BBC Sherlock Fic: Worship the Sun
Sep. 29th, 2010 08:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
piploverTitle: Worship the Sun
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
piplover
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, brief mention of Watson/other
Warning: Self harm, some blood, some swearing.
Summary: John is gone for a week, and Sherlock is slowly losing himself.
Series: This is the third in my series that began with Mayan Desire and continued with No Sacrifice.
Beta: Thanks to the lovelyglitterary and evildrem for the quick beta and Brit-pick.
Worship the Sun
The bath water was getting cold. He had been submerged up to his neck for nearly an hour, feet pressed against cool tile, knees bent to accommodate his large form as the steam had wafted around his face and shoulders.
Now the only sound in the bathroom was his breathing and the soft lapping of the water against the edges of the tub when he shifted.
A tentative knock at the door brought his head up, gaze fixed firmly on the locked barrier between himself and the landlady as Mrs. Hudson called softly, “Sherlock, dear, are you all right? John called near an hour ago and wanted you to call him back.”
Something tightened in his chest, a brief fluttering of pain before he called, “Fine, Mrs. Hudson. Just doing an experiment. I’ll be out in a moment.”
“All right, dear.”
Sherlock could hear the worry in her tone, knew by the way it took nearly a minute for her footsteps to depart that she was concerned for him. He felt his lips twitch in a parody of a smile as he slowly eased his way out of the tub, heedless of the dripping water left in his wake as he unstoppered the drain and absently wiped himself off.
Mentally, he checked off the last item on his list: Bath? Failed.
Wrapping the towel around his waist he made his way through the empty apartment, bare feet leaving damp prints on the carpet. It was a perfect trail for any half- wit to follow if they chose to map out his route and intentions.
But there was no one there to chide him, and once more he fought to push the fluttering thoughts aside. His brain had been on a constant loop the past few days, and now, when his body was exhausted from lack of sleep and appetite, he knew there was only one thing he could do to finally, finally put everything back in it’s mental place.
He didn’t bother to turn on the lights in his bedroom. This space, more than anywhere in the whole of England, was his. He knew it more intimately than he did his other sources of refuge, the kitchen and living room, both places to unwind and allow his thoughts to unravel as they would.
But this room? Where his bed and antique furniture nestled comfortably together, and his most treasured possessions lay secreted away, this room was his last resort. When even John’s soothing presence by his side was too grating and he could feel the pressure of a thousand thoughts pressing against his head.
This was his haven, and he was about to drink from its nectar.
***
“I’ll be gone for about five days,” John said, fastening his watch and looking at Sherlock with worry creasing his already lined forehead. “I want you to call me tomorrow and Sunday so I know you’re alive. I’ll be in workshops all day, so you might get a voice message, and Marian and I have plans to see some of the sights on Sunday. But if I don’t hear from you,” John bent down, retying his shoelace with an annoyed grunt, missing Sherlock’s tensing shoulders and glower as he turned his back completely to the doctor, curled up in a near fetal position on the couch. “I’m going to call Lestrade and have him do another drugs bust. He already knows to call me if there’s a case so I don’t worry, and he promised to check on you if I ask. So,” he added, standing up and frowning at Sherlock’s turned back.
He sighed, moving to sit in the hollow space created by Sherlock’s bent knees and place his hand on his friend’s shoulder, not put off by the slight flinch as he did so.
“You’ve known about this conference for two months, Sherlock. You know I can’t afford to miss this, not when the clinic is paying for it and I’m finally getting steady hours. You’ll be fine with Mrs. Hudson for one week.”
Sherlock snorted disdainfully, but otherwise ignored the warm presence behind him.
“Now, there’s food in the fridge and plenty of biscuits. I don’t want to come home and find you passed out because you couldn’t be arsed to move the whole six meters to the fridge and back.” When there was still no response John shook his friend slightly.
“Sherlock, please. I need to get going or Marian is going to think I’ve stood her up. Again. And I’m really looking forward to this.”
Sherlock sighed, not turning his head as he waved his hand imperiously over his shoulder at the pleading tone.
“Go on, I’m not stopping you,” he muttered, curling up even tighter and dislodging John’s hand from his shoulder. “Have fun on your… vacation.”
John let out a long-suffering sigh, filled with an exasperation he had only previously heard in Mycroft.
“Fine. I’m taking off. I’ll see you on Monday, and please, don’t destroy the apartment. Mrs. Hudson would be very upset if you set the carpet on fire a second time.”
When there was still no response from the recalcitrant form on the couch, John muttered something under his breath and left, his bag already having been set by the door earlier.
As soon as the silence descended, Sherlock uncurled himself from the couch and retrieved his violin. He watched through the window as John entered his cab and departed, the midday sun glinting off the black metal of the vehicle. Slowly he placed the violin to his chin and touched bow to strings, the mournful, almost painful melodies carrying him through the rest of the afternoon.
That night, he did not sleep, but curled up on the couch and watched reruns of a talk show, his gaze vacant as he guessed each person’s secrets without effort and tried not to be too bored. It was amazing how anyone thought they were keeping their affairs secret when their body language practically screamed their infidelity.
Mrs. Hudson brought him tea the next morning, tutting over the state of the kitchen as she prepared him toast. He sat up slowly as she positioned the plate before him, arms crossed in a no-nonsense manner until he picked up the offering and took a bite. She smiled and smoothed his hair back from his forehead before turning away.
“I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper, but since John’s not in I don’t mind making your breakfast just this once,” she said as she bustled about the living room, picking up dirty mugs and stray newspapers as Sherlock nibbled absently, the taste of strawberry jam thick in his mouth. “Sherlock, you really have to stop leaving such horrid things in the sink. It’s no wonder there are so many dirty dishes, there’s no way to clean them!”
He doubted she would be interested in the coagulation rates of blood which mimicked the intoxication level of a person suffering alcohol poisoning, so merely grunted his assent and took a sip from his tea. Somehow, it wasn’t nearly as good as the cups John made, though he knew she had prepared it in the same fashion.
After, he paced about the living room, already restless and bored. There were no new cases to be solved, he had already texted Lestrade and been informed in no uncertain terms he was to “piss off.”
His website had nothing but nonsense on it, and Molly wasn’t speaking to him after he informed her her latest boyfriend only wanted sex with her because his wife was frigid. He could understand her upset, but the slap to his face had been a bit much.
He drummed his fingers against his thigh, his brain whirling with the need for stimulation, when an idea occurred to him and he smiled. A quick shower and change of clothes later he was darting down the stairs to catch a cab, ignoring the driver’s scowl at his destination.
It had been far too long since he had paid a visit to his network of homeless, he was certain there would be a few new faces to acquaint himself with and information to be passed on.
He spent a glorious seven hours wandering the darker parts of London, relearning the streets and those who worked them. Elizabeth was just as crazy as the day he met her, but her toothless smile was clever, and her information always paid off. Mark was a bit more aggressive than usual, and he made a mental note to keep an eye out for his dealer. It would do no one any good if the veteran died due to a batch of bad drugs.
Wiggs, Scraps, Daphne and Throttle were eager to show of their latest round of street art, and even offered to let him have a go at a blank patch of wall. He had declined, but only because he knew it was expected, and had set off back to Baker Street.
He did not take a cab, wanting to walk and feel the sun on his face now they were experiencing a proper summer heat wave, knowing it would burn and give him freckles which he despised, but liking the thought of Mrs. Hudson’s reaction when she saw him next. He texted John near five, a simple message letting him know he was still alive, and stopped by Angelo’s to see if the burly man had any useful information to pass on.
He didn’t stay to eat but set off back home, hot and sweaty and becoming faintly miserable in the humidity. When Mrs. Hudson saw his complexion she swooped down on him and treated him to a lecture on the use of sunscreen and a hat.
He loved every minute of it, enjoying the bowl of ice cream she pressed on him and then showering the filth of the day away. He did not sleep that night, either, but sleep was overrated and dull.
The next day there was no breakfast, no tea, and nothing to distract his mind save for the annoying pull of heated flesh across his cheeks and nose. He had exhausted his network yesterday, and Lestrade sill had no new cases. Mrs. Hudson was off to visit her sister for the day and the flat echoed depressingly.
His skin felt too tight against his bones, his mind grinding gears as it sought stimulation. In a fit of desperation he cleaned the kitchen, distracted from clearing the table by recording the data on the blood in the sink. After that, he cleared out the freezer and fridge where he found a plastic tub filled with mould and what he thought was last month’s Chinese takeaway.
John had insisted, after the last time he had found a foot in the vegetable drawer, that he was putting his own foot down and bought a small fridge for under the counter, where Sherlock’s experiments were banished to. That one was cleaned regularly, though, and so he once again found himself utterly bored.
He did not allow himself to wonder what John was doing. He knew perfectly well that John was currently sitting in an overcrowded room, listening to lectures on flu strains and pulled tendons. Marian, the nurse he had been seeing for a little over a month, would be right beside him, no doubt, taking meticulous notes.
Something tight and painful bloomed in his chest, and, grinding his teeth, he cast those thoughts aside. He didn’t like thinking of John with her, not at all, and firmly turned his thoughts in a different direction.
***
He managed three days without resorting to putting fresh bullet holes in the wall, but even on the fourth, when he thought he could literally feel his brain rotting inside his skull, he could not bring himself to add to the already pockmarked decoration. No one was there to chide him for the act, and Mrs. Hudson had been so cross last time that she had deliberately lost his skull for a week.
With nothing to distract him, his thoughts turned upon themselves, until the only thing that echoed in his head was an endless loop of useless, directionless what ifs.
What if John liked being away from Sherlock so much that he decided to take more vacations? What if John decided that he preferred to spend time with Marian to going to crime scenes and helping Sherlock solve murders and kidnappings? What if John realized that Sherlock was more trouble than he was worth, despite the promise he made nearly a year ago to always be there, and what if he moved out and left him for good?
The thoughts circled viciously, like buzzards waiting to pick the scraps from his bloated corpse. He sought relief with ice cubes, a trick John had offered as a substitute to what he truly wanted. After a whole tray his hands were chilled and red, the carpet soaked from the melting water, and his brain still clamouring loudly.
He tried snapping rubber bands on his wrists, another trick of John’s. For a short period it worked, his fascination with the red welt that slowly raised enough to keep his attention for a half hour before once more he found himself pacing, seeking relief from where his thoughts insisted on going.
The fact was that John was his, and the doctor’s endless insistence on seeking companionship from others was grating. It cut into the time he spent with Sherlock, which had already been decreased due to his extended hours at the clinic, and the fact he was regularly getting sex now was like fingernails on a chalkboard to Sherlock’s mind.
The very image of John, hot and sweaty with that stupid cow he was currently with, was enough to have him clenching his fists and reciting the periodic table in an attempt to calm himself.
No, he knew what the problem was. He just needed to calm his thoughts, to get away from himself for a bit, and then everything would be fine, he would be fine.
And the two of them could go on living as flatmates without any odd sexual tension between them, because even if John didn’t admit to it, he was just as attracted to Sherlock as Sherlock was to him.
But he had promised, he reminded himself, pacing the confines of the room in agitation. Cocaine was off limits, and the morphine in his room had certainly gone off by now. That left -
No, no, he thought bitterly, turning his thoughts away quickly. That was a last resort, to be used only if the other two items on his mental checklist didn’t work.
Nodding to himself, he retreated to his room, locked the door, undressed, and threw himself across the bed.
He did not, in general, masturbate. The desire to touch his own flesh was not something he often felt, let alone indulged in. When he did, it was more as a way to quiet his mind and relax his body rather than any real desire to bring himself off. But now, his hand working clinically to bring himself to full hardness, he hoped it would be enough to still the thoughts that continued to whisper.
He desperately wished, as his cock filled and a pleasant tingle spread from his balls to his back, that just once he could understand what it was that others saw in this activity that ruled their lives. That he could understand John’s need to “get off” with the women he continually dated.
When he came messily over his hand, stomach muscles taut and straining as he arched his back, he was no closer to an answer than he had been.
Resignedly, he sought out his last recourse and drew a bath for himself. If nothing else, it would remove the stickiness from his release, though he also hoped it would help to calm some of his agitation.
***
The pain was beautiful. It quenched a thirst he hadn’t been aware of, allowed his skin to resettle itself about his frame and his mind to finally, blessedly, be still. It had been so long since the last time he had done this, so long since such a profound peace enveloped him.
He scraped the blade down his shin once more, feeling the slow trickle of blood follow in its path. He had not meant to cut so deep the first two times, but his hands were shaking and his mind wouldn’t shut up. These were not the shallow scratches he usually indulged in. No, these were deeper, longer, his control all but stripped away by the relentless boredom and incessant thoughts that never, ever stopped.
Except they had. Finally, his mind still, his heart slowed, and he could breathe again. He could smell his skin, damp and clean from his recent bath, mixing with the coppery tang of his blood as it trickled into the towel. He had removed it from his waist after retrieving his box, positioned it carefully under his right leg to catch any trickles he may produce. He was thankful now for his foresight. He had, after all, just washed his sheets before John left.
Another cut, slow and more precise, less deep than the previous ones. Such a relief, to allow himself this. To feel the sleepy lassitude drifting over his limbs as his body finally realized he hadn’t slept or eaten in four days.
It was all right now, he decided. He could face John when he returned the next day, could look at him and know he was having sex with that vapid, too-perky bitch who was stealing him away. He could face the possibilities, the what ifs.
Everything was fine.
He allowed the scalpel to drop from his fingers, feeling its weight nestle against his shin. He would clean up after a short rest. Just let his body doze for a few minutes, and then he would clean up and text John to let him know it was fine, it was all fine.
Everything would be fine now, he thought as sleep overwhelmed him and dragged him down, deep, deeper than he had gone for some time.
***
“Sherlock!”
A sharp tap against his cheek brought his eyes open, limbs heavy and his mind feeling thick with exhaustion. It took him a moment to process his surroundings (his room, lights on and revealing his nakedness and the bloody gashes in his leg. Had he really been that out of control?) and Lestrade hovering over him, lips pinched into a tight frown and one hand resting on his shoulder, the other still on his cheek.
“Thank God,” the DI sighed, easing back until he was standing straight again, surveying the man before him with worry and something close to fear.
“Lestrade?” Sherlock asked, because apparently he was just as much of an idiot when roused out of a sound sleep as the next person, and he couldn’t quite process what his brain was trying to tell him.
“Jesus, Sherlock, what did you do to yourself?” Lestrade mumbled, more to himself than Sherlock, and ran a hand through his hair.
Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but for once words escaped him. It was perfectly clear what he had been doing to himself. He doubted even the inspector could miss it. But to give the action voice would lesson it, somehow. Take away the privacy that had already been ripped away by the intrusion into his room.
His brain finally caught up, and he sat up abruptly, staring at his door which was now splintered around the lock where it had clearly been kicked in, Mrs. Hudson hovering anxiously just outside.
“You broke into my room?” he asked, incredulously.
“Yes, damn it!” Lestrade shouted, glaring. “You weren’t answering your phone, Mrs. Hudson couldn’t get you to open your door, and John was certain you had done something stupid. He’s on his way back now, by the way, should be here in a few hours.”
Lestrade moved to the doorway, murmured something soothing to Mrs. Hudson, who seemed paler and older than Sherlock had ever seen her. He took the opportunity to look to his bedside table, where his box was still opened, displaying its secrets for all and sundry.
Cautiously he moved, pushing himself into a more comfortable sitting position and using the sheet to cover his groin and leg. Lestrade must have seen him out of the corner of his eye, because he immediately turned his attention back to Sherlock.
“Mrs. Hudson, I’ll take care of him,” he said over his shoulder, waiting until the door bumped against the jamb before making his way over to the bed.
He sighed, staring down at Sherlock thoughtfully before sitting carefully on the side of the bed, his gaze flickering briefly over the oak box before landing on Sherlock’s leg.
“Let’s see the damage,” he said matter-of-factly.
Sherlock hesitated. Lestrade had seen him at his absolute worst, coming off the morphine and cocaine, when he could barely stand or hold anything in his stomach. The detective had stayed with him for a few days as he recovered, helping him get his body back under his own control with a minimum of commentary or judgment.
As if reading his thoughts, Lestrade smiled, a weary, resigned smile that nonetheless was genuine.
“Deju vu all over again,” he said softly, ignoring Sherlock’s confused expression as he pulled the sheet back himself. He sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “I think these may need some stitches.”
“They’re fine,” Sherlock immediately refuted, looking at the gashes which were still leaking blood. He didn’t think they were too serious, though, not like some of the wounds he had seen on victims.
“Sherlock -” Lestrade stopped, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not John. I’m not qualified to determine if these need stitches or can just be cleaned and bandaged up. You’re pale as a ghost and, honestly, you’re lucky I don’t drag you down to A&E for a blood test, because you look like you’ve been strung out for the past week and I have the proof right in front of me that you still have access to your old vices. So just - don’t be an arse, okay?”
Sherlock pressed his lips together in a fierce scowl, reaching past Lestrade’s shoulder to close the lid of his box.
“I’m clean,” he gritted out as he fought to unclench his jaw.
He still felt nearly drugged from lack of sleep and his stomach ached hollowly in reminder that he hadn’t eaten anything since Mrs. Hudson’s toast several days ago. He didn’t want Lestrade to see him this way, curling slightly to hide his nakedness and put some more distance between them.
“Wait a minute,” he said, glaring in sudden horror at Lestrade. “John’s on his way back?”
“Yes, Sherlock,” Lestrade confirmed patiently. It was the tone of voice he seemed to reserve for the consulting detective alone, part fond exasperation and part worry. “You apparently didn’t return his call, and Mrs. Hudson couldn’t get you to open your door, even though she was certain you hadn’t left. He called me to come check on you, because apparently he knows you better than anyone and figured you’d do something stupid, and promised he’d hop the next train home.”
“What about his date?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, an inconsequential question when the more immediate concern was that John was going to be home soon and realize Sherlock hadn’t been able to function without him.
“I don’t know,” Lestrade answered honestly, watching in confusion as Sherlock struggled to untangle himself from the sheets, absently hissing as the forgotten scalpel slid across his ankle.
“Hold still!” Lestrade ordered sharply, delicately picking up the instrument and placing it carefully on the bedside table by the box before turning back around to examine the new cut, paper thin and dribbling blood.
“I need to get cleaned up!” Sherlock protested, jerking his leg away from Lestrade’s grasp and scrambling out of the bed. He wobbled, his knees curiously unsteady and the blood rushing to his head.
He was momentarily distracted by the sensation, blood pounding loudly in his ears and black spots dancing before his eyes as he blinked in surprise.
“For God’s sake,” Lestrade cursed, catching the younger man before he could pass out completely and, ignoring his nakedness for the moment, returning him to his bed, watching him to make certain he was going to remain conscious. When he was positive that Sherlock was going to remain awake, he searched his drawers before throwing a pair of pants at him. “Put those on, and then you sit right there and don’t move!” he ordered, pointing his finger emphatically and ignoring the scowl he received for his efforts. “I mean it, Sherlock. We’ll clean those out and put something over them until John gets back. If he says you need stitches he can take care of it or we can drag you down to A&E.”
Sherlock snorted his disdain, grimacing at Lestrade’s back as the man left, supposedly to find the first aid kit in the bathroom. He continued to scowl all through the cleaning, body tense to prevent any indication that it hurt like bloody blazes to have the cuts cleaned. He suspected Lestrade knew anyway, but he was determined not to give anymore away than he had.
After, he was allowed to dress in loose pyjama bottoms and a faded brown t-shirt, his dressing grown wrapped tightly about him as he made his way into the living room. Mrs. Hudson was in the kitchen, preparing something over the stove that caused another wave of dizziness to threaten to overwhelm him, and he was forced down onto the couch by Lestrade’s firm grip on his shoulder.
“Sherlock, dear, I’ve made you some chicken and rice,” she said softly as she came out a moment later, a steaming plate held in her hands. She looked sad and slightly distressed, the lines around her eyes somehow deeper than yesterday.
Something caught in Sherlock’s throat and he had to swallow before murmuring, “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”
He smiled at her, happy to see her shoulders relax as she left the plate on the coffee table, smoothing a hand over his shoulder as she did so and kissing the top of his head. It was unexpected, and left him staring after her as she descended the stairs.
“Eat up,” Lestrade ordered, coming back into the room from the kitchen with two cups of tea. “You look like you spent the week on a bender and haven’t seen food in an age.”
Sherlock grunted, digging into the simple meal with surprising gusto, ignoring the way it burned the roof of his mouth and the back of his throat, the ache in his stomach increasing as it realized how empty it was.
“You don’t have to tell him,” he finally said, finishing his last bite and studiously ignoring the questioning look Lestrade was giving him. “You can just tell him I fell asleep and -”
“Sherlock.” Lestrade’s voice was gentle, as gentle as it had been while helping Sherlock throw up because he was too weak with withdrawal to make it to the toilette.
Sherlock didn’t speak again, instead taking his dish into the kitchen and washing it mechanically. He could feel Lestrade’s gaze on his back, ignored him as he returned to the living room and curled up in his chair by the fireplace, turning on the telly in an unmistakable signal that they were done talking.
For two hours they watched a movie with a lot of explosions and very little plot, Lestrade teasing him gently over his choice.
The sound of a cab door closing was lost in the sounds of a building blowing up, as were the sounds of John running up the stairs. When he burst into the room, bag in one hand and a frantic wildness about his eyes, he froze, taking in the scene before him with something close to disbelief.
Before he could speak or Sherlock could comment, Lestrade shot Sherlock a dark glare and stood, taking John’s arm and leading him out of the room, upstairs to John’s own little haven.
Sherlock scowled fiercely at the television and tried to ignore the sudden rapid beating of his heart. He turned the movie off and wrapped his arms around his upraised knees, listening for the soft murmur of voices.
Five minutes later, when both men returned downstairs, John’s expression was unreadable and Lestrade looked more calm than he had since waking Sherlock up.
“I’ll see you later,” the inspector said as he headed toward the door. “Sherlock?” He waited until Sherlock turned to look at him. “Remember what I said earlier and listen to what John says.”
He waited only until Sherlock nodded reluctantly before taking his leave, waving to John and closing the door firmly behind him. For a long moment the two remaining men stared at each other, for once Sherlock unable to read his friend’s expression.
“Let’s a have look then,” John said calmly, moving to kneel before Sherlock’s chair and patting his leg to get him to uncurl.
Reluctantly, Sherlock slowly brought his legs down, allowing John to push the pyjamas up to reveal the stark white gauze. He undid the tape gently, his hands steady as he examined the gashes clinically.
“I think you’re fine,” he finally declared, not taking his eyes away from the wounds before him. He replaced the gauze and tape, his hands warm and tender as they brushed the skin. “We just have to make sure these stay clean and you don’t open them up again. Lestrade did a good job of cleaning them up.”
His voice was steady, betraying nothing of what he was feeling, and Sherlock could not help but wonder if this was it. If this was the thing that finally broke John Watson and forced him to move out, away.
“How was the conference?” Sherlock asked, happy to hear his voice sound so normal.
John paused in closing the first aid box, turning his back for a moment as he did so.
“The conference was fine,” John replied tonelessly, putting the box on the coffee table with a firm thud. “Boring as hell, but they had a good buffet, so I’m not going to complain.”
“And… Marian?” Sherlock asked, forcing the name out. If this was him losing John Watson, he was going to make sure he knew who to blame.
John closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. It was a habit a lot of people seemed to acquire after meeting Sherlock, though he couldn‘t quite understand why.
“She was fine,” John sighed, standing stiffly and moving to sit in his own chair. “A bit unhappy having the vacation cut short, but I told her you were in trouble and she agreed I needed to get home.”
Sherlock kept his gaze on the floor, his expression carefully blank. So that was how it was to be. An understanding, compassionate woman who felt sorry for John’s unstable roommate, one who didn’t mind him darting out to help on cases.
The meal he had just eaten felt leaden in his stomach, and he wondered briefly if he was going to be sick.
“Sherlock?” John pressed when the only response he received was a curt nod.
“I think I’m going to head to bed,” Sherlock said, still avoiding John’s gaze.
He moved to stand, wanting to escape, to find the scalpel and reclaim the peace that had long since vanished.
“Stay right where you are.”
John’s voice was firm, a hint of steel underlying the words and halting Sherlock where he sat.
“We need to talk about this,” John continued, his voice a bit softer, but still with that hard edge to it. “We can’t keep doing this, Sherlock. I’m worried about you, and you could have done some serious damage to yourself today. So you’re going to sit there and tell me what happened, and we’ll figure this out together.”
“There’s nothing-”
“Bollocks!” John’s shout raised Sherlock’s head, for the first time their gaze meeting.
He swallowed hard at the concern and anger he found there, John’s complexion flushed and his lips pressed as he regarded his friend steadily.
“Sherlock, I may not have your genius and your ability to read a person’s life history from the mud splatters on their trousers, but do give me some credit.” John frowned at him, his disappointed frown that always made Sherlock feel like he had somehow killed a puppy without his knowing. “I realize that you get increasingly… distressed… when I go out on dates, and that you become even more upset after…. Well, after I’ve been intimate.”
John’s flush deepened, his cheeks and the tips of his ears turning red, but he continued on, showing once more his bravery and ability to face things without flinching.
“In fact, if I didn’t know you better, I would say you were jealous.”
Sherlock didn’t look away, though he could feel his own cheeks flush. He was grateful for the sunburn that still stained his face.
When John said no more, Sherlock realized he was waiting for an answer, though technically no question had been asked. Still… He knew that there was no other option now. Either way, he was going to lose John, and he supposed it was better to get it over and done with quickly, like ripping a bandage off a particularly hairy body part. He licked his lips, finally averting his gaze to stare at the carpet once more as he gathered his thoughts, trying to find the words that would at least leave him with some semblance of friendship.
“Sherlock?”
“It’s - My head becomes too full,” he finally began, wincing at the inadequacy of the statement. “My skin feels - too tight. Like it’s crawling. I can’t think, because there are so many thoughts going through my mind that if I try to pin one down they all tumble after. I can’t concentrate, I can’t breathe properly! The cocaine used to help, as did the morphine, but I promised I wouldn’t do those anymore. Now I - If I can make the thoughts stop for a bit, I’m all right. That’s all it is, John. Just making the thoughts stop.”
“What thoughts were bothering you?” John asked softly.
Sherlock closed his eyes, not wanting to see what John Watson looked like when he realized what a fool his flatmate was, when their friendship died.
“I didn’t like the idea of you with her,” he whispered, bringing his knees up to his chest once more, wrapping his arms around them. He knew exactly what his body language was saying, but for once he didn’t care. It was hard enough to get the words out, but this had been going on for too long. “I don’t like - I hate seeing you week after week, leaving me behind as you go out with your - your dates. I hate it. And I know you don’t care, that ‘it’s all fine,’ but it’s not, John. It really isn’t!”
Hands cupped his cheeks, startling him into opening his eyes, looking into John’s concerned face, his eyes so deep and blue he wondered how he could ever look at a sky again without thinking of them.
“You couldn’t have just told me?” John asked, softly. He made no move to get closer, to do more than hold Sherlock’s head up with his warm, calloused hands. Physician’s hands, steady and strong. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because what was there to say?” Sherlock snapped, jerking his face away, missing the warmth immediately. “By the way, John, I know you’re completely straight, but I love you and am miserable without you, so please forget your societal conditioning and think about dating me instead?” He snorted, turning his head away from the shocked expression.
“But - you don’t do that!” John managed to get out, his words strained with his incredulity.
“Apparently I do,” Sherlock growled, tightening his arms. “What does it matter? You’ve made it perfectly clear you don’t feel that way about me, so there was no point in bringing it up. Can we please be done now? I’m tired and would like to head to bed.”
“No, we aren’t done!” John snapped, regaining his composure. “Sherlock, you can’t just say you love me and expect me to not react! For heaven’s sake, did it never occur to you that maybe the reason I was with all those women is because you were the one who said you weren’t looking for something?”
Sherlock turned slowly to stare up at him, eyes narrowed.
“What are you saying?” he asked warily.
“I’m saying,” John sighed, moving back to his chair, falling onto the seat heavily. “That this whole mess could have been avoided if you had just, you know, talked to me!”
“Why?” Sherlock asked, unable to keep the hope from his voice, the rapid beat of his heart making him feel short of breath.
“Because I love you, too,” John answered simply, a small, tentative smile creasing his cheeks.
“You’re just saying that to make me feel better,” Sherlock decided, though the uncertainty in his voice belied his conclusion. He couldn’t trust himself when it came to John, not for something this big. His thoughts were too muddled, too clouded by his own desires to see properly.
“Oh, for pity’s sake!” John snapped, throwing his hands in the air, his smile disappearing into a dark scowl. “No, you idiot, I’m not! I’m saying that I love you and want to be with you, and that all the women I’ve dated this past year have been my attempt at respecting your wishes while having some shot of a relationship! Trust me, Sherlock, if I didn’t want you, I’d tell you.”
He could not doubt the sincerity in John’s voice, his face, the way his body practically yelled he was telling the truth.
“Oh.” Sherlock suddenly felt faint, blood rushing into his head, vision dimming around the edges.
“Sherlock?”
Suddenly John was there, maneuvering him so that his legs were once more on the ground and his head was between his gaping knees, his breath harsh as he struggled not to lose his dinner onto the carpet.
“Easy now, take some deep breaths,” John coaxed, his hand warm on Sherlock’s back as he rubbed a soothing circle.
Sherlock swallowed back his nausea, fighting the head rush as he gasped out, “You love me, too?”
“Yes, you idiot! Yes!” John laughed, kneeling so that his face was very close to Sherlock’s, not moving his hand but using his free one to push some of the curls away from Sherlock’s forehead. “Honestly, you’re the stupidest genius I’ve ever met!”
The next few minutes were a blur of Sherlock regaining his equilibrium and John fussing over him, ending with them both sitting on the couch, John’s arm wrapped around Sherlock’s shoulders as he struggled to comprehend that he wasn’t going to lose his friend, that John wasn’t going to leave him.
“I told you,” John whispered, his breath warm against Sherlock’s ear as he rested his forehead against’ the other man’s temple. “I’m not going to leave you.”
“I couldn’t make it if you did,” Sherlock admitted, the cuts on his leg stinging in sharp reminder of the fact. “I - I would be lost without you, John.”
“Yes, well.” John brought in a deep breath, running his hand up Sherlock’s neck and through his hair. “You won’t have to. Just please,” he added, and the desperation in his voice was enough to ensure Sherlock listened. “Please, if you ever feel you have to - If you don’t think you can go without hurting yourself again, just talk to me. I don’t like seeing you hurt, and knowing you did it to yourself doesn’t make it any better.”
Sherlock thought about it, about the pain deep in his chest whenever he thought of John with one of his women, of the what ifs that had plagued him the entire week. He thought about the scalpel, lying next to his box on the bedside table, and the bag of cocaine and bottle of morphine that still nestled in it’s velvet embrace.
He thought of the promise he had made almost a year ago, that he would try not to hurt himself.
And realized that it was no longer good enough.
“I promise,” he whispered hoarsely, feeling something inside him break and snap free, fleeing from his grasp. “I promise, I won’t cut myself anymore.”
John sighed against his neck, relief and thankfulness ghosting against Sherlock’s cheek.
“Good. That’s good.”
There were still loose ends to tie up, Sherlock knew. John would have to speak to Marian about their relationship, and Sherlock would have to come to terms with the fact that he was, in fact, very much in love with his best friend, and all the associated risks and weaknesses that brought with it.
But it was worth it, he thought fiercely as he turned his head, just enough for his lips to brush against John’s in their first kiss, chapped skin and cold noses bumping. He would put his scalpel away, back in the dark oak box that contained the remnants of his past and his secrets.
It would not be easy. He knew this, even as John returned the kiss chastely, close-mouthed and eyes closed. They would fight, and there would be days when the urge to retrieve his box would be overwhelming. But he would resist, and overcome, and together, there would be nothing they couldn’t handle.
Author:
piplover Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, brief mention of Watson/other
Warning: Self harm, some blood, some swearing.
Summary: John is gone for a week, and Sherlock is slowly losing himself.
Series: This is the third in my series that began with Mayan Desire and continued with No Sacrifice.
Beta: Thanks to the lovely
glitterary and evildrem for the quick beta and Brit-pick. Worship the Sun
The bath water was getting cold. He had been submerged up to his neck for nearly an hour, feet pressed against cool tile, knees bent to accommodate his large form as the steam had wafted around his face and shoulders.
Now the only sound in the bathroom was his breathing and the soft lapping of the water against the edges of the tub when he shifted.
A tentative knock at the door brought his head up, gaze fixed firmly on the locked barrier between himself and the landlady as Mrs. Hudson called softly, “Sherlock, dear, are you all right? John called near an hour ago and wanted you to call him back.”
Something tightened in his chest, a brief fluttering of pain before he called, “Fine, Mrs. Hudson. Just doing an experiment. I’ll be out in a moment.”
“All right, dear.”
Sherlock could hear the worry in her tone, knew by the way it took nearly a minute for her footsteps to depart that she was concerned for him. He felt his lips twitch in a parody of a smile as he slowly eased his way out of the tub, heedless of the dripping water left in his wake as he unstoppered the drain and absently wiped himself off.
Mentally, he checked off the last item on his list: Bath? Failed.
Wrapping the towel around his waist he made his way through the empty apartment, bare feet leaving damp prints on the carpet. It was a perfect trail for any half- wit to follow if they chose to map out his route and intentions.
But there was no one there to chide him, and once more he fought to push the fluttering thoughts aside. His brain had been on a constant loop the past few days, and now, when his body was exhausted from lack of sleep and appetite, he knew there was only one thing he could do to finally, finally put everything back in it’s mental place.
He didn’t bother to turn on the lights in his bedroom. This space, more than anywhere in the whole of England, was his. He knew it more intimately than he did his other sources of refuge, the kitchen and living room, both places to unwind and allow his thoughts to unravel as they would.
But this room? Where his bed and antique furniture nestled comfortably together, and his most treasured possessions lay secreted away, this room was his last resort. When even John’s soothing presence by his side was too grating and he could feel the pressure of a thousand thoughts pressing against his head.
This was his haven, and he was about to drink from its nectar.
***
“I’ll be gone for about five days,” John said, fastening his watch and looking at Sherlock with worry creasing his already lined forehead. “I want you to call me tomorrow and Sunday so I know you’re alive. I’ll be in workshops all day, so you might get a voice message, and Marian and I have plans to see some of the sights on Sunday. But if I don’t hear from you,” John bent down, retying his shoelace with an annoyed grunt, missing Sherlock’s tensing shoulders and glower as he turned his back completely to the doctor, curled up in a near fetal position on the couch. “I’m going to call Lestrade and have him do another drugs bust. He already knows to call me if there’s a case so I don’t worry, and he promised to check on you if I ask. So,” he added, standing up and frowning at Sherlock’s turned back.
He sighed, moving to sit in the hollow space created by Sherlock’s bent knees and place his hand on his friend’s shoulder, not put off by the slight flinch as he did so.
“You’ve known about this conference for two months, Sherlock. You know I can’t afford to miss this, not when the clinic is paying for it and I’m finally getting steady hours. You’ll be fine with Mrs. Hudson for one week.”
Sherlock snorted disdainfully, but otherwise ignored the warm presence behind him.
“Now, there’s food in the fridge and plenty of biscuits. I don’t want to come home and find you passed out because you couldn’t be arsed to move the whole six meters to the fridge and back.” When there was still no response John shook his friend slightly.
“Sherlock, please. I need to get going or Marian is going to think I’ve stood her up. Again. And I’m really looking forward to this.”
Sherlock sighed, not turning his head as he waved his hand imperiously over his shoulder at the pleading tone.
“Go on, I’m not stopping you,” he muttered, curling up even tighter and dislodging John’s hand from his shoulder. “Have fun on your… vacation.”
John let out a long-suffering sigh, filled with an exasperation he had only previously heard in Mycroft.
“Fine. I’m taking off. I’ll see you on Monday, and please, don’t destroy the apartment. Mrs. Hudson would be very upset if you set the carpet on fire a second time.”
When there was still no response from the recalcitrant form on the couch, John muttered something under his breath and left, his bag already having been set by the door earlier.
As soon as the silence descended, Sherlock uncurled himself from the couch and retrieved his violin. He watched through the window as John entered his cab and departed, the midday sun glinting off the black metal of the vehicle. Slowly he placed the violin to his chin and touched bow to strings, the mournful, almost painful melodies carrying him through the rest of the afternoon.
That night, he did not sleep, but curled up on the couch and watched reruns of a talk show, his gaze vacant as he guessed each person’s secrets without effort and tried not to be too bored. It was amazing how anyone thought they were keeping their affairs secret when their body language practically screamed their infidelity.
Mrs. Hudson brought him tea the next morning, tutting over the state of the kitchen as she prepared him toast. He sat up slowly as she positioned the plate before him, arms crossed in a no-nonsense manner until he picked up the offering and took a bite. She smiled and smoothed his hair back from his forehead before turning away.
“I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper, but since John’s not in I don’t mind making your breakfast just this once,” she said as she bustled about the living room, picking up dirty mugs and stray newspapers as Sherlock nibbled absently, the taste of strawberry jam thick in his mouth. “Sherlock, you really have to stop leaving such horrid things in the sink. It’s no wonder there are so many dirty dishes, there’s no way to clean them!”
He doubted she would be interested in the coagulation rates of blood which mimicked the intoxication level of a person suffering alcohol poisoning, so merely grunted his assent and took a sip from his tea. Somehow, it wasn’t nearly as good as the cups John made, though he knew she had prepared it in the same fashion.
After, he paced about the living room, already restless and bored. There were no new cases to be solved, he had already texted Lestrade and been informed in no uncertain terms he was to “piss off.”
His website had nothing but nonsense on it, and Molly wasn’t speaking to him after he informed her her latest boyfriend only wanted sex with her because his wife was frigid. He could understand her upset, but the slap to his face had been a bit much.
He drummed his fingers against his thigh, his brain whirling with the need for stimulation, when an idea occurred to him and he smiled. A quick shower and change of clothes later he was darting down the stairs to catch a cab, ignoring the driver’s scowl at his destination.
It had been far too long since he had paid a visit to his network of homeless, he was certain there would be a few new faces to acquaint himself with and information to be passed on.
He spent a glorious seven hours wandering the darker parts of London, relearning the streets and those who worked them. Elizabeth was just as crazy as the day he met her, but her toothless smile was clever, and her information always paid off. Mark was a bit more aggressive than usual, and he made a mental note to keep an eye out for his dealer. It would do no one any good if the veteran died due to a batch of bad drugs.
Wiggs, Scraps, Daphne and Throttle were eager to show of their latest round of street art, and even offered to let him have a go at a blank patch of wall. He had declined, but only because he knew it was expected, and had set off back to Baker Street.
He did not take a cab, wanting to walk and feel the sun on his face now they were experiencing a proper summer heat wave, knowing it would burn and give him freckles which he despised, but liking the thought of Mrs. Hudson’s reaction when she saw him next. He texted John near five, a simple message letting him know he was still alive, and stopped by Angelo’s to see if the burly man had any useful information to pass on.
He didn’t stay to eat but set off back home, hot and sweaty and becoming faintly miserable in the humidity. When Mrs. Hudson saw his complexion she swooped down on him and treated him to a lecture on the use of sunscreen and a hat.
He loved every minute of it, enjoying the bowl of ice cream she pressed on him and then showering the filth of the day away. He did not sleep that night, either, but sleep was overrated and dull.
The next day there was no breakfast, no tea, and nothing to distract his mind save for the annoying pull of heated flesh across his cheeks and nose. He had exhausted his network yesterday, and Lestrade sill had no new cases. Mrs. Hudson was off to visit her sister for the day and the flat echoed depressingly.
His skin felt too tight against his bones, his mind grinding gears as it sought stimulation. In a fit of desperation he cleaned the kitchen, distracted from clearing the table by recording the data on the blood in the sink. After that, he cleared out the freezer and fridge where he found a plastic tub filled with mould and what he thought was last month’s Chinese takeaway.
John had insisted, after the last time he had found a foot in the vegetable drawer, that he was putting his own foot down and bought a small fridge for under the counter, where Sherlock’s experiments were banished to. That one was cleaned regularly, though, and so he once again found himself utterly bored.
He did not allow himself to wonder what John was doing. He knew perfectly well that John was currently sitting in an overcrowded room, listening to lectures on flu strains and pulled tendons. Marian, the nurse he had been seeing for a little over a month, would be right beside him, no doubt, taking meticulous notes.
Something tight and painful bloomed in his chest, and, grinding his teeth, he cast those thoughts aside. He didn’t like thinking of John with her, not at all, and firmly turned his thoughts in a different direction.
***
He managed three days without resorting to putting fresh bullet holes in the wall, but even on the fourth, when he thought he could literally feel his brain rotting inside his skull, he could not bring himself to add to the already pockmarked decoration. No one was there to chide him for the act, and Mrs. Hudson had been so cross last time that she had deliberately lost his skull for a week.
With nothing to distract him, his thoughts turned upon themselves, until the only thing that echoed in his head was an endless loop of useless, directionless what ifs.
What if John liked being away from Sherlock so much that he decided to take more vacations? What if John decided that he preferred to spend time with Marian to going to crime scenes and helping Sherlock solve murders and kidnappings? What if John realized that Sherlock was more trouble than he was worth, despite the promise he made nearly a year ago to always be there, and what if he moved out and left him for good?
The thoughts circled viciously, like buzzards waiting to pick the scraps from his bloated corpse. He sought relief with ice cubes, a trick John had offered as a substitute to what he truly wanted. After a whole tray his hands were chilled and red, the carpet soaked from the melting water, and his brain still clamouring loudly.
He tried snapping rubber bands on his wrists, another trick of John’s. For a short period it worked, his fascination with the red welt that slowly raised enough to keep his attention for a half hour before once more he found himself pacing, seeking relief from where his thoughts insisted on going.
The fact was that John was his, and the doctor’s endless insistence on seeking companionship from others was grating. It cut into the time he spent with Sherlock, which had already been decreased due to his extended hours at the clinic, and the fact he was regularly getting sex now was like fingernails on a chalkboard to Sherlock’s mind.
The very image of John, hot and sweaty with that stupid cow he was currently with, was enough to have him clenching his fists and reciting the periodic table in an attempt to calm himself.
No, he knew what the problem was. He just needed to calm his thoughts, to get away from himself for a bit, and then everything would be fine, he would be fine.
And the two of them could go on living as flatmates without any odd sexual tension between them, because even if John didn’t admit to it, he was just as attracted to Sherlock as Sherlock was to him.
But he had promised, he reminded himself, pacing the confines of the room in agitation. Cocaine was off limits, and the morphine in his room had certainly gone off by now. That left -
No, no, he thought bitterly, turning his thoughts away quickly. That was a last resort, to be used only if the other two items on his mental checklist didn’t work.
Nodding to himself, he retreated to his room, locked the door, undressed, and threw himself across the bed.
He did not, in general, masturbate. The desire to touch his own flesh was not something he often felt, let alone indulged in. When he did, it was more as a way to quiet his mind and relax his body rather than any real desire to bring himself off. But now, his hand working clinically to bring himself to full hardness, he hoped it would be enough to still the thoughts that continued to whisper.
He desperately wished, as his cock filled and a pleasant tingle spread from his balls to his back, that just once he could understand what it was that others saw in this activity that ruled their lives. That he could understand John’s need to “get off” with the women he continually dated.
When he came messily over his hand, stomach muscles taut and straining as he arched his back, he was no closer to an answer than he had been.
Resignedly, he sought out his last recourse and drew a bath for himself. If nothing else, it would remove the stickiness from his release, though he also hoped it would help to calm some of his agitation.
***
The pain was beautiful. It quenched a thirst he hadn’t been aware of, allowed his skin to resettle itself about his frame and his mind to finally, blessedly, be still. It had been so long since the last time he had done this, so long since such a profound peace enveloped him.
He scraped the blade down his shin once more, feeling the slow trickle of blood follow in its path. He had not meant to cut so deep the first two times, but his hands were shaking and his mind wouldn’t shut up. These were not the shallow scratches he usually indulged in. No, these were deeper, longer, his control all but stripped away by the relentless boredom and incessant thoughts that never, ever stopped.
Except they had. Finally, his mind still, his heart slowed, and he could breathe again. He could smell his skin, damp and clean from his recent bath, mixing with the coppery tang of his blood as it trickled into the towel. He had removed it from his waist after retrieving his box, positioned it carefully under his right leg to catch any trickles he may produce. He was thankful now for his foresight. He had, after all, just washed his sheets before John left.
Another cut, slow and more precise, less deep than the previous ones. Such a relief, to allow himself this. To feel the sleepy lassitude drifting over his limbs as his body finally realized he hadn’t slept or eaten in four days.
It was all right now, he decided. He could face John when he returned the next day, could look at him and know he was having sex with that vapid, too-perky bitch who was stealing him away. He could face the possibilities, the what ifs.
Everything was fine.
He allowed the scalpel to drop from his fingers, feeling its weight nestle against his shin. He would clean up after a short rest. Just let his body doze for a few minutes, and then he would clean up and text John to let him know it was fine, it was all fine.
Everything would be fine now, he thought as sleep overwhelmed him and dragged him down, deep, deeper than he had gone for some time.
***
“Sherlock!”
A sharp tap against his cheek brought his eyes open, limbs heavy and his mind feeling thick with exhaustion. It took him a moment to process his surroundings (his room, lights on and revealing his nakedness and the bloody gashes in his leg. Had he really been that out of control?) and Lestrade hovering over him, lips pinched into a tight frown and one hand resting on his shoulder, the other still on his cheek.
“Thank God,” the DI sighed, easing back until he was standing straight again, surveying the man before him with worry and something close to fear.
“Lestrade?” Sherlock asked, because apparently he was just as much of an idiot when roused out of a sound sleep as the next person, and he couldn’t quite process what his brain was trying to tell him.
“Jesus, Sherlock, what did you do to yourself?” Lestrade mumbled, more to himself than Sherlock, and ran a hand through his hair.
Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but for once words escaped him. It was perfectly clear what he had been doing to himself. He doubted even the inspector could miss it. But to give the action voice would lesson it, somehow. Take away the privacy that had already been ripped away by the intrusion into his room.
His brain finally caught up, and he sat up abruptly, staring at his door which was now splintered around the lock where it had clearly been kicked in, Mrs. Hudson hovering anxiously just outside.
“You broke into my room?” he asked, incredulously.
“Yes, damn it!” Lestrade shouted, glaring. “You weren’t answering your phone, Mrs. Hudson couldn’t get you to open your door, and John was certain you had done something stupid. He’s on his way back now, by the way, should be here in a few hours.”
Lestrade moved to the doorway, murmured something soothing to Mrs. Hudson, who seemed paler and older than Sherlock had ever seen her. He took the opportunity to look to his bedside table, where his box was still opened, displaying its secrets for all and sundry.
Cautiously he moved, pushing himself into a more comfortable sitting position and using the sheet to cover his groin and leg. Lestrade must have seen him out of the corner of his eye, because he immediately turned his attention back to Sherlock.
“Mrs. Hudson, I’ll take care of him,” he said over his shoulder, waiting until the door bumped against the jamb before making his way over to the bed.
He sighed, staring down at Sherlock thoughtfully before sitting carefully on the side of the bed, his gaze flickering briefly over the oak box before landing on Sherlock’s leg.
“Let’s see the damage,” he said matter-of-factly.
Sherlock hesitated. Lestrade had seen him at his absolute worst, coming off the morphine and cocaine, when he could barely stand or hold anything in his stomach. The detective had stayed with him for a few days as he recovered, helping him get his body back under his own control with a minimum of commentary or judgment.
As if reading his thoughts, Lestrade smiled, a weary, resigned smile that nonetheless was genuine.
“Deju vu all over again,” he said softly, ignoring Sherlock’s confused expression as he pulled the sheet back himself. He sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “I think these may need some stitches.”
“They’re fine,” Sherlock immediately refuted, looking at the gashes which were still leaking blood. He didn’t think they were too serious, though, not like some of the wounds he had seen on victims.
“Sherlock -” Lestrade stopped, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not John. I’m not qualified to determine if these need stitches or can just be cleaned and bandaged up. You’re pale as a ghost and, honestly, you’re lucky I don’t drag you down to A&E for a blood test, because you look like you’ve been strung out for the past week and I have the proof right in front of me that you still have access to your old vices. So just - don’t be an arse, okay?”
Sherlock pressed his lips together in a fierce scowl, reaching past Lestrade’s shoulder to close the lid of his box.
“I’m clean,” he gritted out as he fought to unclench his jaw.
He still felt nearly drugged from lack of sleep and his stomach ached hollowly in reminder that he hadn’t eaten anything since Mrs. Hudson’s toast several days ago. He didn’t want Lestrade to see him this way, curling slightly to hide his nakedness and put some more distance between them.
“Wait a minute,” he said, glaring in sudden horror at Lestrade. “John’s on his way back?”
“Yes, Sherlock,” Lestrade confirmed patiently. It was the tone of voice he seemed to reserve for the consulting detective alone, part fond exasperation and part worry. “You apparently didn’t return his call, and Mrs. Hudson couldn’t get you to open your door, even though she was certain you hadn’t left. He called me to come check on you, because apparently he knows you better than anyone and figured you’d do something stupid, and promised he’d hop the next train home.”
“What about his date?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, an inconsequential question when the more immediate concern was that John was going to be home soon and realize Sherlock hadn’t been able to function without him.
“I don’t know,” Lestrade answered honestly, watching in confusion as Sherlock struggled to untangle himself from the sheets, absently hissing as the forgotten scalpel slid across his ankle.
“Hold still!” Lestrade ordered sharply, delicately picking up the instrument and placing it carefully on the bedside table by the box before turning back around to examine the new cut, paper thin and dribbling blood.
“I need to get cleaned up!” Sherlock protested, jerking his leg away from Lestrade’s grasp and scrambling out of the bed. He wobbled, his knees curiously unsteady and the blood rushing to his head.
He was momentarily distracted by the sensation, blood pounding loudly in his ears and black spots dancing before his eyes as he blinked in surprise.
“For God’s sake,” Lestrade cursed, catching the younger man before he could pass out completely and, ignoring his nakedness for the moment, returning him to his bed, watching him to make certain he was going to remain conscious. When he was positive that Sherlock was going to remain awake, he searched his drawers before throwing a pair of pants at him. “Put those on, and then you sit right there and don’t move!” he ordered, pointing his finger emphatically and ignoring the scowl he received for his efforts. “I mean it, Sherlock. We’ll clean those out and put something over them until John gets back. If he says you need stitches he can take care of it or we can drag you down to A&E.”
Sherlock snorted his disdain, grimacing at Lestrade’s back as the man left, supposedly to find the first aid kit in the bathroom. He continued to scowl all through the cleaning, body tense to prevent any indication that it hurt like bloody blazes to have the cuts cleaned. He suspected Lestrade knew anyway, but he was determined not to give anymore away than he had.
After, he was allowed to dress in loose pyjama bottoms and a faded brown t-shirt, his dressing grown wrapped tightly about him as he made his way into the living room. Mrs. Hudson was in the kitchen, preparing something over the stove that caused another wave of dizziness to threaten to overwhelm him, and he was forced down onto the couch by Lestrade’s firm grip on his shoulder.
“Sherlock, dear, I’ve made you some chicken and rice,” she said softly as she came out a moment later, a steaming plate held in her hands. She looked sad and slightly distressed, the lines around her eyes somehow deeper than yesterday.
Something caught in Sherlock’s throat and he had to swallow before murmuring, “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”
He smiled at her, happy to see her shoulders relax as she left the plate on the coffee table, smoothing a hand over his shoulder as she did so and kissing the top of his head. It was unexpected, and left him staring after her as she descended the stairs.
“Eat up,” Lestrade ordered, coming back into the room from the kitchen with two cups of tea. “You look like you spent the week on a bender and haven’t seen food in an age.”
Sherlock grunted, digging into the simple meal with surprising gusto, ignoring the way it burned the roof of his mouth and the back of his throat, the ache in his stomach increasing as it realized how empty it was.
“You don’t have to tell him,” he finally said, finishing his last bite and studiously ignoring the questioning look Lestrade was giving him. “You can just tell him I fell asleep and -”
“Sherlock.” Lestrade’s voice was gentle, as gentle as it had been while helping Sherlock throw up because he was too weak with withdrawal to make it to the toilette.
Sherlock didn’t speak again, instead taking his dish into the kitchen and washing it mechanically. He could feel Lestrade’s gaze on his back, ignored him as he returned to the living room and curled up in his chair by the fireplace, turning on the telly in an unmistakable signal that they were done talking.
For two hours they watched a movie with a lot of explosions and very little plot, Lestrade teasing him gently over his choice.
The sound of a cab door closing was lost in the sounds of a building blowing up, as were the sounds of John running up the stairs. When he burst into the room, bag in one hand and a frantic wildness about his eyes, he froze, taking in the scene before him with something close to disbelief.
Before he could speak or Sherlock could comment, Lestrade shot Sherlock a dark glare and stood, taking John’s arm and leading him out of the room, upstairs to John’s own little haven.
Sherlock scowled fiercely at the television and tried to ignore the sudden rapid beating of his heart. He turned the movie off and wrapped his arms around his upraised knees, listening for the soft murmur of voices.
Five minutes later, when both men returned downstairs, John’s expression was unreadable and Lestrade looked more calm than he had since waking Sherlock up.
“I’ll see you later,” the inspector said as he headed toward the door. “Sherlock?” He waited until Sherlock turned to look at him. “Remember what I said earlier and listen to what John says.”
He waited only until Sherlock nodded reluctantly before taking his leave, waving to John and closing the door firmly behind him. For a long moment the two remaining men stared at each other, for once Sherlock unable to read his friend’s expression.
“Let’s a have look then,” John said calmly, moving to kneel before Sherlock’s chair and patting his leg to get him to uncurl.
Reluctantly, Sherlock slowly brought his legs down, allowing John to push the pyjamas up to reveal the stark white gauze. He undid the tape gently, his hands steady as he examined the gashes clinically.
“I think you’re fine,” he finally declared, not taking his eyes away from the wounds before him. He replaced the gauze and tape, his hands warm and tender as they brushed the skin. “We just have to make sure these stay clean and you don’t open them up again. Lestrade did a good job of cleaning them up.”
His voice was steady, betraying nothing of what he was feeling, and Sherlock could not help but wonder if this was it. If this was the thing that finally broke John Watson and forced him to move out, away.
“How was the conference?” Sherlock asked, happy to hear his voice sound so normal.
John paused in closing the first aid box, turning his back for a moment as he did so.
“The conference was fine,” John replied tonelessly, putting the box on the coffee table with a firm thud. “Boring as hell, but they had a good buffet, so I’m not going to complain.”
“And… Marian?” Sherlock asked, forcing the name out. If this was him losing John Watson, he was going to make sure he knew who to blame.
John closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. It was a habit a lot of people seemed to acquire after meeting Sherlock, though he couldn‘t quite understand why.
“She was fine,” John sighed, standing stiffly and moving to sit in his own chair. “A bit unhappy having the vacation cut short, but I told her you were in trouble and she agreed I needed to get home.”
Sherlock kept his gaze on the floor, his expression carefully blank. So that was how it was to be. An understanding, compassionate woman who felt sorry for John’s unstable roommate, one who didn’t mind him darting out to help on cases.
The meal he had just eaten felt leaden in his stomach, and he wondered briefly if he was going to be sick.
“Sherlock?” John pressed when the only response he received was a curt nod.
“I think I’m going to head to bed,” Sherlock said, still avoiding John’s gaze.
He moved to stand, wanting to escape, to find the scalpel and reclaim the peace that had long since vanished.
“Stay right where you are.”
John’s voice was firm, a hint of steel underlying the words and halting Sherlock where he sat.
“We need to talk about this,” John continued, his voice a bit softer, but still with that hard edge to it. “We can’t keep doing this, Sherlock. I’m worried about you, and you could have done some serious damage to yourself today. So you’re going to sit there and tell me what happened, and we’ll figure this out together.”
“There’s nothing-”
“Bollocks!” John’s shout raised Sherlock’s head, for the first time their gaze meeting.
He swallowed hard at the concern and anger he found there, John’s complexion flushed and his lips pressed as he regarded his friend steadily.
“Sherlock, I may not have your genius and your ability to read a person’s life history from the mud splatters on their trousers, but do give me some credit.” John frowned at him, his disappointed frown that always made Sherlock feel like he had somehow killed a puppy without his knowing. “I realize that you get increasingly… distressed… when I go out on dates, and that you become even more upset after…. Well, after I’ve been intimate.”
John’s flush deepened, his cheeks and the tips of his ears turning red, but he continued on, showing once more his bravery and ability to face things without flinching.
“In fact, if I didn’t know you better, I would say you were jealous.”
Sherlock didn’t look away, though he could feel his own cheeks flush. He was grateful for the sunburn that still stained his face.
When John said no more, Sherlock realized he was waiting for an answer, though technically no question had been asked. Still… He knew that there was no other option now. Either way, he was going to lose John, and he supposed it was better to get it over and done with quickly, like ripping a bandage off a particularly hairy body part. He licked his lips, finally averting his gaze to stare at the carpet once more as he gathered his thoughts, trying to find the words that would at least leave him with some semblance of friendship.
“Sherlock?”
“It’s - My head becomes too full,” he finally began, wincing at the inadequacy of the statement. “My skin feels - too tight. Like it’s crawling. I can’t think, because there are so many thoughts going through my mind that if I try to pin one down they all tumble after. I can’t concentrate, I can’t breathe properly! The cocaine used to help, as did the morphine, but I promised I wouldn’t do those anymore. Now I - If I can make the thoughts stop for a bit, I’m all right. That’s all it is, John. Just making the thoughts stop.”
“What thoughts were bothering you?” John asked softly.
Sherlock closed his eyes, not wanting to see what John Watson looked like when he realized what a fool his flatmate was, when their friendship died.
“I didn’t like the idea of you with her,” he whispered, bringing his knees up to his chest once more, wrapping his arms around them. He knew exactly what his body language was saying, but for once he didn’t care. It was hard enough to get the words out, but this had been going on for too long. “I don’t like - I hate seeing you week after week, leaving me behind as you go out with your - your dates. I hate it. And I know you don’t care, that ‘it’s all fine,’ but it’s not, John. It really isn’t!”
Hands cupped his cheeks, startling him into opening his eyes, looking into John’s concerned face, his eyes so deep and blue he wondered how he could ever look at a sky again without thinking of them.
“You couldn’t have just told me?” John asked, softly. He made no move to get closer, to do more than hold Sherlock’s head up with his warm, calloused hands. Physician’s hands, steady and strong. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because what was there to say?” Sherlock snapped, jerking his face away, missing the warmth immediately. “By the way, John, I know you’re completely straight, but I love you and am miserable without you, so please forget your societal conditioning and think about dating me instead?” He snorted, turning his head away from the shocked expression.
“But - you don’t do that!” John managed to get out, his words strained with his incredulity.
“Apparently I do,” Sherlock growled, tightening his arms. “What does it matter? You’ve made it perfectly clear you don’t feel that way about me, so there was no point in bringing it up. Can we please be done now? I’m tired and would like to head to bed.”
“No, we aren’t done!” John snapped, regaining his composure. “Sherlock, you can’t just say you love me and expect me to not react! For heaven’s sake, did it never occur to you that maybe the reason I was with all those women is because you were the one who said you weren’t looking for something?”
Sherlock turned slowly to stare up at him, eyes narrowed.
“What are you saying?” he asked warily.
“I’m saying,” John sighed, moving back to his chair, falling onto the seat heavily. “That this whole mess could have been avoided if you had just, you know, talked to me!”
“Why?” Sherlock asked, unable to keep the hope from his voice, the rapid beat of his heart making him feel short of breath.
“Because I love you, too,” John answered simply, a small, tentative smile creasing his cheeks.
“You’re just saying that to make me feel better,” Sherlock decided, though the uncertainty in his voice belied his conclusion. He couldn’t trust himself when it came to John, not for something this big. His thoughts were too muddled, too clouded by his own desires to see properly.
“Oh, for pity’s sake!” John snapped, throwing his hands in the air, his smile disappearing into a dark scowl. “No, you idiot, I’m not! I’m saying that I love you and want to be with you, and that all the women I’ve dated this past year have been my attempt at respecting your wishes while having some shot of a relationship! Trust me, Sherlock, if I didn’t want you, I’d tell you.”
He could not doubt the sincerity in John’s voice, his face, the way his body practically yelled he was telling the truth.
“Oh.” Sherlock suddenly felt faint, blood rushing into his head, vision dimming around the edges.
“Sherlock?”
Suddenly John was there, maneuvering him so that his legs were once more on the ground and his head was between his gaping knees, his breath harsh as he struggled not to lose his dinner onto the carpet.
“Easy now, take some deep breaths,” John coaxed, his hand warm on Sherlock’s back as he rubbed a soothing circle.
Sherlock swallowed back his nausea, fighting the head rush as he gasped out, “You love me, too?”
“Yes, you idiot! Yes!” John laughed, kneeling so that his face was very close to Sherlock’s, not moving his hand but using his free one to push some of the curls away from Sherlock’s forehead. “Honestly, you’re the stupidest genius I’ve ever met!”
The next few minutes were a blur of Sherlock regaining his equilibrium and John fussing over him, ending with them both sitting on the couch, John’s arm wrapped around Sherlock’s shoulders as he struggled to comprehend that he wasn’t going to lose his friend, that John wasn’t going to leave him.
“I told you,” John whispered, his breath warm against Sherlock’s ear as he rested his forehead against’ the other man’s temple. “I’m not going to leave you.”
“I couldn’t make it if you did,” Sherlock admitted, the cuts on his leg stinging in sharp reminder of the fact. “I - I would be lost without you, John.”
“Yes, well.” John brought in a deep breath, running his hand up Sherlock’s neck and through his hair. “You won’t have to. Just please,” he added, and the desperation in his voice was enough to ensure Sherlock listened. “Please, if you ever feel you have to - If you don’t think you can go without hurting yourself again, just talk to me. I don’t like seeing you hurt, and knowing you did it to yourself doesn’t make it any better.”
Sherlock thought about it, about the pain deep in his chest whenever he thought of John with one of his women, of the what ifs that had plagued him the entire week. He thought about the scalpel, lying next to his box on the bedside table, and the bag of cocaine and bottle of morphine that still nestled in it’s velvet embrace.
He thought of the promise he had made almost a year ago, that he would try not to hurt himself.
And realized that it was no longer good enough.
“I promise,” he whispered hoarsely, feeling something inside him break and snap free, fleeing from his grasp. “I promise, I won’t cut myself anymore.”
John sighed against his neck, relief and thankfulness ghosting against Sherlock’s cheek.
“Good. That’s good.”
There were still loose ends to tie up, Sherlock knew. John would have to speak to Marian about their relationship, and Sherlock would have to come to terms with the fact that he was, in fact, very much in love with his best friend, and all the associated risks and weaknesses that brought with it.
But it was worth it, he thought fiercely as he turned his head, just enough for his lips to brush against John’s in their first kiss, chapped skin and cold noses bumping. He would put his scalpel away, back in the dark oak box that contained the remnants of his past and his secrets.
It would not be easy. He knew this, even as John returned the kiss chastely, close-mouthed and eyes closed. They would fight, and there would be days when the urge to retrieve his box would be overwhelming. But he would resist, and overcome, and together, there would be nothing they couldn’t handle.
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*flappy hands*
Date: 2010-09-30 03:19 pm (UTC)Otherwise yay! :)
Re: *flappy hands*
Date: 2010-09-30 07:06 pm (UTC)