InsaneJournal

Who? John Watson & Sherlock Holmes.
Where? Starting in their room, moving to the infirmary and then the back kitchen.
When? Backdated to Saturday, morning.
What? Sherlock has lost the man he loves, even though he's standing right in front of him. (Complete, part 2 of 2.)
Warnings? Sherlock's broken heart. Feels.



John was surprised by the obvious effect his small compliment had on the other man; he'd just been saying it like it was, but apparently that was a bit of a big deal. His eyes flicked over to him as he leaned in, feeling his cheeks flush slightly (rather to his surprise) as he spoke into his ear. But at his words, he gave a hearty chuckle. Yes, he supposed he could see why some people might find it more annoying than amazing.

"People often think you're a psychopath? Even when you're telling them that they've been kidnapped by a train with a brain?" he teased with a smirk. Ah, he didn't seem that bad. And terribly handsome - oh, God - where had that thought come from? He almost sighed with relief when he stepped away again. Jesus.

He cleared his throat, trying to keep his composure. "Ha! Sound mind is up for debate. You don't have me entirely convinced, but I'll go with it. But, if you're about to tell me I've been punk'd, I'll never forgive you!" he smiled.

He glanced back at him with a bit of curiosity as he guided him toward the kitchen. He couldn't remember the last time someone had been so kind toward him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd let someone be so sweet to him. He felt no need to brush him away, he felt no need to prove that he didn't need to be taken care of. There was something about the other man that he instantly trusted. And for once, that really didn't worry him.

"Sounds good - wait, how long have you been here? I-" he frowned, limping his way along to the kitchen as he spoke. "Like I said, I only saw you yesterday..." he added thoughtfully. It was a strange concept to accept so willingly.


"Yes, I get psychopath along with a few other choice words and phrases," Sherlock chuckled. "I can see why, actually. I'm probably not making the best first impression, am I?" He smiled, returning the teasing look. His hands were crossed behind his back for the moment, his posture almost coy as he leant forward, rocking gently on the balls of his feet.

He wasn't entirely sure what being punk'd was.

He took John to the back kitchen since it was less likely they'd bump into people there. And he could let John sit where he wanted whilst he cooked them breakfast, which wasn't something he'd been able to do before. He'd never made them breakfast in all the time they lived at Baker Street.

"I've, uh, I've been here about five months," Sherlock replied with some hesitance, holding open the kitchen door for John. "It's confusing, I know. Time travel isn't really my forte, I have to admit, but I know it's very difficult to understand. There are people here from all over the place, though. And I don't suppose time is actually passing whilst we're on the train. We feel as though it is but when we return-" he paused. Would John remember when they got home? Would he ever remember again? What if Sherlock couldn't make him fall in love with him here? He certainly didn't think he could meet John's needs for thrill and danger cooped up on the stupid train.

He sighed heavily, turning it into a clearing of his throat. "Um, two sausages, two rashers of bacon, egg, beans, tomatoes and toast-" Sherlock smiled again, though this was a little more forced. He remembered when they first moved in together John had a very high protein diet, still weaning himself off of the army food and the food he'd had in hospital to make him stronger. Sherlock hadn't eaten anything most of the time, but it hadn't meant that he hadn't watched John. God, he'd watched him like a hawk. He'd never observed anyone as much as he observed John Watson.

Well, great. He was apparently on a time-travelling train with a man who freely admitted that people often thought he was a psychopath. That was just brilliant. He almost wanted to ask him if he was a psychopath now that he'd put the idea in his head, but that probably wasn't polite, going around asking people about their mental condition. "Hmm. I think that's more the circumstances rather than you personally. It must be hard to welcome victims of train-kidnapping without coming off a bit unhinged," he told him. "I think all things considered, you're doing just fine!" he chuckled.

"Five months?" he repeated, his voice going high-pitched at the end in surprise. Why was he just accepting this bloody nonsense? He sighed, running a hand through his hair, frustrated. It was ridiculous. "I don't..." he swallowed, feeling the anxiety rising again. He'd lost it. He was dreaming. He kept switching between blind acceptance and total cynicism. "How did you know I was here?" he asked, then almost rolled his eyes at himself - the man knew he had an alcoholic sister, he doubted figuring out his location was going to be a brainteaser for him. "Sorry. I'm asking too many questions, but this... it's completely insane, you realise that much, I'm sure?"

He stood awkwardly, his leg forgotten when he wasn't walking, just as Sherlock had noticed the first time they'd met.Yesterday. "You don't have to go to all this trouble. Toast is sufficient," he said, not wanting to be a nuisance to him.

"It's not usually my role, admittedly," Sherlock said. He never went out of his way to greet the new arrivals, but even if his stumble upon this 'new' John hadn't been unintentional, he would have wished to be the person to impart this knowledge upon him, rather than someone like Jaime. John would not deal with that stress well. Not on top of the trauma he was now still suffering. "But I'm glad we've found some kind of stable ground. It helps to have someone relatively companionable around, especially for the first few days." He'd had John, after all. They'd had each other. They'd been new together then-

Of course the idea of moving back and forth in time, the thought that John had apparently seen him only yesterday when five months had moved in Sherlock's time (not to mention, hell, he was never going to be able to mention that they'd already known each other years, even discounting the fall) was really hard to take on. He'd seen other people struggling with it over and over again. People who had children their own age because of the nature of time travel.

"Your name was on the door," Sherlock replied, unsure of whether or not that counted as a lie. Because it wasn't. It wasn't really the whole truth, but it wasn't a lie. "You can ask as many questions as you want. You're more than welcome to. I'll answer them as best I can, though you should know we haven't had many solid facts to work on ourselves." Still, he realised, when he said 'we', 'us', 'our' he meant himself and John. The man that now stood beside him with that calm, soldierly demeanor. The way he had been when he'd been faced with all of the crazy shit Sherlock had thrust upon him in the past. He'd have smiled if his heart wasn't still physically breaking. "I know. I know it's insane. I know you don't really believe me, either. You think you're in some kind of coma-" He found himself lifting his hand to touch John before he could stop himself, his fingers hovering uselessly in the air beside his head for a moment. And then he had to turn away.

"You need more than that. Your body is still adjusting and recovering. You don't just drop out of the army life," Sherlock peered into the fridge, pulling out some bacon, butter, eggs, sausages. It was quite a lot, but sod it, he'd make up for it if anyone complained. He wished people wouldn't keep eggs in the fridge, though. "Anyway, a good fried breakfast will help with the stress. Possibly. I don't know. It'll be nice though."

"Oh? Do you have a specific role on the train? Is there... a schedule or something?" he asked, clearly still in a military mindset. Individual responsibility, team delivery. He didn't recall just how inefficient the train's system really was.

"Is there anyone else you know around here?" he asked, wondering how on earth the poor guy had lasted five months on a runaway train with absolutely no one, but there was something in the way that he spoke that suggested he had someone back then. It was all very strange.
It didn't even cross John's mind that they might have been from different points in their own timeline. He could just about get his head around the idea of the train travelling in time. Sort of. Maybe. But he couldn't seem to take it a step further and apply it to their life outside of the train

"Ah! Of course it was," he asserted with a little nod; of course, the train knew his name and stuck it on a door. It didn't make any less sense than anything else. Funny that the man still remembered his name after five months, but he supposed he was the observant type.

"You've been here for five months and you don't have many solid facts? You - who can apparently read a military history in a tan, and a software designer by their tie?" he pointed out, as if Sherlock wasn't already painfully aware of the irony. "Well, that's bloody reassuring," he sighed. It was ridiculous. He didn't even know why he was taking any of it seriously. Probably because Sherlock seemed sweet and friendly, and was offering him more companionship after knowing him five minutes than his own bloody family did. It was nice, even if he was in a coma.

"I'm not ruling it out just yet-" he agreed, frowning slightly at Sherlock's suddenly odd behaviour, lifting a hand, hovering, turning away again... well, five months on a train would make anyone a bit odd.

He shrugged, passively consenting to a larger breakfast. He didn't want to put the other man out, but he wasn't really objecting to a decent meal either. "All right. It seems as good a cure as any. Thank you."


"Me? No, not really. I help out where my abilities are required, but I'm not everyone's idea of brilliant company and I'm not really useful besides-" Sherlock paused, because the only thing he was good at, the only thing he could actually do, as John had just pointed out, was of no use. He hadn't been able to find any way to stop the train, he hadn't been able to find a way to get them home. If he had, this wouldn't have happened. If he had, he and John would be at Baker Street putting together a new life. And not this kind of new life- "-besides investigating and, yes, I haven't been able to do anything, come up with anything. So-" he shrugged, surprised at how difficult it was to slip back behind the wall he'd built so long ago that hid all of his feelings and emotions. The wall that had kept those parts of him safe from scrutiny.

"People come and go here. I know it's cynical, but it's probably not a good idea to get too attached to people," Sherlock turned away from John, content to not address him properly for a little while. This is what happened. Form attachments and have them ripped away by circumstance. That's why he never had. He'd seen too many people lose someone they loved in his line of work, why would he risk his heart... this. This was why he hadn't risked it. This was the whole fucking icing on the cake. "Of course there are couples, there are some families and...but I don't really have anyone. Alone is...protects me." Frying pan. Bacon. Sausages. "But I'll welcome your company-" because he was a sucker for the pain, apparently. "It's nice to have someone who knows the London I know."

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder and gave John a soft smile. "You'll be fine. You're the charming type, I can tell. You'll fit in perfectly."

John couldn't quite put a finger on the other man - on one hand, he seemed so self-confident, but on the other... something had changed about him since yesterday. But then, John supposed five months on a train would change a person. But even through the course of their conversation, he had gone from incredibly impressive to... referring to himself as 'not very useful' and sounding so very defeated. It was worrying; John was quite anxious about it. If the train could break the spirit of such a charismatic and almost arrogant man... how was he meant to survive it? He was unstable as it was.

Now, it was John's turn to do some deducing. The sudden change of tone... the way he deflected the question... there had been someone, and now they were gone. He couldn't think of any other explanation for his sudden cynicism, and the way he turned away - obviously a sore subject, and not one John was keen to push at... but he did still have some questions and concerns.

"Come and go, the train sends them... back?" he asked, frowning at his own choice of words. God, it was so stupid, he didn't even know why he was bothering to humour him any more.

Alone protected him? Yes, this was definitely someone who had been hurt, but he couldn't even begin to comprehend the full extent of it. He wasn't going to push, though - God, it wasn't as if he owed him an explanation, he barely knew the fellow.

"Right...okay. I'll... well, I'll not to make a nuisance of myself," he said eventually, although he felt as though he might be already. He'd have breakfast with him, and then let the poor man get on with his day while he explored. He doubted Sherlock wanted to be stuck babysitting him all day.

"Oh, great. I'm glad you think so? I mean, I know I'm adaptable, but this really is taking the piss," he huffed, although he gave him a soft smile, not entirely put out after all. "Still... I suppose this solves your rent problem," he mused, limping over to take a seat instead of just standing there like a spare part.


"Yes. Yeah, it sends them back and it appears they don't remember anything that happened on the train. Which I suppose is good in some ways. Not so good if you forget someone, though," Sherlock shrugged, trying to dismiss that part of the conversation as fast as he could. "But there are plenty of people. It's quadrupled since I arrived, actually. The train has grown- it grew more carriages, extra bits and pieces for us."

He knew it sounded crazy. It sounded ridiculous. It was ridiculous.

"You're not a nuisance to me," Sherlock murmured without thinking, frowning, wondering if John intended to go about his life here as though they were strangers. Which, really, they kind of were. "Really, I know you're an intelligent man, doctor, it'd be nice to have some conversations that don't revolve around nail varnish and who is sleeping with whom." He forced a smile, a very strained one, going to find some bread to make some toast.

"I'm sorry, I know it's...I know it's a lot of news to take on. But you seem to be extremely adaptable, honestly. You agreed to view a flat with me and I doubt I made a flawless first impression." No, in retrospect, he was a complete arse when they'd first met.

"Solves my rent problem, solves yours too. And we get to live together-" not that that was probably one of John's plus points. It probably certainly wasn't his aim. But Sherlock was losing the plot slightly. Just slightly. The raw feelings were beginning to take precedence. "Plus, granted, it's a little bit more exciting than London. Bit more dangerous," he fixed his gaze on John, steady, intense. Did this John still crave that kind of thing? Would it help make him better?

"Oh. That's... convenient," he responded, although he was sure if he was even being sarcastic or not. It was convenient, but not exactly in a way that he liked. "You know, saves you getting sectioned when you tell everyone you've spent the last five months on a time-travelling train, when it looks, to everyone else, very much like you've clearly been in London the whole time."

He sighed, exasperated by the whole situation, but more in the way that someone might be exasperated by a particularly irritating child than the way most people would react to the enormity of being kidnapped. Or to the concept of losing their mind. "Well, my therapist did say that as long as you think you're insane, you're not insane. If you were, you'd just go with it. So, I think as long as we keep in mind that this is completely insane, we'll be okay," he smiled, vaguely encouraging.

"Oh, well I'll... try to come up with some interesting topics for us to mull over," he suggested, although he sounded almost uncertain about what exactly was expected of him. "I'm not exactly fascinating. Doctors' tend to be quite dull, as a rule. I'm not sure I'll be able to keep up with..." he waved a hand in Sherlock's direction, unsure what exactly the word was to describe what Sherlock did, what he was capable of. He'd enjoy just people-watching and seeing what Sherlock had to say about it, but he supposed that was a bit too much like turning him into a dancing monkey.

"Well, it's not your fault," he assured him when he apologised, although perhaps that wasn't an entirely justified conclusion. He was the only person he'd really encountered so far, and he sure as hell knew a lot about him. For a man with trust issues, it wouldn't have been surprising if he had automatically blamed Sherlock and become suspicious. But he didn't. He trusted him already, and that was quite remarkable. "And it might not be flawless, but it's certainly intriguing. Very enigmatic. How could I not come and view and flat? I had to..." he stopped himself with a self-conscious shake of his head. He was gushing. It was embarrassing. "I was curious."

John gave him a smile; maybe living together wasn't his aim as such, but it certainly beat his previous situation. He did wonder what made Sherlock so keen, though - perhaps something similar. Loneliness?

Dangerous. If he'd really been paying attention to himself, John would have noticed the sudden and significant rush he felt just at that word. Just the thought of it had perked him up, which probably wasn't normal - but hell, what was normal? "Oh. Right..." he tried to sound disinterested, but it wasn't working. "Dangerous how?"


"I suppose. I haven't really thought about going back-" Sherlock said, almost lying though not quite. Of course his thinking of going back had involved a version of the man before him. He'd worried that they would return home and not remember that they belonged together. That Sherlock would carry on walking the streets of London. That it was just circumstance that had brought them together this way, that the only reason they were in love was because they needed each other and there was no one else in the world that would understand them... "I think it would be a fool of a man who spoke about this though. You would be locked away..."

He ignored the comment about John's therapist. He'd never liked her. She wasn't trying to make John better. She'd all but failed him the few weeks. She didn't notice that he was suicidal...Sherlock had known. Immediately.

"You don't have to try," he said softly. "You don't. Honestly. I'm very good at reading people, John Watson. And I knew immediately-" Sherlock paused, the sudden rush of memories and realisations making his mind palace shut down momentarily. And reboot. "...I believed then we could have a great deal of things in common. A great deal of...adventures together." he admitted, having the humility to look rather bashful for a moment. "Perhaps if we hadn't ended up here- who knows what we could have done with London." The sausages and bacon sizzled happily in the pan and Sherlock took a few steps towards John. "Imagine the danger that lurked around every corner. I saw it, a lot of it-" Sherlock licked his lips subconsciously. "I'm sure you would have loved it."

He'd noted the way John lit up at the promise of danger. The way he had the first time. As though Sherlock had flicked a switch and turned him on. Like a beacon.

"Well, you know, we stop off in rather dangerous places. Things invade the train. There have been murders," his voice dipped into almost a purr as he smiled at John. "Tantalising stuff, doctor Watson."

Sherlock turned then, heading back to the frying pan, putting the bread in to toast.

"You haven't?" he asked, his voice pitching slightly in disbelief. He thought that going back was all he would think about. The whole situation was mind-boggling. "Yes, well. We do have an abundance of fools in the world," he reminded him, with a smile.

Perhaps his therapist had failed him. John sighed, leaning his head on his hand for a moment as Sherlock continued to speak. Yes, he knew it was all insane, but he was still buying in to it. What did that say about him? And the things Sherlock was saying... surely his subconscious was just inventing it all? He needed danger and excitement, and now he'd just slipped into some kind of madness, used the face of the last intriguing person he had encountered, and created himself a new world. That made more sense than the alternative, at least. He wondered, briefly, what would happen to him if he killed himself in this fake world. Wake up or die? And did it really matter which, anyway?

"Hmm. Maybe. I guess we'll never know," he responded, a hint of sadness in his tone. He would have liked that, discovering a different, dangerous side to London. Was that partly because he didn't care if he lived or died? That he never really had? Even joining the army had been an easy choice. It was better to risk your life doing something you loved, than live in safety and misery.

"You could tell me, though! What you saw, I mean," he suggested with a bit more enthusiasm. If he'd really gone round the bend, he might as well get some entertainment out of it.
Oh, God. There was a rush almost like arousal when Sherlock mentioned the dangers of the train- surely such a dramatic response to his words wasn't normal, but it was definitely what he enjoyed. "Oh- that's-" he stuttered a bit, almost embarrassed by his own reaction. "Erm. Interesting. It's interesting."


"There's nothing for me in London," Sherlock replied. And that was true. Without John what was the point in London. London sucked without John. He knew it had been awful before, monotonous, barely anything to it. He'd enjoyed the buzz but he'd had to add to it with drugs to keep himself from going stir crazy. And then John. John was the catalyst for his whole life. His adrenaline buzzed when John was around. John was all the drug he needed. But now Sherlock was back to square one and without that hand, without that buzz what was going to happen to him?

God, no. No. What would happen to John? He'd been as important to him as John had been to Sherlock.

"I've seen some wonderful things," Sherlock smiled. Genuinely smiled. It hurt so much, but Sherlock smiled. He piled John's breakfast onto a plate and brought it over, placing it carefully on the table before him and fetching cutlery and sauce. "Bombs and kidnappings. Murders. Mysteries. Illegal things too." He leant across the table slightly, his eyes on John as he spoke. "You've seen a lot of things, haven't you? Death, danger, some horrific things, I'll bet." He couldn't help himself, his voice dipping into a little purr as he continued. "London is a battlefield, Doctor. More vicious than you would ever believe. Worth staying alive for. I promise."

Sherlock leant back, withdrew from the table and lazed backwards in his chair, all limbs and hair and neck and skin. He sighed heavily.

"I'm sure we can compensate here, though. We've been kidnapped, after all. Nothing too shoddy-" he really wanted to keep John's morale up. No, more than that, he wanted to convince John he wanted to spend more time with Sherlock. Buying him. Plying him. Tempting him into friendship. "I'll tell you about the murders on here when you're done with breakfast. And the zombie town in America. The wasps..." How he was going to tell these stories without mentioning John he didn't know, but Sherlock was the creative sort when he needed to be.

"Ah. I see. I... know how that is," he told him, with an understanding nod. It really didn't make a difference if he was stuck on a time-travelling train. No one would be missing him, anyway. Perhaps they would have been good flatmates. Cured each others boredom.

John thanked him for the breakfast as it was presented to him, but then let him continue speaking. He really was very interested to hear about Sherlock's adventures. They'd seen very different parts of London; most of John's excitement had happened overseas. He couldn't help but look impressed, nodding along as he spoke, almost encouraging him to keep going. It was ridiculous the effect such words could have on him.

"Yes, I have, yes. Enough for a lifetime," he agreed, his voice taking on that professional tone that concealed just how much he actually enjoyed the danger. But he ruined it with his smile, a little shake of his head as he chuckled at the idea of a battlefield making life worth living. And it was unnerving, just how accurate it was. "If I ever see London again, that is," he pointed out, although he was still smiling. "Mind you, from the sounds of it, the train is rather vicious, as well," he pointed out, worryingly happy about that idea.

"Oh, wonderful. I do enjoy a good murder mystery," he told him between bites. "Are you not having any breakfast?" he asked, although the answer was apparent. "It is delicious. Thank you."


"Oh yes, quite vicious," Sherlock replied, attempting to keep the note of humour in his voice, though there was absolutely nothing funny about this. It was ironic. This was the worst and most painful thing the train could have done. Even with Moriarty here Sherlock hadn't been quite so afraid. What was he afraid of? He hadn't had John as a partner until they'd arrived here, he'd lived their life together in London quite apart from indulging in any fancy relationship with him. He could survive without that love again. Just...let it be a fluke in time, in which Sherlock Holmes found love and learnt it's many virtues and vices.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose sullenly, trying to will back the prickling tears that threatened. He'd blame it on dust if he had to.

"I ate before I came to see you," Sherlock lied, crossing his arms loosely in front of him on the table. "But good, I must say my culinary skills have improved since I arrived here. It's nice to have someone to share them with." He forced another smile. "Aside from the train being sentient and kidnapping us it's really quite nice. There's a lot of additional carriages now. You came at just the right time, it seems. I can show you around after you've eaten, if you'd like? Or-" Sherlock shrugged. He couldn't force his company on John. He wouldn't make a good impression that way. it wouldn't make John want to stay with him. Or spend time with him.

It was strange. One moment, Sherlock seemed excited by the dangers of the train, the next he seemed... morose. Distressed. And John wasn't sure why exactly, but it wasn't something that he was about pry in to. It really wasn't any of his business. He bit on a piece of toast, watching him apprehensively.
"You all right?" he asked eventually, casually, the kind of detached concern of an acquaintance. He could have no idea how much even such a small remark could hurt Sherlock.

John had no reason to think that Sherlock was lying about his breakfast. He didn't even know him well enough to know anything about his eating habits. "Hmm. Well, I do appreciate it. You've been... very kind," he told him. He wondered what would have happened if Sherlock hadn't appeared at his door first thing. He probably would have been in the middle of a panic attack at that moment. He still wasn't sure what he thought.
"Oh, you've done plenty already, Mr Holmes. Sherlock," he corrected himself. "I'm sure I'll be fine."


"Hm?" Sherlock frowned, wondering what had prompted the concern until he realised his distress may well have been evident on his face. "Oh. I'm fine, yes. Don't worry. It's just...irksome, you know? Some of the things the train does. You, for instance. I'm sure this isn't your idea of a good time. Certainly not with your psychological issues at the moment."

He crossed his arms over his chest as he sat at the table, determined to have some semblance of regular person about him. "Of course. Well, it's nice to see a familiar face," he said. It really was amazing how many times ones heart could break in the course of a conversation. "I thought it would help you, too. Rather than walking into a train full of strangers." 'Mr. Holmes' was more of a slap in the face than anything else John had said. Even in old London John had called him Sherlock almost from the off. And he couldn't stop him from going. He really couldn't demand his company. And currently he had nothing more to offer him.

"Well...would you perhaps like to meet here for lunch later?" Sherlock asked, frantically searching his mind for what other people must do in this situation. "If you're not busy, if you don't meet anyone else. I'll be here around one."

John did wish that he would stop referring to his psychological issues. John spent most of his time telling people that he was fine, and putting aside his few emotional outbursts, people for the most part tended to believe him. Or if they didn't believe him, they still gave the topic a wide berth. Everyone had been walking on eggshells around him, and then Sherlock just came crashing in and... stomped all over his china. It was unnerving. He didn't understand the conflicting feelings - part of him wanting to hide under the table, but at the same time... he was enjoying the bluntness. He wasn't going to have to pretend with Sherlock. "It's not ideal, no," he agreed, although he wasn't entirely convinced it wasn't all just a product of his poor mental health.

"It did help, yes. I don't know what I would have done otherwise..." he admitted, and he really didn't. Hobbled up and down the train, drove himself insane. More so.

"Yeah, okay, that would be nice," he told him, as he finished up his breakfast. He could agree to that, it wouldn't be inconveniencing Sherlock, it would just be company. And he supposed he really should be continuing to get enough calories to aid his convalescence. He didn't really consider how he was going to know what one o'clock was on a time-travelling train. They were the kind of questions normal people didn't ask themselves.

He sat a little awkwardly for a few minutes after he was done eating, before he got to his feet with some difficulty, and carried his plate over to put it into a dishwasher. There were a lot of plates there already. He frowned, wondering just how many people were on the train.

"All right. Well, thank you again for... everything," he said, turning back to Sherlock and giving him a smile. "I'll let you get back to..." he shrugged, not sure what exactly there was to get back to on the train. "Well. Lovely to see you again, even if the circumstances are a bit... odd," he told him. And it was lovely. He liked Sherlock already.