say or maybe John is deciding to just be abrupt.  A get-to-the-point, no nonsense type of approach.

What Sherlock expected. 

“I’m going to help you.” John’s eyes wafts a benign look, as Sherlock slumps dubiously, with a little surprise too. 

“Elaborate,” Sherlock is miffed John might not become riled up, but one can only hope. 

“I never get very far, t-talking with you– —and I assumed that this might work better– - I presumed we might get a positive outcome from this, if I doesn't come off as overbearing-” Sherlock can tell John has no idea what words are flowing out of his mouth, not that Sherlock is doing any better. 

Sherlock has become a picture of bewilderment, trying to deduce John’s game plan, but nothing concrete is popping up in his mind. 

“Just answer me this.” John scooches a little closer, as Sherlock begins experiencing the throes of his nervous tick he is attempting to hide, his hands tap underneath his thighs. “Are you using?”

Sherlock breathes in a heavy sigh as he shakes his head.

“No. I am not,” Sherlock brings his eyes upward to look at John’s face shift from relief to distrust in the blink of an eye. 

“And that’s the truth?” John bites his lip. John is biassed, unfortunately. A past experience of the horrors Sherlock brought to the table when he was using, does prevent John from having immediate trust, which Sherlock doesn’t blame him for. 

“Yes.” Sherlock’s tone is so carefully composed, he strives to sound indifferent. 

John appears mused as Sherlock sits in polarising silence, waiting for John’s lips to move. 

“Okay. Not what I was expecting but that’s good.” His voice is gentle, but betrays Sherlock with an edge of hesitation.

“What?” Sherlock blankly stares at John. “Is that not what you wanted to hear?” 

“No! I was just..expecting another answer.” The words tumble out of John’s mouth as Sherlock scoffs in disbelief. 

You are many things. A good liar isn't one of them. 

“Do you truly think I am using again?” He sneers as John’s expression compares to stone. 

 So, if you show no emotion, does that mean I’m not allowed to? The angry thought nearly overwhelms him. 

“If I say no, you won’t be satisfied nor believe me. If I say yes – you might slip away again, and I don’t know if I can track you down again.” John admits, still using  ‘bedside table’ mannerisms that Sherlock finds intolerable. 

“ Track you down again? That’s your sob story?” Sherlock rolls his eyes, as John helplessly glares. 

“Sob story? No, I am concerned for your health and well-being. I don't  want to watch you go through your life aimlessly everyday. I spend every minute of my life contemplating if I should even try to help you and I decided I would!” John exclaims, his voice rising with anger. 

“And am I supposed to thank you?” Sherlock barks, straightening his shoulders.

“Thank you? Wha—no.” John grumbles, his eyebrow furrowing. 

“I’m trying to talk to you, and you take it as a joke.” John sighs, his ocean blue eyes searching Sherlock with an intensity that makes Sherlock want to bolt.

“I don’t find it funny,” Sherlock raises his head and his eyes look down at John. 

“Then act like it.” John shoots a deadly barb of anger at Sherlock. It’s also..a desperate plea which is why Sherlock decides to not respond to John’s lashing. 

“I was right,” Sherlock says to himself as a stillness fills the room. 

“About what?” John asks, Sherlock breathes sharply. 

“You.” The words hang in the air, no reaction is present from either of the men. 

“I don’t want to guess–- – I’m not coming back, so you should either tell me what’s going on, or I will walk out that door and act like this conversation never existed.” 

Sherlock can't decide if John is threatening him, or is hanging on the edge, desperate for an answer providing stability. Maybe he's doing both. 

“I don’t know.” Sherlock answers, praying that somehow John would just leave, even though deep inside a part of him wants him to stay. 

John gives him a long stare, his eye twitching. 

“Fine. Dinner will be ready soon.” John sniffs and walks up from the chair, and shuts the door loudly, not giving another look at Sherlock. 

Sherlock thinks he would be sitting in relief but all he feels is..nothing. 

The universe is mocking him in the form of an empty stare and a door slam. He lets out a shaky breath from parched lips, as he stares at the dust-covered floor. He screwed up, horrendously.

He senses guilt drowning him slowly, then all at once. I’m breathing in the relief of a coward. 

The world Sherlock inhabits doesn't respect or agree with many things. 

Sherlock has regular misconceptions about human nature and maybe even his own nature, which has been proven on many occasions, to not be human. John does spare some of the shame from the stares of judgement given to him but that's a comfort long forgetting. He’s been a harbinger of destruction to those he loves. He had certainly hurt Mary, but not quite like how he has hurt John.

Sherlock climbs into bed, places his head on a pillow, which is far too soft, and lays in silence. It’s common for ex-soldiers to struggle to sleep in bed after sleeping on terrain like boulders and dirt floors. After sleeping in a number of abrasive places, Sherlock feels as if he’ll melt through his bed, right to the floor. 

He isn’t a soldier.

Clearly.

Sherlock wonders if John feels the same way, being an army doctor probably wasn’t the best luxury job at the time.  

His brain is already churning and his energy levels make him feel like a rabid dog, so he shakes the last vestiges of sleep from his mind. 

Driving a wrench right through it doesn't sound like a terrible idea. His lips curl upwards almost as a reflex he’s testing, if entertaining the idea isn’t really that terrible. He is the greatest bonehead in the Commonwealth to believe that he can live with himself. Sherlock is ready to bolt, but John would chase after him to the ends of the earth just to get questions answered. John Watson is, in fact, the most exhausting human to exist. 

And Sherlock holds hordes of metaphoric medals for that title.  

Sherlock creates a mental puzzle in the air, a pie graph of possibilities of the outcomes that can happen outside of his bedroom. Out of all the options, Sherlock knows the highest possibility for success is the lowest possibility for success.

He flings a Union Jack pillow at the wall, disgruntled, as he looks back up his mental bar graph.

The highest bar is labelled, ‘Self loathing and possibly driving a wrench through cranial-frontal bone’ 

The lowest is, ‘Confiding in John and become ridiculed for all eternity.’ 

He splays his fingers forward as his bar graph disappears into nothing. He begins mindlessly splaying his fingers, more a nervous tic than self regulation, one he can’t control.

J umping off St. Bart's is more than appealing . The curious thought tears through his subconscious, just like the image of the blue blown-up tarp becoming increasingly closer. 

He tries to imagine the cold concrete without the tarp, but the image won’t stay dormant in his head. 

Ridiculous, He thinks. 

Yes you are, John's voice enters his ears, as he looks to the door to see it shut tightly, the door hasn’t been opened since John left. 

John is in the room next to him; he still hears John wherever he goes. 

Departing his thoughts, a loud buzzing noise comes from his trouser pockets. He is barely able to lift the phone out of his pocket, as it falls onto the bed beside him, Sherlock in the position of a fetus. 

It is from John, a brief death threat:  

NEW MESSAGE 18:36: DINNER IS READY. I MIGHT HAVE TO KILL YOU BEFORE YOU EAT. OR I CAN FORCE FEED YOU FOOD TILL YOU CHOKE. BUT IT’S READY. UP TO YOU.

The hostility of John’s words isn’t surprising, diluted because of said foreseeable actions. But it doesn't mean Sherlock isn’t twisting his stomach into a knot, trying to discern if John really meant what he texted. 

NEW MESSAGE 18:36: SORRY. JUST COME OUT IF YOU WANT. 

Sherlock scoffs as he chucks his phone. It lands on the bed with a dull flop and he pointlessly glares at the object. 

Sherlock peels himself from his all too comfortable bed, clenches a dressing gown hanging on his doorknob, slips it on, then walks out the door. 

He creeps down the hallway, the lightness of his footsteps is a practice he has mastered ever since he was a small child. Endless games of hide and seek are the cause of his spy-like silence. 

Pressing his heels instead of the balls of his feet to the floor prevented hardwood from inevitably creaking. Sherlock has used this tactic for many things: Attacking unknowing Serbian officers, sneaking into a crime scene, and occasionally scaring the daylights out of Mycroft, John, or Lestrade. 

Now, he is just using this surprisingly effective skill to evade John's presence and John as a whole. He’d sneak into the kitchen, grab some food, and check John's blog and clog the Wi-fi. He's finds it's either that or sneaking out to find substances. 

Once Sherlock veers left into the kitchen, suddenly his master plan falls flat on its ridiculous face. 

John has been residing in the kitchen, he is slowly feeding Rosie, who is in a small feeding chair, miniscule bits of chicken marsala. 

The passive aggressive glare in John’s eyes abates as his shoulders loosen up a little. 

“If you want something else, there’s Thai food in the fridge.”

Sherlock has now made the connection that John deliberately positioned Rosie’s feeding chair and John’s plate away from Sherlock’s presence so there wouldn’t be any unwanted traffic jams. 

“This is fine—-”Sherlock answers, forcing his eyes to stay glued to the floor as he clutches the plate of food, hot to the touch. 

Sherlock glances at Rosie, his eyes, without much control, move up to John’s eye level.

 John’s lips creak open but clamp shut indifferently. 

Sherlock nods with petty gratitude as he exits the room, his guilt still leaving with him. 

An irritated hmph! and groan from John insinuates that Sherlock is wearing John down, his actions under the file, ’Sherlock being Sherlock.  He waits to see if John would invoke an action to call Sherlock back over, but no physical or verbal action commenced. It is quite unceremonious, and that is Sherlock trying to word his disputes delicately.

Without John seeing, Sherlock turns around and gives him a ‘John is an idiot’ face, and walks back into his room. After a moment of unprecedented hesitation, he sits down at the edge of his bed, once again, and stares at his plate full of food. He dejectedly places the bowl on the floor, his stomach suddenly has lost all appetite. 

He is particularly terrible at exerting emotions, but nothing can compare to how well he hides his emotions. He is shoving himself into a proverbial broom closet with no handle. He’ll leave himself and his thoughts to collect dust, and become an archaic product. 

He is more than happy to let that void of darkness consume him, while his physical-no not his best friend, a flatmate- his flatmate- would walk away. John would live near the coast and raise his daughter or find some cheap knockoff of Mary, and maybe have some children with her. Maybe they’d grow old together and John would say when he becomes old and worn by the world,  “Did I ever tell you about Sherlock Holmes? The world’s only consulting detective? He was sort of messed up, and lost his exhausting mind. He’s never coming back. The world has no use for him anyways.”

No use.

No use.

What did it truly mean to be useless? To have no purpose? Did he really have a meaning outside of solving crimes that police stations failed miserably at? 

 When he had just started crime solving, after being trapped inside his Mind Palace for weeks. When he went on a drug spree back in his younger years. When he became trapped inside himself. 

That’s when he feels useless, being reminded of how he felt useless. He had been lying on a couch somewhere, Mycroft beside him. Bugs were racing up his arms, as he used a knife to carve them out of his skin. His chest was on fire, and he remembers water being up to his neck. He remembers many different faces, but none he could recognize.

He remembers the touch of rough gloved hands, seizing his neck, throwing him against a wall. 

He remembers pain. 

He remembers plummeting and never reaching solid ground. He remembers sharp pain in his ribcage, and the taste of metal coating his mouth and throat.  He remembers the unearthly feeling of a presence watching over him, protecting him in an uncanny fashion. 

Sherlock has always assumed it was Mycroft. 

Why would Mycroft ever be near Sherlock unless Sherlock was in dire need of assistance or if Mycroft needed something from Sherlock?

In Mycroft’s case, it usually isn’t dire. 

Everything is all blurred together, and Mycroft only told him miniscule pieces of what happened. From what Sherlock pieced together, is that he never was overcome by natural forces or was injured by anyone but himself.  It was his brain and the drugs overruling him, eagerly dictating how much life he had left inside of his failing body. 

The Cataclysmic Debauchery. 

Mycroft had bestowed the title, tied around with a big red humiliating bow, to that horrific event.

And even though most of what consequences came  from that fateful night is unbeknownst to Sherlock, he never has the chance to be able to hark back the memory for himself if the event demanded a title such as that.

Mycroft did everything in his power to block the 2007-2009 era out of Sherlock’s mind, and it worked. 

Not extremely systemized, but it worked well enough for Sherlock to only experience disconcerting images in the back of his head. 

Not for the worst, and from what Mycroft had claimed, and certainly for the better. Sherlock feels paralyzed from time to time—- those memories cling onto him and completely obliterate his sleep schedule. 

Sherlock has wondered what it’s like to be permanently and physically paralyzed. 

Sherlock has first-hand experiences with meeting and discovering patients/research with Guillain-Barre. The paralysing disease overtakes your nerves, muscles and causes your body to deteriorate. Moving your lips becomes a laughable action to complete. Feeling your toes and fingers is ludicrous. Breathing, that usually isn’t an option—-- not without help. 

All you have is your sanity. Which in most cases, isn’t there. 

Usually individuals give up, either that or they have an iron will to keep going because they just have to.

Sherlock knows he’d never make it. He’d keep slipping through that disabling hell, and lose himself. 

Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. ( Maybe that’s a stretch.) He doesn't have much to lose with his emotions. At 37 years old, his fear of death is potent. Maybe it isn’t leaving Earth itself. It’s the whisper that he never did anything worth his time on this planet of rubble.

John was worth your time. They all were worth your time.

For someone who doesn't back away from most confrontation, he hates rejection. Not that it’s just him who doesn’t want to be told once in their life they haven't lost a complete semblance of reality. 

( At least he hopes it’s not just him. He wouldn’t really know. Or maybe that’s just what he wants to believe.) 

Sherlock can't beat or join whatever that fear that’s been tugging at him since he was a little boy. He cares too much, contrary to popular belief, so what’s left to do, is to hide. 

A coward playing a coward’s game . 

Death is either a benevolent or a malignant force. Sherlock, long ago, had made up his mind that death was the former. Two strong arms would wrap around him tightly and whisk him away from all the evils of the world. But from the split second, John walked (limped) into his life, it seems to be that the doctor put death in a chokehold, granting Sherlock the ability to perceive life from a different angle. Yes, his job entails death and evils, but it’s always simply seen through a mechanical viewpoint. At least for him. 

Separate from that, death is seen from a very different angle. Death is a disease. How can it be benevolent, when it tears families apart? It tore Mary away from John. In a way, it took him from John. He just…counter-attacked what the universe has been trying to do to him for a long time. He unfortunately reaped less benefits than he originally presumed. 

He doesn't feel alive. But he isn’t dead, at least from what he can tell. Ever since he jumped that day, he never really came back fully alive. He left a piece of himself back on that roof, back in the countless countries that all bleed together. He likes to say he left his heart and deserted it, but it’s really not true. 

He left his inability to not love John Watson back on the rooftop, and he’s suffered for it. Pieces of his heart drag behind him, and if he wasn’t so terrified, maybe they’d fit back together. 

So no, death isn’t just a force. It is a monster. Hiding under his bed. Atop of his shoulders. In his head. Breaking his back. Sherlock just has to wait, as he’s waited before, for the demon to sink its teeth.

Waiting for some sign of forgiveness from the universe is getting old.

Sherlock hasn’t talked to John in little over 2 hours. His food hasn’t been touched, it’s been cold for a long time----not that he had an appetite anyways. 

 He had tried taking one bite of the steaming meal, and it made him feel ill enough that he had to stare at the floor for a moment to make sure he wouldn’t..be sick everywhere, which would be more unfortunate for the floor than himself. 

He decidedly put consuming any type of food off, though he tried to put his nose to the grindstone and drink some water. It didn’t work as well as he thought, but his brain isn’t spinning as badly and there are fewer specks dancing in his vision.  

His nausea is actually a recurring issue. 

It began about a month or two ago and hasn’t really gone away since. (It started just before Sherlock started using, his anxiety was..impressive even for him. But if he can blame his body’s demands for a better organism on his..misuse of substances, rather than blame it solely on being human, that will be enough for him.)

Once he stopped eating and drinking for nearly a week.  John was about to drag Sherlock to A&E. Sherlock would rather sit on a slab in the morgue than go into a hospital room, so with little convincing, he began “fixing” his malnourishment. 

He’s finally gotten this nausea under wraps enough that he’s not had to take medication, but John is always on his back, constantly advising him to take Valoid or any sort of motion sickness medication----but Sherlock knows it is probably neurologically related.

He’s been cautioned to take Buspar, and once under a blue moon he’ll take lorazepam which is exceedingly risky due to Sherlock being prone to destroying his way of life. 

John keeps exceedingly close track of how much lorazepam Sherlock was taking–having a history with substance abuse could be dangerous if he takes the medication longer than prescribed. 

Sherlock wishes John’s actions were arbitrary, but John, being the straight-forward doctor he is, makes sure Sherlock follows a tight schedule.

Straight-forward was a blanket-term that Sherlock hasn’t dived into. It’s a term for everything Sherlock isn’t and everything that John is, everything John has averred to be, an organised box to fit and adjust to. 

Sherlock is intentionally convoluted, always and forever. He doesn’t like to stall, he likes to explore options. 

Sherlock, throughout his childhood, was confronted by many neurologists and specialists, to discern exactly why Sherlock differed from so many children around him. He never found playtime or imaginative types of recreation with other youths to be a rewarding experience. Whenever Sherlock had company come over-company being friends of Mummy who had children who were dull and boring and so----–childlike. Of course, he knew he was different. How could he not not see when all signs were pointed that he was? 

Everyone else did. 

Over time as he has  grown older, he has overcome many obstacles, but ASD and dyspraxia are still and always will be a neurological ineptitude that Sherlock has to live with. Of course, he was extremely intelligent as a child, his IQ sky rocketing, but it certainly created a gap between him and his peers. Him and his parents. Medication existed for him. But it was a rarity in his small world. 

And expensive. 

He was limited on what he could do, even while fighting every step of the way. Mycroft had the ability to reign himself in and control his emotions and mind, Sherlock was never granted such skills. 

His Father had treated him like some basket-case, as if he was a part of great line of Holmes’ prestige for naught. He could see as clear as day that he wasn’t wanted. He wanted to please his parents or make them realise he wasn't just the token ‘weird’ one. But his tendencies resulted in paths that had led to a period where he relied on his own mind and the ignorance of others who didn’t care about him in the first place. He was angry all the time, always desiring to send deadly questions flying towards his parents. From what he knows, he was an oblivious child to a point, but that didn’t stop the questions from flooding his mind. 

He had stopped talking overall, though verbal communication was never an ability he failed to exceed. He kept himself trapped in his bedroom at Musgrave, and would only let Mummy come in to inevitably take him out to make sure he was staying alive. His parents didn’t relent Sherlock’s self imprisonment, they watched him---and they did nothing. 

Sherlock eventually had to emerge from his room, but it still took him nearly a year to start talking again. 

No one treated him ‘normally’. Why would anyone of the right mind treat a child who wasn’t normal, normally ?

Once he overcame the silence he'd grown to befriend, he was shortly sent off to an academy, the same academy Mycroft had been sent to two years prior to Sherlock’s mute period. His parents were scared, but they meant well. 

They were clueless, but they had meant no true harm. It just went downhill from there.

Teenagehood was hell on earth. But Sherlock got through most of it without error, even if at times he slipped and failed. 

Being a socially awkward 20 year old didn’t do much for acquiring jobs, forming relationships, and fitting into positively absurd status quos. By 30, he was renting out a flat through Mycroft.

To be alone is the greatest gift of all.

It was unusual when somebody took interest in his deductive skills. It made him cringe when he heard ‘incredibles’ or ‘wows’ from pea-brained individuals who couldn’t possibly fathom how Sherlock could deduce the simplest facts people just never took the time to see . 

John is the exception, though Sherlock would openly admit how stupid John can be sometimes. If a fact or detail was out of sight, it was out of mind, just not to him. 

He has never known the difference between what society deems normal, and what he deems as normal.

So, yes. 

He suffers and trudges on.

After cleaning dinner dishes, and putting Rosie to bed, John is now officially bone-tired.

He is sitting down with a small glass of whiskey ( bad decision) , watching an old British spy movie. He always puts these on when he needs to let go of everything going around him.  There’s also a small part of him, a young boy long forgotten, who used to dream about being a spy for the MI6, blowing up whatever he could get his hands on, always getting the girl, and always getting the last word. 

When he was sent to Afghanistan, being a soldier, it certainly was a reality check. Every little nuance from those movies was far more than just a nuance. Of course, real, war-hardened soldiers didn’t have ultra rich benefactors who wiped your existence off the face of the planet so your enemies couldn’t reach you. Soldiers had to grin and bear it, simply because there was no other way around it. 

Or not grin, and just bear it. 

John finds the bearing part to be easier said than done. He still looks back to the nights in his bedsit, curtains drawn, and a gun under his pillow. 

He would wait for anything. Any sign of decency was not present during those dark ungodly hours of the night. He’s never told Sherlock about that period. He’s never had to-and doesn’t want to. 

Every human being has reached low points varying from ‘Respectfully sad’ to ‘Best not give me a gun’. John had reached a place where he was veering towards the very south end of the spectrum. He had since attempted to turn his life around, and for a while, it worked. Stable job, stable spouse and child.

Life was stable, life was, would he dare say…good? 

It was good.

What a lie that was. 

His life is so very far from good--- good isn’t even in the dictionary to describe his life. Good isn't in the ballpark. Maybe Sherlock does know about those nights where John was all alone. John wouldn’t be surprised at this point. 

19:15 NEW MESSAGE, SENDER ID UNKNOWN: IS THIS JOHN WATSON? 

John’s eyebrows raise with confusion, as he looks down at his glowing phone. His immediate assumption is that the sender is Mycroft, but he is still cautious while typing his message. 

—- WHO’S THIS?

NEW MESSAGE 19:15: SORRY. IT’S GREG LESTRADE. I GOT A NEW MOBILE PHONE, AND I HAVEN’T HAD TIME TO ADD IN MY CONTACT INFORMATION. 

—-ALRIGHT. YES. 

John still feels hesitant. What if this sender isn’t Lestrade and is just some lowlife attempting to steal information from him? 

NEW MESSAGE 19:16: HOW’S SHERLOCK? THERE’S RUMOURS OF A BLACK MARKET DEAL GOING ON AND  SHERLOCK TEXTED ME EARLIER, SAYING HE GOT FINGERPRINTS FROM A BLOKE WITH IMPAIRED VISION RIGHT? WE THINK HE’S A LEAD IN THE DEALS THAT ARE GOING ON. UNLESS SHERLOCK’S JUST TRYING TO GET MY HOPES UP. 

NEW MESSAGE 19:16: IS HE? 

John smiles to himself. It’s Greg. 

—-HE’S FINE. GIVING ME A RIGHT GOOD TIME WITH TEMPER TANTRUMS LIKE A FIVE YEAR OLD. BUT HE’S FINE. 

NEW MESSAGE 19:16: SO THAT MEANS HE’S NOT FINE THEN?

—- I GUESS SO. HE TOLD ME ABOUT THE RUN-IN HE HAD WITH THE MUGGER AND THAT HE HAD A GUN PUT ON HIM. HE DIDN’T LET ME KNOW HE TOLD YOU. 

NEW MESSAGE 19:17: A GUN??? HE APPARENTLY DIDN’T SEE A GOOD REASON TO TELL ME THAT INFORMATION. 

“ Give me strength,” John sucks in a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

—- I SHOULD’VE SEEN THAT COMING. I’M SORRY.

NEW MESSAGE 19:17: HE’S SHERLOCK. WHAT CAN WE EXPECT?

—- PURE MELODRAMA. 

 John types this with absolute confidence.  

NEW MESSAGE 19:17: SOUNDS ABOUT RIGHT. ANYWAYS, HE’S NOT RESPONDING TO MY TEXTS, SO I WAS HOPING YOU’D LET HIM KNOW THIS: TOMORROW IF YOU BOTH HAVE TIME, I’D APPRECIATE IT IF YOU COULD BRING DOWN THE FINGERPRINTS. 

NEW MESSAGE 19:17: DONOVAN WANTS YOU TWO TO GET HERE 7 O’CLOCK  SHARP TOMORROW MORNING. I DON’T KNOW WHY. BUT THAT WAS THE TIME CHOSEN, UNFORTUNATELY. 

John raises his eyebrows, getting Sherlock up early in the morning was as easy as standing in the middle of traffic during rush hour in London, and not getting smashed by a cab. And it was even worse with Rosie. She was up at the break of dawn, as if  an alarm clock in the shape of a baby. 

—-I’M NOT ENTIRELY SURE. I’D HAVE TO SEE IF SOMEBODY CAN WATCH ROSIE. AND I HAVE TO GET THE OTHER TODDLER I LIVE WITH OUT OF BED WITHOUT GETTING PUMMELLED. BUT SURE, WHY NOT? 

NEW MESSAGE 19:17: OH RIGHT. IF YOU CAN’T MAKE IT, JUST LET ME KNOW.  

—-RIGHT. 

 NEW MESSAGE 19:17: LISTEN, I HAVE TO GO. ANDERSON IS ON MY BACK ABOUT THE DEATH OF SOME TUBE WORKER. GOOD LUCK, JOHN.

—-YOU TOO. I’LL LET YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENS TOMORROW. THANKS FOR TELLING ME THIS, GREG. 

 NEW MESSAGE 19:18: YEP, NO PROBLEM. HAVE A GOOD REST OF YOUR NIGHT. 

—-YOU TOO. 

And with that final message, John lightly places his phone on the coffee table before him, and thinks for a moment. 

Normally, Sherlock would be bouncing on the balls of his feet, elated. But now..would Sherlock even lift a finger to go to Scotland Yard? He seemed excited enough about the Arabian man who mugged him and there was even solid evidence: Fingerprints. Although Sherlock has now suddenly given the impression he’s been toiling away with crime and murder sprees and all that loveliness like he always has, he hasn’t solved a legitimate crime in almost a month. 

 It used to be that if Sherlock didn’t have a case within the next few days of solving one, he’d drive himself and everyone he lived with up a wall until he was given a new one. And of course, there was what Sherlock slapped on the title of “trivial crimes”, like jewellery store burglaries or missing persons cases. Sherlock craved crimes with motives. He didn’t want to chase after public nuisances to find them a day earlier than the police would. 

Sherlock needs a long winding road of deceit. He needs criminals who execute tasks to blur lines. Criminals who are one step ahead and stay that way. Because Sherlock has always wanted to prove he could best them and usually he did and still has. 

John is easily confused by Sherlock’s antics, and Sherlock himself but it doesn’t mean he’s a fool. Anyone would, if they were with him long enough, realise he wasn’t a heartless sociopath.  

He was just Sherlock. 

And it wouldn’t make any sense in the universe for him to be any different than what he already was. 

Despite his original doubt, he knows Sherlock more than he ever thought he would. The little things like him playing violin at ungodly hours of the morning, never finishing meals John spent too much time making. Only ever drinking coffee that was much too sweet for any human to healthily digest. Writing random scribbles and notes on checks and bills by accident. 

Walking out of his bedroom with only a bed sheet wrapped around him like a child with its favourite blanket. Never letting John mix up their laundry because whenever John did laundry it usually went …horribly wrong. 

Even the tiniest quirks, like how Sherlock has an organised sock drawer for the type and comfort level. 

Like how Sherlock hates spicy takeaway foods, but he’ll eat spicy meals that John makes. The way he puts his left shoe on every time before his right shoe, never the other way around. The fact he hates wearing trainers without laces because when he was younger it took him longer than an average child to tie his shoes so John has assumed that tying shoes is some sort of testimony to resilience for Sherlock. It was the little things. The little things that John can’t imagine him not doing. 

And actions that Sherlock did—--does—-(John doesn’t know at this point what Sherlock does any more). Actions that Sherlock did that rewarded himself. Like playing the violin at those ungodly hours, but to calm John after having nightmares due to the war that he never really left. 

The things people never notice, Sherlock notices. And John enjoys watching Sherlock observe. It is almost comforting of sorts. Like a sliver of Sherlock is still there. Not as loud and noticeable, but John thinks Sherlock still enjoys the deducing. Even if it’s not necessarily deducing serial killers and murders, it’s so simple and somewhat unintentional, it’s calming. John misses that. All of it. He’s never admitted it to Sherlock, missing them. Missing adventure. 

Because now, it wasn’t a game at all.

It should’ve just been a great game, with unknown turns at every corner. A great chess game that John would get swirled around in. Now it was just this exhausting battle. This long, so very long battle. 

Maybe it was even a war.

Was it between them? Was it them versus external forces? Was it them versus internal forces? Internal intentions? John has a war raging full of guilt and regret. Sherlock possibly deals with the same, but there’s something else. Neither of them can place it. Neither of them want to. It’s as if some rope is wrapped around each of their hands, binding them together, but in the centre, the rope is thin. It’s breaking every single time a glance isn’t shared or a step is taken back. The rope used to be strong. Unbreakable. It wasn’t tethered to anything except the reason it was made in the first place. 

Now it’s poorly tied and worn. The rope is snapping and becoming weaker, disintegrating and fading. How long will it take till it fully breaks? Till there’s nothing to tie them together? Will Sherlock even be able to look at John the same? Will he be able to do the same to Sherlock? 

Is he just undeserving? Is somebody else meant to fill Sherlock’s shoes? Is someone supposed to fill John’s? Are they just a time bomb? Are they just a piece of history? 

What are they to the world? What are they to each other?

John has lost sleep and will continue to lose sleep over this. He will always worry he doesn’t fit the expectations of others. He failed Mary, and he might as well continue with Sherlock. 

“John!” Sherlock’s baritone voice echoes through the halls, as John springs upwards. “John, get over here!” 

“What—” John calls as he dashes into the hallway where Sherlock’s bedroom is. 

"NOW!” Sherlock roars, his voice almost on the cusp of panic. 

John has no idea what Sherlock wants or needs, but just because of that reason his amygdala shoots ‘danger,’ throughout his body. 

John rips the door open and stares at the spectacle before him, which isn’t a spectacle at all,

Sherlock is sitting on the side of his bed, just staring at John, smoothing out the wrinkles on his duvet. 

“Sher…” John gasps for air, “What’s going on? Are you okay?” 

“Are you using your laptop currently?” Sherlock actually for once keeps eye contact with John, which adds to John’s confusion. 

 “Laptop? You don’t need me?” John asks, a bit dazed, the question he just asked hasn't processed in his mind yet.             

 “No..” Sherlock intones, “I mean I always need you in one way or another. But no. Are you using the laptop?” 

John stares at Sherlock a bit dumbfounded. He feels dumb. He should’ve assumed this was going to be something quite unimportant. Sherlock looks fine. His food hasn’t been touched, and his bed has revealed that Sherlock didn’t do anything sleep wise. Has he just been sitting like this for an hour?             

“So you called for me, you sounded like you were in danger or something and you just need…my laptop?”           

“Yes. Why does this surprise you?” Sherlock cocks his head. “Is this not what I usually do? Exaggerate? Annoy you?”

John has no idea what Sherlock is getting at, no clue at all.         

“Uh, do you want me to grab the laptop right now?” John pushes to see if this is legitimately about the stupid device. 

“Yes now! If I bloody act like it’s the end of the world for you to grab a bloody laptop, I think you might want to consider it!” Sherlock grits his teeth, as if he couldn’t possibly be perturbed by John doing anything else except the action Sherlock ordered him to do. 

John isn’t giving up. What if this is an olive branch?

“Just a laptop?” He asks, attempting to soften his tone. It seems as soon as John does this, Sherlock realises what John is doing.

Sherlock lets out an extremely weak snort and rolls his eyes, but it appears more as a side glance. 

“John, I have nothing to tell you. You want things to be normal, I’m trying. I’m being a ridiculous idiot for you to deal with.”

“You’re already a ridiculous idiot,” John gives himself a little room to allow some sarcastic comments. If Sherlock actually is serious about being not serious, John can be a bit snarky too. As long as it doesn’t end up in some relationship ruining argument. 

 “Touche,” Sherlock shrugs, “I hope you aren’t taking this as if I’m giving you leeway and everything’s fine now,”

“Even if you were, I wouldn’t exactly be enthralled.” John tries to suppress a smile, but his lips sneak a slight grin. 

“Oh stop smiling at me. There’s nothing worth to smile about,” 

John can practically see another brick being added to Sherlock’s wall. John waits for a moment, seeing if Sherlock will say something, but when he doesn’t, John doesn’t feel frustrated or disappointed. 

He feels…a bit worried. Maybe that’s not the right word for it, but it's the only thing John can organise into thought right now. 

“I’ll get the laptop then,” John says quietly, as Sherlock gives a half-hearted nod. 

“And you..you’re alright?” John asks.

“Mm.” Sherlock tears his eyes away as he looks at his lamp at his beside like it’s the most fascinating object in existence. 

 He’s definitely attempting a pre-emptive strike. 

John turns around to face Sherlock’s door, his shoulders unintentionally sag, his arms feeling a bit dead-weight. John should have a big shiny medal for dealing with Sherlock throughout the years.

It’s a little insensitive, a little selfish, but acknowledgement would be a pleasant surprise.

Maybe it's pointless. It probably is. 

John walks out the door, his eyes glancing at a circumspect Sherlock, whose eyes are watching John intently. The silence is almost painful, giving John all the more reason to exit the room. 

He grabs the laptop that’s on the kitchen’s island. The laptop is unexpectedly hot to the touch, though it hasn't been touched in a good couple hours. 

How many tabs has Sherlock left open this time? 

John sighs, and carries the laptop to Sherlock’s room, and once he’s back in the strangely neat place, Sherlock scrambles off of his bed, swipes the laptop from John’s arms, and crashes back onto the bed. Sherlock's legs are now in a criss-cross position, the laptop in the centre of the pretzel that are Sherlock’s legs. 

“Will you answer if I ask you why you so desperately needed this?” John gestures towards the laptop, Sherlock’s brows are furrowed.

“...Research.” Sherlock keeps his eyes on the laptop. 

“What for?” John steps a bit closer, as Sherlock scooches away, obviously trying to hide what he’s searching. 

“Experiments.” Sherlock answers, a noticeable pop in his 'P' that he uses when he’s tired of being asked questions.

Or is it the 'P' he uses when he’s about to throw a mug into a wall?

 John prays to God it’s not the latter. 

“On what?” John can’t help but ask, trying to portray his tone as gentle, but there’s more of a bite to it then he had intended. 

Sherlock still doesn’t look up at him, as John contemplates leaving the room. 

“You know, I can just look at your search history. It is my laptop.” John notes.

“Then I’ll confiscate it.” Sherlock shrugs, “I’ve done it before.” 

That last part of his sentence makes John’s eyebrows raise. 

“You probably shouldn't have told me that.” John scoffs, and looks down, rubbing his temples. 

Sherlock answers with an unintelligible hum and keeps his eyes glued on the screen. 

“Do you want me to leave?” John asks, his presence does not feel wanted. 

Sherlock looks up this time. There are creases in his face John’s never seen before. Worry lines of some sort? 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything as his eyes travel up John’s entire body then land on the floor. He closes his eyes, then looks back up at John. 

Before John can say anything, Sherlock’s lips turn inwards, into some sort of scowl. 

“Does that mean yes?” John asks, a bit more hurt than he’d like to admit. 

“I don’t want you to leave, but I don’t want you to stay.” Sherlock says, an edge to his tone. The tone of voice cuts deep into John’s skin, but he refuses to let his feather’s be ruffled. 

“Well, I’ll make the decision. Before I leave ,” John doesn’t know why he chose the latter, but it's too late now. Sherlock’s face doesn’t change from the scowl, but his eyes blink as if he’s struggling to process the information given to him. 

“Lestrade texted me. He said he’d like for us to bring down the fingerprints so analysts can do their jobs, and possibly give us some information. We’d leave by 7:00 in the morning. Does that sound—-”

“Yes. Fine.” Sherlock answers, no emotion in his tone. 

“Uh, right then. I need to see if Mrs. Hudson can watch Rosie..I don’t have enough time to drop her off at daycare.” John adds. The information is pointless to Sherlock, but John still feels the need to let him know. 

“Alright….” Sherlock almost says it as a question. 

“Right..do you—--have any questions for tomorrow?” John bites his lip.

“Questions?” Sherlock’s jaw clenches. Not a good sign. 

“Yeah, I mean, if we get concrete evidence and if the Arab is a part of some giant crime-syndicate or something, is there appeal? I mean, if this becomes a case—------

“Will I take it?” Sherlock finishes John’s sentence, as John swears he sees the flicker of a younger, more free person in the centre of Sherlock’s eyes. 

“If that makes you get off my back about everything,” Sherlock waves his arms around, implying ‘everything’, and the old Sherlock in his eyes dissipates. John will take that. He’s taken it. John doesn’t bloody care at this point. If Sherlock will actually leave the flat, do something other than act like the most miserable man on the planet, John doesn’t care what Sherlock’s reasoning is behind the decision. Yeah, it’s a bit brainless and maybe a bit dangerous. Isn’t that what they lived for? Isn’t that why Sherlock wanted a flatmate in the first place? 

 “Alright.” John clears his throat. “Alright—-erm—“ 

John feels a rising sense that this would be prime time to leave. Sherlock’s not giving him any sort of attention or time so why stay? 

“John!” Sherlock unexpectedly barks, as he slams the laptop screen down. “This awkwardness is absolutely killing me, get whatever bloody concoction of concerns you have for me out of your system. And please stop standing there like some nervous primary schooler! I’m not going to beat the snot out of you, am I?” 

John stares at Sherlock blankly. Where on Earth has this frustration spiralled from? John keeps his calm, and squeezes his fists tightly then lets go. 

“You just..do you want me to take your plate? You didn’t eat———-much.” John says between a gulp. 

 “Oh.” Sherlock looks as if he’s been dropped off on Earth from a spaceship. His cheeks turn a slight pink as he murmurs, “Go ahead.” 

John sees the plate of food on the floor at the end of Sherlock's bed. He berates himself as he feels embarrassment puncture his stomach. Why is he even doing this? Acting like some housekeeper? Ignoring what he really needs to talk about by doing chores that aren’t his? 

To his surprise, Sherlock gets up off the bed and shakes his head. 

“I’ll get it——-just l-leave. I’ll see you in the morning.” He doesn’t meet John's gaze as Sherlock leans forward to pick up the plate of food as John steps away. John notices the plate shaking in Sherlock’s hands, and almost says something——but a clap of thunder seems to arrive just in time to prevent him from speaking.

“Forecast was wrong. As usual.” Sherlock murmurs and looks out his window, and John barely eyes the dark painting spreading across the sky, buildings in the distance appear in and out of the clouds, like sharks in murky water.

Pleasant. Definitely adds to the sour mood elicited from the events from today. 

“Nothing like London’s cold grey skies to make you feel more at home.” John quips, and it elicits a hum of agreement from Sherlock. 

“John.” Sherlock says as they both begin walking towards the door, John at Sherlock’s heels——-but at the same time, he’s a good distance away. It proves he’s not comfortable. Why should he be? “I’m..sorry.” 

“It’s alright. No point in it anymore.” John tries to portray his tone as casual, but it just sounds more tired than anything else.

“Right.” Sherlock matches John’s tone, but it also sounds more forced than Sherlock probably realises. 

“Well..see you tomorrow then?” John says as Sherlock gives him room to move out the doorway. John nearly trips over Sherlock’s feet, his nose almost going right up Sherlock’s armpit. 

 Sherlock actually laughs, a deep rumbling thing, and John almost does a double take. It’s a miracle. And he wishes he could hear that laugh on replay, because who knows when he’ll hear it again? Sherlock’s face instantly tenses up as John gives Sherlock a half-genuine smile and hopes maybe he can leave tonight on a good note. 

Sherlock moves down the hallway to the kitchen and John follows him as he then makes a right to go upstairs to his room. John doesn’t really get why Sherlock told him to leave his room, because they’d be going the same way to get to their separate destinations. If Sherlock intended to leave with John why would he—---it doesn’t matter. John’s putting far too much thought into this. 

John glances at Sherlock, who’s just standing near the entrance to the kitchen, and John waits almost curiously to see what he’ll do next. 

Sherlock, on cue, turns around. No scowl. No worry lines are there either. 

“See you tomorrow, John.” He blinks, and John stares at him for a moment. A closed smile. 

 Where has THIS come from? A smile? From Sherlock?

 A smile and laugh from Sherlock.

John lets that marinate, for probably too long, because it seems like he has blinked, and Sherlock has disappeared into the kitchen—-just out of John’s line of sight. 

And just like that, a rare occurrence in the universe has become forgotten. Unfortunately for him, this won’t be the last time John will have to witness then watch a moment fade away all too quickly.

Chapter Text

“It was nigh that I discovered that most things that you consider evil or wicked, are simply lonely, and lacking in the social niceties.”--Daniel Wallace

John’s eyelids fly open to the sound of his alarm clock screeching and he groans. He fumbles for the snooze button. Once his fingers reach the curved plastic ridge, his eyes still bleary, he clicks the button and reads the clock:

06:00

He’s generally surprised Rosie hadn’t been screeching at 5 in the morning, but he’ll take that extra hour of sleep he got with gratitude. He lays in bed for a moment, and stares at the ceiling as he’s hit with a tidal wave of adrenaline. 

Alarm. 7.  Lestrade. Case. Sherlock. Crap. 

He rips off his bed sheets and wobbly steadies himself as he stares at his daughter's crib, Rosie’s moving around a little——she’ll be awake any moment. He itches the collar of an old sleep shirt he tiredly slipped last night. He walks over to Rosie’s crib. The lights are off in the room but there’s a faint light coming from behind the window curtains near the opposite side of his bed. 

Rosie’s eyes flutter open as she looks a bit disoriented. Her eyes focus on John’s face, and a flicker of recognition settles in her eyes. She lets out an impatient squeal as John smiles gently.

“Good morning, Rosamund.” John whispers as he leans over and picks her up, cradling her in his arms. Her eyes are wide as she gurgles a little. 

“Let’s clean you up, mm? Get you some breakfast?” He hums as Rosie intently stares at John like he’s the most wondrously interesting thing on Earth. 

He doesn’t mind that. Not at all. 

“You know, you and Sherlock really aren’t that different. You don’t go to bed till bloody 2 in the morning, then I have a 50/50 chance you might get up at a reasonable time or two very different spectrums of ungodly times. Isn’t that right, Rosie?” John strokes her underneath her chin. 

“Hopefully Sherlock’s up.” John murmurs to himself as he brings Rosie over to the changing station he had a bloody right time installing—-Mary would’ve been laughing her head off at the amount of anger that spiralled out from the use of a screwdriver. Sherlock had been a nit picky sod who watched him like a hawk and told him everything he was doing wrong. 

John shouldn’t have been surprised Sherlock knew about how to build something for infants, but he was. As he always is. 

After changing Rosie, struggling himself to get dressed into something presentable, and attempting to violently scrub the dirt lingering inside the pores on his face, he walks down the stairs. He puts his bets on the whole of London that Sherlock is already up, and if he isn’t, that whole ordeal will be most likely out the window-

“Gah!" John yelps as his arms tightly squeeze around Rosie, bracing her from the blur in front him. Rosie whines as John feels two arms grab his shoulders and he steps backwards to see who’s touching him. 

“What—-“ He looks up at Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock’s up? 

“Sorry.” He gives a very unapologetic look to John and looks down at Rosie. He lets go of John’s shoulders and steps backwards.    

“I don’t care. You’re up, so that’s another thing to check off the list.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.   

“I have to feed Rosie, give her to Mrs. H, then we can go, alright?” John walks into the kitchen as he slips Rosie’s bum on his arm and holds her against his chest. Her whining has simmered into slight humming and gurgles.       

“Do you need…assistance?” Sherlock says, as he strides over next to John, a hesitant look in his eyes.     

“Uh, actually yes. I sent Mrs. Hudson a text last night about watching Rosie til we get back. She’s free but can you go downstairs—-actually let me go check. You’ll give the woman a heart attack or something.” John desperately needs caffeine.      

“Thank you John.” Sherlock grits his teeth. 

“Shut it. Can you feed Rosie for me, just for a moment? Her formula is already made, it’s in the fridge. Just be sure to keep her head straight up if you’d prefer to hold her and not put her in the feeding chair….” John trails off as Sherlock’s eye brows furrow, his confused expression almost endearing.            

“Me?” He says, his sea-glass eyes blink rapidly.    

 “Oh for Christ sakes——here—“ John turns to Sherlock and before Sherlock can hold his hands out, John stops for a moment. He subconsciously checks for Sherlock’s hands to be shaking.

They aren't. 

Sherlock pulls his arms out and John delicately places Rosie there, her head resting in the crease between his arm and chest. Sherlock seems to be locked in a trance with Rosie, as his pointer finger inches forward to brush her hand.           

“Formula, Sherlock.” John snaps Sherlock out of his trance as he looks at John with some sort of dazedly warm glance. 

John can’t believe he’s thinking this..but how can someone be that starstruck by his 11 month old? Rosie’s the most beautiful and important thing in John’s life, but the look on Sherlock’s face is strangely relaxed and somehow just as disconcerting.        

“Right.” Sherlock clears his throat as John has to remind himself to physically move his feet to get downstairs. This image in front of him is so rare and just unnatural—-how can the universe be this cruel to not let it happen more? For his life to feel just the slightest bit back in a rhythm? It doesn’t need to be normal. Normal is the bane of Sherlock’s existence and his own . He just wants to be..ever changing..in a good routinely but chaotic way. 

John can’t ever tell what he wants. This is no different.     

John trudges down the stairs, trying to be light-footed but failing. To his relief, he sees a wide awake Mrs. Hudson, sipping coffee at her small kitchen table.            

“Oh good morning John!” She smiles and sets down her mug.      

“Hello.” He returns the smile, but it’s not as amiable as he knows it should be.               

“I assume Rosie is up then? What about Sherlock——ooh did you have to whack a pillow at his face to get him up like last time?” She bites her lip, a bit of fear in her eyes.                  

“No pillow whacking, I can assure you. Though I missed my chances. The berk was already up.” John can’t help but smile, though the edges of his lips still feel twitchy. Maybe he just hasn’t been smiling enough. And that’s another subject he’d prefer to not go into.                   

“I just wanted to let you know that once Sherlock and I are ready and Rosie’s fed, I’ll come down and drop her off. She shouldn’t need to be changed between the time we leave and when we come back but just incase——“                   

“I think I have it, John. This isn’t my first rodeo with children.” She crosses her arms, a warmness plays on her features.                  

“You never had children—-am I missing something?” He furrows his brows.

Maybe I shouldn't have asked.                   

“What’s that to do with it?” She gives John a slight put off look and John smirks.                      

“Right, um, so I guess you’re all set then. Everything’s upstairs..I didn’t have the time to group everything together so——“                     

“It’s alright. I’ll manage!” She chuckles. “You worry too much John. Just go have fun with Sherlock and do some crime solving!”

“Fun isn’t a word I’d use but I’ll try and make use of our time.” He ignores the bitter edge to his voice. 

Mrs. Hudson just barely acknowledges this, and gives John an unintelligent hum in response. 

Why does it seem like John’s been the only person who lives in this building that uses more than 2 syllable answers?                     

“Oh for queen and country, John! Get yourself upstairs and get Sherlock out of this dreary flat!” Mrs. Hudson snaps, John startles, not ready for loud noise at this hour. Toddler screaming is something he's adjusted to, 70-something landlady volumes might be deadly to John's eardrums.                  

“Right.” He nods and turns. “Oh–-and you’re sure—"                      

“John!” She glares, exasperated. 

“Alright. I’ll get Sherlock out of the flat to be a part of the bloody world for once.” He shakes his head and leaves her room. What he doesn’t say is that he may be able to get Sherlock out of the flat, but he fears how long Sherlock can last in the world.               

“Ready?” Sherlock greets John at the top of the stairs, Rosie cradled against his hip, sipping milk, in his other hand is Rosie’s front carrier, two bags full of her toys, clothes, nappies and other things fit to keep Rosie alive for an afternoon. 

Had he been waiting there?

Also, this is the first time, John realizes, he’s seen Sherlock cradling Rosie like that since…well since Mary. He looks like he was made to hold her. John swallows down the ball of light in his chest. 

Back to reality Watson. 

“I feel as if I should be asking you that.” John allows himself to smirk.                      

“Yes. I’m ready. Now if you wouldn’t mind taking your daughter, I’d be more than..happy to leave this flat.” Sherlock’s clearly forcing a more provocative tone. John wonders why as Sherlock hands him the bags, baby carrier and such. 

And just stares. 

It gets uncomfortably long and John clears his throat. 

“Well, er, we don’t have all day. Mind if I take my daughter?” John inches forward and Sherlock nods, who still seems a bit dazed. He takes Rosie who squirms and babbles, unhappy with her position in John’s arms. Sherlock watches like a hawk from a respectful distance, as if he’s learning the secrets of the universe through Rosie's cries for freedom. 

John thinks he hears Sherlock murmur something about ‘safety features’ and ‘choking hazard’ but he cancels out the feedback and maintains his focus on Rosie. He doesn’t really take in the thought he let loose, until he gets some of the bags on his arm, and looks up to see Sherlock is muttering something loud enough for John to hear again. 

Feedback, huh? That’s all he is now? 

“---it’s dreadful right now, honestly the state of the lanes needs to be changed.” Sherlock’s tone sounds tight, and John whips his head around to see him facing the door, Sherlock’s hand on the doorknob. 

“You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?” The detective murmurs and takes his hand off of the knob, not moving to face John. 

“I-No, sorry guess not.” John rubs his neck, “What’d I miss?” He tries to shift the octave of his tone upwards to sound friendlier and disarming. Sherlock just shrugs in response, grabbing the door handle again.

“Nothing of significant importance. The traffic today is absolute rubbish.” 

“Ah.” John swallows and Sherlock opens the door, the cool air from outside flowing into the room, sending a chill that spreads up John’s spine. “It’s London so what can we expect?” 

“The very worst.” Sherlock says without the slightest bit of humour in his tone, though his lips do curl upwards a hair. Not intending to be funny, but still arrogant enough to be amused by himself.

Sherlock steps outside, and John carries Rosie to Mrs. Hudson's kitchen door. She opens it and giggles as Rosie sees her, Rosie gurgling in equal fervor. 

"We're gonna have a day to ourselves aren't we?" She cooes as John sets down the several bags of child survival commodities and sighs. 

"We shouldn't be out too long, but you never know with Sherlock. I'll call you. You have her schedule so she should just be put down for a nap around 1-ish, and then she'll probably be ready around 7 for sleep but if not--"

"Shush I have this." Mrs. Hudson squishes Rosie to her chest, Rosie giving John a side eye that almost threatens murder. John suppresses a smile. 

"Okay. I'll be off then." He waves goodbye, and turns, tightening his jacket. 

He finds the door open, Sherlock waiting on the steps. 

He shoots him a closed smile, Sherlock walking to the kerb. 

John watches as Sherlock neatly places his feet against the end of the pavement near the road and scans towards the building sea of traffic. 

“Sherlock. Car remember?” John says, pointing to his vehicle parked a couple spaces down. Sherlock blinks, processing and then without another word, pads over to the car. John unlocks the car, Sherlock still scanning the area, as if looking for imminent threats. 

"Oi, Terminator." He raises his voice, Sherlock glaring at him across the width of the car. "Mind gettin' in?"

Sherlock silently slides into the passenger seat, and John turns the car on. 

"Text Greg we're heading out." He says, slowly pulling out of the spot. 

"Greg?" Sherlock murmurs. 

"Text Lestrade." John huffs, pulling out into the road, just to immediately slam his brakes at traffic stopping at a light ahead of them. 

"Holy--" John grunts. He doesn't loathe much, but London traffic? His patience grows thin the second he unlocks his car. 

"You didn't see the cab right there?" Sherlock asks. 

"The cab stopped short. I wasn't expecting a light change."

"So you failed to see the cab." 

John can't tell if Sherlock is trying to be an arse, or is genuinely clueless. He finds regardless of the itent, Sherlock often gets the same reaction from John. 

"Until we get out of this car, just..don't talk. Please." 

Sherlock nods, solemn. 

Sherlock would never do that. Not the giddy, laughing, dancing through the streets of London, Sherlock he knew. 

Of course, I'm a show off. It's what's we do. 

The game is on.

Baker Street, come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway.

"John!" John snaps out of his thoughts to see the back end of the cab far past the light, horns blaring from all over. 

"Jesus, what--"

"You requested I didn't speak. Apparently, you were lost in thought enough to ignore basic rules of traffic." Sherlock folds his hands in his lap neatly, watching.

"You--" John pulls forward, the person behind him now definitely will be on his tail the entire ride. 

"If it's possibly death related, please feel free to bring your thoughts to the table." He mutters.

Today will be fine. 

It's all fine. 

"Took you long enough." 

John turns out of his chair facing Lestrade's desk to see Lestrade, charging through swinging doors, face red. 

"I just wandered all the way from the observation room. You could've texted me you were here." He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "And you basically snuck through here too."

"We have clearance." Sherlock shrugs, by the door. He sits in a chair by a water dispenser, watching droplets hit the bottom of the container. "The desk sergeant refused to let us in." 

"No, you have permission from me and me only. Wait next time would you? I don't need an unregistered private--"

"Consulting." Sherlock glares.

"I don't need you getting me written up." He sighs. "You let him--"

"I assumed he knew what he was doing." John shrugs. He finds it's better to let Sherlock and Lestrade rough it out with things like this. And he likes watching if he's honest.

"We tried to trace anyone in our database similar to your description of the man." Lestrade clears his throat, sitting in his chair across, feet kicked up on the desk. "Didn't have much obviously but we do have some track records of direct physical attacks on your brother." 

Sherlock stands, pulling out a plastic bag with a small card, a black smudge against the white. Fingerprint. 

"Well get on it then." Sherlock sniffs, he drops the bag onto the table, the black fingerprint sitting there, almost boring into John. 

He's masking. Something isn't right. 

He seems impatient, but it's not an excited anxiousness. It feels like reserved dread. 

Lestrade rolls his eyes and grunts, putting his legs down as he grabs the plastic bag and walks off. 

"We'll have it rendered in 15 minutes to get a facial match. Will take at least an hour or more to get a basic background check, but if his file is obscure, then it could take a couple days. I'll text you." Lestrade waits for them to walk with him. 

John feels like this was a waste of a morning. 

"Good. Well I'll take John then." 

"Taking John where now?" He looks up at Sherlock, who's standing beside him, watching the cloudy skyline. 

"I have an appointment to make." 

"And I have a daughter."

He can't go. The Game isn't going to be chased anymore. 

"She's got Mrs. Hudson doesn't she? It'll only take a bit." He flaps his coat collar and turns. 

Make him wear the hat, he likes the hat. 

John. 

Get the hell on with it.

"No." John swallows. 

Sherlock keeps walking, but John doesn't miss the tense of his shoulders. 

"Sherlock, I have work. I have Rosie, I can't galavant off to wherever to do something possibly life-endanger--"

"I have to make a stop at Bart's. That's all." Sherlock walks past Lestrade to the door. "Thanks Giles." He gives him a mock-cheery smile and heads out the door. 

John bites the inside of his lip, he feels a myriad of emotions hit him, all mostly negative. He wants this, gosh, he does. He wants to go wherever Sherlock wants, he wants to just make that jump. He fears it's just too far of a leap. Even if it's an edge of a cliff, it's still the ground. 

John stands reluctantly, straightening his shoulders. Sherlock looks back at him, sharp face, calculating expression, and he nods, as if uncertain of John's final decision, but hoping anyway. He doesn't hide his hope well. Sherlock's pride would surely crumble at that. Mary's pride was vast, unrelenting, and exposing, similar to Sherlock's he guesses. Sherlock was able to sacrifice though. Mary always kept what she had, always in the focus of her best interest. 

Sherlock, of course, is self-centered. But he also gives. He gives and gives and gives. Because at the end of the day, John knows, Sherlock doesn't care about what happens to himself really. 

"John." Greg stops him, his face concerned. "You alright?"

"Yeah." He whips up a reassuring smile and claps Greg's shoulder. "Thanks Greg. I'm sure we'll be back soon." 

Greg returns it with as little energy as possible and leaves, walking down the harshly lit hallway, footsteps padding into the distance. 

"John." Sherlock calls from the opposite side, arms in his pockets. "Coming?"

John breathes out and calms his heartbeat. 

"Coming." 

The corridors of Bart's are always glaringly white, for practically living in clinics and hospitals, John still feels under surveillance while wandering through hallways of medical institutions. 

Sherlock leads him into the lab, door slamming open. John spots Molly, eyes wide, her hand clenched onto a vial of some sort of liquid. The pristine walls, counters, and floors all give John a headache, equipment strewn across all surfaces. 

"Uh, hi." She says, brown eyes scanning the both of them. "Is everything okay? Sherlock, you aren't stabbed are you?" She sets the vial down, wandering over to the men, 

"Not stabbed, thank you." Sherlock shakes his head. "Is your computer in use currently?"

"No, but--"

"Now it is." The detective wanders to a small chair, settling in front of a work computer, instantly typing away. 

"Hi Molly." John smiles at her, her face tight with worry. 

"Hi John. Why are you--"

"Case. I think? I don't know anything." He watches, looking at Sherlock type and mutter, eyebrows occasionally raising in frustration. 

"It's nice to see you. Him and you. Together." She crosses her arms, her lab coat two-times too big folding almost comical against her thin frame. 

"Uh, yeah. He told me he was at the lab with you for--"

"Mhm. He had some tests he wanted to run."

Tests? 

"He was here for a while." John nods, meeting Molly's gaze, which is latched on Sherlock. She looks saddened by him. 

"He had a lot of work to cover apparently." She shrugs. "I let him be for most of it."

John swallows. 

"John." Sherlock, snaps, his dark curls messily covering his forehead. "A healthy respiratory rate is between 12-20 breaths per minute."

"Yes, and?"

"Yours is strikingly low, remind your brain to exhale." 

Oh.

John feels the tightness in his chest and he breathes out.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" Molly wanders over to the counter. 

"Doing a basic background check." 

"On who? And why my lab computer?"

"My brother. Chemical scans. I have his saved." 

"Why your brother?" John shoves his hands in pockets. He hates being confused. He forgot how belittling it feels. 

"I want my brother's health records brought to me."

"And you think Bart's will have it?" John scoffs. 

"No, but I have access.." Sherlock types something and the computer makes a soft "whoosh" noise. "And Molly will in a moment."

"I still don't know what's going on." John interjects. Sherlock, of course, ignores him, still typing. 

"I believe threats are going to be made on my brother's life. His medical access is important."

"Isn't your brother's life threatened...regularly?" Molly asks, giving a dubious glance to John. 

"Yes." Sherlock says, clipped. "You should receive an email shortly retaining his medical status. Send it to me. Delete it once it is forwarded."

"Why wouldn't you send it to yourself--"

"Mycroft has my sent emails under tabs." Sherlock shrugs. 

"And you're certain life threats will made?" John scoffs. "You don't have any--"

"Yes. I do." Sherlock nods. "Look."

John feels his heart rate drop, throat closing. 

He turns the computer, a mugshot of a square-faced, tan man, dark eyes, shaved scalp, a bruise on the bottom of his right eye. 

"Anton Mycek. Our mugger."

John looks down at his phone. 

It has been 15 minutes for a facial rec. 

"Don't have any information yet." Sherlock sniffs. "But I know he's Assyrian. Black Market ops. Had affiliations with my brother gone wrong."

John doesn't see any information on the mugshot, it's literally just the photo and a blurry name plastered on the side of the document file. 

"How do you know that?" Molly leans in, voice a bit shaky.

John's stomach twists into something ugly, dizziness causing his vision to swim. He keeps himself grounded though, watching Sherlock's eyes trace over the photo. He's not just analyzing, he's remembering something. 

"I know who he is, unfortunately." Sherlock sniffs. "He wasn't around for long, deployed back to wherever the next operation was. Probably 4 weeks max." 

"Sherlock.." Molly looks at him, then to John, her eyes carrying a deep concern. John breathes out. 

"Operation for what?" John clears his throat, staring back and forth between Sherlock and the screen. 

Sherlock exhales, fiddling with his Belstaff and turns away, towards the doors. 

"Sherlock." John latches onto his arm, he doesn't miss the flinch that rolls up Sherlock's figure. "What. Operation?"

Sherlock swallows and looks down at John, the corners of his cupid bow tilted down into an almost distasteful expression. 

"Serbia." He wrenches his arm free and walks to the door. "I'll explain on the way." 

John watches him stalk through the doors, his heart feels unbearably tight, his joints locked in ways he can't simply loosen with a stretch. 

"He's not going to explain." Molly sighs from behind. John peers out the door, seeing the collar of Sherlock's coat and his curls bouncing with his stride. 

"No. He isn't." John swallows. "Thanks Molly. I'm sure we'll be back." 

"Keep him safe." She says louder, and John waves a hand at her, walking out the doors. 

Keep him safe. 

Even if John certainly would like to do that, he's not certain it's possible.

Who can keep Sherlock Holmes down, but Sherlock Holmes himself? 

John figures, it's not him. 

At least not for a while. 

Not now. 

Chapter Text

In a perverse way, I was glad for the stitches, glad it would show, that there would be scars. What was the point in just being hurt on the inside? It should bloody well show.-Janet Fitch

John

Speedy's is slow today, only two customers sitting down in stools facing the street. Sherlock pads over to him from the order counter, holding a paper bag and basket of fish and chips.

"I wouldn't trust my life with what you ordered." Sherlock sniffs, grimacing. 

John frowns as Sherlock hands him the bag, passing it as if it's dead rodent. 

"It's just a bloody cod sandwich." 

"It reeks." 

"You're literally eating fish and chips." 

Sherlock sigh, popping a fry into his mouth. "Your sandwich is grossly layered in mayonnaise and steaming pickles, the bun is stale and the cod isn't fully cooked."

"You could just not spoil my lunch for me." 

"I'm saving you from gastrointestinal issues later." Sherlock grumbles, exiting out the door, John following. 

"I thought we were going to be out for longer." John steps onto their flat's steps, unlocking the door. 

"Analysis went quicker than I thought. I'll have to make a visit and pry information from Mycroft later." 

John feels something uncertain twist in his stomach. Something's off. 

"Information?"

"About our lead?" Sherlock murmurs. 

He and Sherlock walk side by side, shoulders nearly brushing. 

Sherlock makes his start up the steps and pauses when John doesn't follow. 

"Rosie, remember?" John scoffs, turning to Mrs. Hudson's door.

"Yes." Sherlock looks down at his basket, looking less than pleased with his choice of lunch. 

He knocks on Mrs. Hudson's door, and waits. It opens after a few seconds, the older woman holding his child in her arms. Rosie looks content, sleepy, eyes widening at the sight of her father. 

"Back early?" She smiles gently. 

"Yeah, somebody miscalculated." John grumbles, side eyeing Sherlock. 

"I do not miscalculate." Sherlock jabs. 

I could prove you far differently. 

"Well, Rosie was just lovely. Didn't take to her breakfast though." Mrs. Hudson huffs, diverting the tension. "All her things are just inside." She motions to the inside of the door, a couple bags peeking out from the side. 

"Sherlock, grab these." Mrs. Hudson glares at him, and Sherlock grumbles something and moves to obey her request, still holding his basket of food. John's heart picks up when the man brushes past him. 

"Thank you again for watching her." John smiles as he moves to take his daughter. Rosie coos at John, soft lips slipping into a small smile. Sherlock heads back to the steps, waiting impatiently, a scowl on his pale face, balancing bags and his lunch together. 

"Of course John. You know I love Rosie--she's just an angel honestly, never causes me any--"

"John I believe we have things to do." Sherlock sniffs. 

"We don't?" John furrows his brow. 

Sherlock blinks, holding the bags tighter. "I have things to do." 

A soft hesitance emanates from the man, he scans the room. Does he want John to follow him? 

"Well, uh--"

Sherlock turns and goes up the steps, soon out of John's view. 

John feels an emptiness claw into his body, ripping at his organs to burrow deep. He ignores it. 

"I'll be uh......well, in the flat if you need me." John nods, Mrs. Hudson gives him a glance of pity. 

"Go on then." She crosses her arms, an expression Mary always gave him piercing into his soul. Then get the hell on with it. 

"Right." John turns. 

The living area is empty, but John hears clutter come from the kitchen. 

John probably needs to feed Rosie, her discomfort growing more obvious in his arms. 

"Sherlock, is Rosie's bottle in one of those bags?" He makes for the kitchen, Sherlock standing above a vial and his microscope, his lunch sitting on the countertop, looking discarded. John sees the remnants of the fingerprint kit. 

"Left bag." Sherlock murmurs, pointing to the pile of bags crumpled on the floor by the entrance. 

"Thanks." John grumbles back and takes Rosie down to her high chair. 

"What are you doing now?" John grabs one of the bags which he opes to God has some sort of canned, softened food in it to try and get Rosie to eat. 

Silence. 

"Sure, ignore me." John grabs a baby food pouch with the contents of some sort of orange food and he turns to his daughter, looking at him with wide eyes. 

He smiles at her, a soft look only meant for his daughter. 

"Okay love, let's try and have an appetite today." He opens the pouch and holds it to her lips, her chubby hands grabbing at the edges. She looks hesitant but takes the container and starts drinking out of it. 

Victory.

John finds he probably needs to eat too. It can wait. 

He turns, facing the kitchen, Sherlock still hovering above his microscope, quietly shifting between adjusting it and typing on his computer. 

"Sherlock, with the case and with...with Anton, what are you planning on doing?" 

Sherlock looks up at him, eyes dark. "Nothing."

"What?"

"Nothing." Sherlock repeats in the same, empty tone.

"You almost bloody broke the flat earlier out of excitement for this--this case, and now it's just nothing?" John holds back the bite in his tone as much as he can. 

"Precisely." Sherlock sniffs. 

"I get it's probably not the most riveting information to handle with who Anton was, but you don't just drop a case like this Sherlock!" John frowns. 

"I know his identity." Sherlock shrugs. "What else is there?"

"Well, I don't know, to catch him? Bring him to justice? What else?" Anger swells in his stomach, that familiar grasp for control lingering. Why Sherlock can't just get the point at times is beyond John. 

"Lestrade will handle it accordingly." Sherlock snaps up from his work, annoyed. 

"He'll handle it? Sherlock, what the hell are you on about? This man--"

"This man is lethal in nature and I'm not going after someone who can bring more damage to us--to me." 

Ah. 

"You're scared." John scoffs. "Of course, it makes sense." 

"I am not scared. I'm taking a precautionary mindset to an issue that will be dealt with."

"No, you're just avoiding the issue." 

"What would you have me do then?" Sherlock growls. "Jump into battle and toil away with some elaborate hunt for a man that does not want to be found and risk......" He clamps his mouth shut, brilliant eyes dulled. 

"I---just, you could try." 

"Try what?" Sherlock snips. 

"Try jumping in again. I don't know, you just sit around the flat and you aren't you and maybe it would serve your best interest if you took a moment to actually--"

"My best interest?" Sherlock looks furious. Red-hot anger. "What do you know of my best interest? When have you even expressed the slightest bit of concern for me and what I desire or don't desire?" 

"You're treating me like your brother." John snaps, Rosie whimpering at his tone. Damn it. 

"You sound like him." Sherlock laughs bitterly, the action scarring his face with an ugly emotion John doesn't ever want to see again. "You want to subject me to whatever whim you have that I'll be back to normal and your bumbling, analyst who saves the day hmm? Do you really want that John? Why the hell would you want that part of me back when you've clearly made your advances obvious you want little to do with me--"

"That's an assumption! I sure as hell have tried to show I want you around and you don't even try to respect that--"

"Respect?" Sherlock barks, rubbing his eyes. "You really are dull aren't you?"

John swallows, heat flooding his neck and face. He wants to wipe that smirk off his face and hope Sherlock drowns in his anger, for one moment for Sherlock to realize John is right. 

"Yeah, respect. Treating me like a human being instead of a villain." 

Sherlock's eyes grow wide, hurt flashing for a moment. "I don't give a damn what you do John. But do not imply I have ever seen you as a villain, and if you want to make yourself one, be my guest. I told you before, I don't know you anymore. If you want me to keep it that way, I'm glad to keep that up." 

Dread covers John's body like a weighted jacket, something that is pulling him into the floor. He registers Rosie's soft whimpers growing louder. John needs to think, he needs an out. John needs to get out and stop staring at the man in front of him, that idiot or he will send a punch into his stupid face and he won't be able to--

"Get out." John clears his throat, hot tears burning at the edges of his eyes. Solider up.

The horror on Sherlock's face is enough to make John nauseous. 

"Sherlock. Get out of this flat right now."

John knows this isn't his home. He does not care. 

"John--"

"Sherlock!" He squeezes his fists together, heavy puffs of air making their way out his chest. 

John stares at the floor. Footsteps walk past, slow and then fast. The door shuts and descending footsteps follow. 

Rosie is now crying, startled. John goes to pick her up, her food pouch on the floor. He soothes her, face puffy and bright red.

He doesn't know what to think, brain scrambled, replaying words. 

But do not imply I have ever seen you as a villain, and if you want to make yourself one, be my guest. 

It's better this way. 

If Sherlock doesn't know who John is anymore, perhaps John doesn't know Sherlock. He knows he doesn't. 

Now that man is out of the room, and where the emptiness should feel relieving, it feels debilitatingly quiet. 

It's better this way. 

A final door slams from downstairs.

Sherlock

His chest is about explode. 

Tears are running down his face, that ugly rise of emotions filling up in his throat. 

Stop it. 

He tries to find anything to grasp at, to drown out the emotions, the fear, the look on John's face, the cold anger, the indifference that he tried to prevent. 

He stumbles down the steps, hand scraping against the railing. 

He has nowhere to go, so he walks. The sidewalk drags by slowly, the roar of cars, chatter of pedestrian all grow numb. 

What could he have done differently? 

Of course he deserves it, he just didn't want John to push him. He is scared, maybe he should've started with that. What would've pleased the man who seems set on finding everything about Sherlock to be so displeasing? Sherlock's tried, of course he's tried. He's tried harder than ever and he should've accepted his defeat earlier that his attempts mean little. It's an act of sheer folly, he finds. John Watson is his own person, Sherlock is not entitled to his time or space, he knows this. John is rudimentary, basic, simplified in his methods, and Sherlock is confusing, off-putting and his greatest strength should be his mask. He has let it slip. 

Caring is not an advantage nor a disadvantage, it is a curse that temporarily lives as a blessing until a crack stems in the universe, in the fixed rhythm of it all. 

                                                                                                                            You're the crack in the universe. 

A harsh brush to his shoulder jolts him out of his reverie, and he snaps his head up to see a hoodie man grumbling at him as he turns a corner around an alley, nearly colliding into a wall. He sniffs, about to mumble an apology and readies himself to keep walking. 

Doesn't matter where he goes. He just needs to keep walking. 

He steps forward, and jolt of hot pain rips into his lower back. He gasps, hands grabbing at his coat. He attempts to swivel, panic rising his chest, to spring away from his attacker. A fist flies into his gut, and burst of red spill into his vision. He can see at least 2 men. 

He struggles against hands and bodies, unsure of where to swing. Something sharp digs into his wrist, spikes of fire dripping into his skin. Fatigue washes over him and he tries to stand. Fight, get up, get up. You have to get up. You have to fight.

His face collides into the ground, asphalt and brick scratching into his face. A kick lands into his stomach. 

Black shrouds his vision, his ears ringing with little mercy and his muscles loosen into goo. 

Soon enough it's pure black. 

And soon enough, there's nothing at all.