sh (humanerror) wrote in saveatlantisic, @ 2017-01-08 18:41:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log, *fran, *gail, john watson, sherlock holmes |
Sherlock hadn't slept properly in several days. This wasn't unusual for him — particularly when there was a case to occupy his mind, all of his attention and focus narrowed until there was nothing left but the work. He was rather like a stubborn bloodhound in that way, except that wasn't the issue at present. Not by a long shot. Sherlock couldn't rest for longer than twenty minutes at a time because the same scene kept playing in his mind, over and over, an endless nightmare on permanent loop. Sometimes the events played out differently, but the change was slight. Maybe I can still surprise you.Sometimes it was Vivian Norbury pointing the gun. Other times, it was Mary. This morning it had been Moriarty in a Victorian wedding dress, his grin stretched so far that it revealed shark-like teeth. He'd woken up in the laboratory with a jerk, the sudden flood of fluorescent lights only adding to the disorientation. But his heart kept racing long after, and Sherlock stared at his shaking hands with a sort of detached fascination. This would upset your friends, his mind supplied, and he felt a twinge of guilt. Food, then. That was a task he could still manage without assistance. Sherlock leaned over to Jasper's side of the work table and nicked one of the bags from their snack stash. There were only rice cakes left (whose idea had that been?), so he tore the plastic open with his teeth and chewed — rather aggressively — on the stale-tasting bit of food. It was tempting to spit it all out, but Sherlock managed to swallow most of it down before giving up. He did have standards. Like sweets. John came wandering into the lab like a lost puppy, both hands thrust into the pockets of his coat, eyes wandering the room, briefly landing upon Sherlock to confirm where he was, but pointedly avoiding him. He knew his friend would be here - where else would he be? It seemed as though Sherlock barely went anywhere else. Nervously, John went over to the work table and stood across from it, again flashing a glance up at the other man to take note his mental and physical state. When he took his hands out of his pocket, he brought with them two packets of Hobnobs, one chocolate, one plain, which he set quietly down upon the table well within Sherlock’s reach. John then sat in Jasper’s seat just as comfortably as he would his chair in Baker Street, arms resting upon the tabletop, fingers restlessly drumming. All the while, avoiding any eye contact. Sherlock knew it was John approaching by the tread of his feet. Slower gait by a half-step. Paused outside the door. Rallying himself. Why? He carefully set aside the pipette he'd been holding, a piece of rice cake still clenched between his teeth as he watched John enter the lab and ... stand there. Wandering gaze. Large pockets. He's hiding something. Feels guilty about it. The appearance of Hobnobs were completely unexpected, though, and Sherlock snatched them up with a hissed "Oh, thank God" that he wasn't entirely aware he'd said out loud. It only occurred to him after he'd demolished six biscuits that John's generosity might also be an attempt to distract him from something. Sherlock's gaze darted over to the other man again, and his posture all but confirmed it. Sitting forward too far. Restless. Tense. Mary. It's about Mary. The realization made him relax somewhat. He'd been expecting this. Of course John would miss his fiancée. They'd been on the cusp of a new life together before it was delayed by his arrival here. It was only natural that he'd feel sad about that. "She'll come," he finally managed, half-turning in his seat to offer what he hoped was a comforting look. Sherlock wasn't exactly good at this, but he wanted John to be happy. "I'm sure of it. Then you can get married and go on sex holiday and do couple ... things ... in an alternate dimension." What did people in relationships do normally? Sherlock wracked his brain and came up distressingly short. He had no experience in any of this, but he hoped he could at least give John something to focus on that would make the sorrow worth it. “Huh?” John had been so caught up in his thoughts that Sherlock’s statement caught him off guard, and he needed to recompose himself. “No, no, that’s not it. Well… it’s part of it. . Molly told me the same thing, that it’s possible Mary might show up. But there’s more. I… urm… couldn’t stand not knowing anymore so I… er….” he looked away and coughed to nervously clear his throat. “I watched our television program the other day. With Jean.” All the color drained from Sherlock's face. Time slowed to a crawl. He felt the entire room narrow, everything around them falling away until he knew nothing but the roar of the ocean. Waves crashed against the shoreline, the sound broken only by Redbeard's bark from a great distance further along the sandy path. You're going to faint, the Mycroft in his head drawled, and even he sounded younger, his brother's voice still free of the disdain that fermented with age like an expensive wine. Do you want him to see you like this? He continued, and Sherlock tried to respond, to offer an emphatic Of course not, but no sound left his lips. Redbeard had joined them both by now, his tail wagging so furiously that it knocked against Sherlock's unresponsive arm. He couldn't do this. He couldn't. John waited for a reaction, and when none came, he forced himself to glance up at Sherlock only to find him blankly staring, looking even worse than when he first came in. The silence was overwhelming, and to fill it, John cleared his throat again and continued. “Not all of it,” he admitted, trying to sound collected, but falling short. He unconsciously rubbed the side of his face. “I started with the first episode, the one where we met?” Again, he looked for some visual or verbal clue from Sherlock, but not finding any, continued, sheepishly. “I wanted to see how closely the show matched what really happened.” The Study in Pink was ingrained upon his memory, not only as the first time he met Sherlock, but when he first fell for him. He was gobsmacked the moment he Sherlock started to use his amazing skills at deduction to read him like a book, and since then, his feelings for Sherlock had grown. All this, despite the agonizing assumption that Sherlock was incapable of reciprocating, emotionally and/or physically. They’d gone through a lot of ups and downs, arguments and adventures, and through it all, John had decided he wanted to be part of Sherlock’s life in whatever way he’d accept him, even after he’d returned from his faked suicide. Such was the depth of his love. Love? Yes. Love. He could see if for what it was, while watching his show, and finally admit it to himself. Mary was his fiance, but he knew she was little more than a placebo for how he felt for Sherlock. “I didn’t watch all of it,” John said. “I only got about halfway through. I saw enough to tell that the show was pretty spot on.” The part where he told Jean to turn off the television was when he was sitting opposite of Sherlock at the restaurant, waiting for the murderer to appear. Specifically the part when he tested the waters to see if Sherlock was interested, and was promptly, and distinctly refused. It was so awkward and heartbreaking to watch, he couldn’t continue with the subsequent episodes until he had a couple of stiff drinks. “I then skipped ahead to my wedding, since the stag night is the last thing we did together before I showed up here. Watched your best man speech.” And Sherlock’s declaration of love. And how Sherlock left the reception early, which was another heartbreaker that required more drinks. “And then the cock-up with Magnussen. The one set in Victorian times confused me, until I remembered you told me there was an episode that was set inside your mind.” But what really clued John was the breakaway, when he, Mary and Mycroft came on the plane to see Sherlock after it had landed. “And then… uh… after that… I ...uh… watched that most recent one that came out.” The one where Mary took the bullet for Sherlock. The reason, Jean said, for Sherlock’s distress. This was inevitable. It had been foolish of Sherlock to think they'd have more time together — foolish and worse, selfish. But God, he'd clung to that small, dwindling hope. He'd wanted so badly to be John's friend again — his best friend — but what kind of friend was he, really? He didn't deserve to be in this man's life at all. That John had even come here to tell him it was over in person was a far greater sacrifice than Sherlock could even imagine making, and he was deeply, profoundly shamed by it. He bowed his head, squeezed his eyes shut, and forced himself to breathe. In and out. In and out. Sherlock swayed only a little, feeling sick and dizzy with the realization that this would be the final moment he'd ever share with John Watson. "Thank you for coming," he croaked, though it was directed at the floor. "I imagine this is ... difficult for you. To face me again after what you've seen." I'm sorry was on the tip of his tongue, but he bit down so hard upon it that he drew blood. The tangy flood of warmth in his mouth helped to ground him. "You don't have to say it unless you need to. I fully understand what this means." This reaction was a cause of alarm for John, who stood up, his doctor’s instincts automatically kicking in. The external symptoms were clear, Sherlock well being had reached its limit, exasperated by a highly agitated mental condition, combined with lack of sleep and poor dietary habits. John rushed around the table to steady the other man, and in so doing, steadied himself. “Sherlock. Sherlock. Listen to me. I’m not angry with you. Look at me!” He wanted the other man to make eye contact to see he was telling the truth, and with his hand, forced Sherlock to turn his face in his direction. “I. Am. Not. Angry. With you. I’m not going to leave you, I’m never going to leave you. But right now you’re scaring the hell out of me. I’m calling an ambulance. You need medical treatment, right now.” John looked around the lab for something more comfortable for Sherlock to sit upon: his first priority was to take care of him.” What? Sherlock felt hands on his face and suddenly he was looking at John, really looking, totally shocked by the expression he found there. "I don't ..." He had to catch his breath, the words jumbled up and nonsensical in his head. Sherlock was having trouble focusing — the surge of panic and lack of sleep were making it hard to know what was real and what wasn't. Surely he was imagining this scenario? There was no other explanation. John probably wasn't even here right now, and — Sherlock's eyes widened. "Oh. You're the other John. The one in my mind palace." He smiled, relief written in every line of his body. "I haven't seen you since ..." He shook his head. They wouldn't have long. Every time he'd tried to reach John in his head, Mary had stood behind each opened door with a gun level with his chest. This was their first reunion in what felt like a long, long time. "Nevermind. You know already, don't you? I'm glad you're here again. We don't have much time until she gets back." Sherlock reached out a hand to grasp John's arm for support, squeezing weakly. "Can you ... can you stay? While I sleep, like you used to when I was away. Please." “She?” At first, John was utterly confused, but going past his initial panic, he was able to calm himself down to handle the situation with grave urgency. Because the television episodes which portrayed the mind palace were still fresh in his memory, having only watched them a couple of days ago, he understood what Sherlock was babbling about. Mary. Sherlock was worried Mary was coming. John wanted to speak logic to Sherlock, but scrubbed his face with frustration realizing that at the moment, Sherlock wasn’t in his right mind. John would do whatever was necessary. “Yeah, sure,” he agreed, reluctantly. “I’m John from your mind palace.” How stupid did he sound? He was glad there wasn’t anybody else around to listen, especially as he voice shifted to a more soothing, tender tone. “And I’m here to take care of you. Lay down now and rest,” John started guiding Sherlock off the chair so he could get him on the floor. Christ, is that blood in his mouth?? Not knowing that Sherlock had bit his tongue, he started to panic again, but forced it down to keep himself together. His eyes stung with tears. “Yes. Yes, I’m going to stay. I’m not going anywhere.” With Sherlock on the floor, John quickly unzipped his jacket to wad it up and put it under the other man’s head for a makeshift pillow, and only then pulled his mobile phone out of his jeans pocket. “I’m right here,” he told Sherlock to reassure him while he dialed the number, then firmly told Sherlock, “Don’t you go anywhere.” Sherlock relaxed when John confirmed that he was, indeed, the man from inside his head. "Took you long enough," he muttered, but he wasn't upset in the slightest. Not anymore. If anything, the realization brought such immense relief that all the adrenaline and stress from earlier drained from him completely. Sherlock was utterly exhausted now, boneless and pliant in John's arms as he was guided to the floor. Sleep nearly claimed him until he'd caught sight of a glint in the doctor's eyes that made his stomach lurch. He frowned deeply, trying to push himself upright again. "You're crying. Why are you crying?" When Sherlock wasn't able to sit up, he reached a hand toward John's face instead — brushing away any tears that happened to fall with a tenderness he rarely, if ever showed. "I've ruined it all. I know I have." He dropped his hand, and his fingers curled around any bit of fabric from John's shirt that was within reach. It anchored him. "I'm sorry." John took advantage of Sherlock’s compliancy to call Emergency Services, so he was only partially paying attention to what his friend was saying. He’d just finished giving the information and was hanging up when the tender caress of Sherlock’s fingers touched his face, causing the hairs of his body to stand on end. This was unexpected, but not at all unwelcome. In fact, this was something he’d been longing for and his only disappointment was it came at a time when Sherlock was hallucinating and clearly not all there, mentally. He took a steadying breath, then said, “Don’t be sorry. Nothing’s the matter. I’m crying because I’m happy. Like you said, it’s been such a long time since we saw each other.” Then, without warning, all the loss and grief he’d felt during the two years that he thought Sherlock was dead began resurfacing. So, when he spoke again, it wasn’t just to humor Sherlock, but it came straight from his heart, with emotion so real his voice faltered. “I missed you… so much. I thought about you all the time.” This was stupid, and John felt embarrassed, but he couldn’t help himself. Pull yourself together, he thought. Sherlock swallowed hard past the lump in his throat, reaching out to hold John's hand rather tightly. He needed something to anchor him, something that made sense amid the flurry of conflicting information he was receiving. It helped a little, and he rallied what was left of his courage. This was, after all, the John in his head and not the real John, so he could be more honest. More vulnerable. "I thought ... I thought you didn't want me anymore. After —" God, it was still impossible to say 'Serbia' out loud. He reminded himself to breathe. "After I was captured, you stayed with me the whole time. I wouldn't have survived that without you. But when I came back, you weren't there anymore, and I assumed ... given what you'd seen ..." He felt tired down to his bones, but he fought the urge to sleep. This was too important. "I don't blame you. I promise." John wanted to shake Sherlock and tell him to stop apologizing and blaming himself for whatever horrible things he’d done, real, imagined, or exaggerated - but John knew that wouldn’t help in his current condition. A pained expression came upon John’s face - he hadn’t watched that particular episode where Sherlock “came back from the dead”, which started with him being tortured, so John didn’t know exactly what his friend was referring to when he mentioned being captured... only that it must’ve been a traumatizing experience. Clearly, Sherlock had also been hallucinating then. Taking both his hands to clasp over Sherlock’s, he leaned forward until their foreheads rested upon one another. He closed his eyes, took a steadying breath, and murmured so close to Sherlock that a an inch or so more, they might be kissing, “Don’t think like that. I’ve always wanted you, and I always will.” Sherlock knew all of this was a lie. Do you just carry on talking when I'm away? His mind had been conjuring John's image since they started living together, filling up empty rooms and soothing rising stress whenever the actual doctor wasn't home. I don't know, how often are you away? It got worse when he'd been sent abroad. John was harsher there, colder toward him than he'd ever been in life. Perhaps it was Mycroft's influence. More likely, it was his own insecurities and dwindling confidence in himself when he realized, quite quickly, that he'd never been cut out for undercover work. That mission would take so much from him that even John's memory was skewed, distorted, wrong. "You won't." He felt hot tears sting his eyes, but he sucked in a sharp breath to fight it. "I can't live without you. I don't want to. But I understand now that I'll have to, so that you'll be happy." Sherlock held John's hands as if they had no time left, tight and desperate. They didn't, really. Emergency services were coming in to collect him — made all the more difficult by the fact that he refused to release the doctor at his side. Sherlock’s words cut John to his core. He closed his eyes again and frowned, hanging his head and shaking it sadly. No matter what he told Sherlock, no matter how much he tried to reassure him, Sherlock kept insisting that it was all a lie. How would he ever believe that the only reason why John got into a relationship with Mary was because he felt that was the only way he could “move on” after Sherlock’s death, even though he really hadn’t? That he went on with the wedding because he thought Sherlock either didn’t feel the same way he did, or couldn’t. The divide between them felt even wider than before. It didn’t matter, because John had fallen so hard that he couldn’t stay away from Sherlock, even if he tried, but John fought against a pang of guilt, the idea that he was responsible for making Sherlock’s condition worse. The EMS crew came through the door, and John snapped into doctor mode, telling the medics, “He’s exhausted and hasn’t been eating or sleeping properly. He’s also having a hard time distinguishing reality.” The medics helped Sherlock upon a gurney to take him outside to the ambulance waiting to bring him to the hospital. The whole while, John held Sherlock’s hand and comforted him with soothing words, trying hard to focus his attention on making sure that Sherlock was getting the treatment he needed, and not remembering what he was told. When Sherlock woke up in a hospital, he felt an immediate wave of panic that quickly subsided into confusion. Bit by bit, he focused on the facts to guide him: lighter color palette, lack of soundproof walls, sun streaming through the windows. They weren't in a high-end London hospital, and Magnussen wasn't about to walk through the door with a placid smile and dead eyes. He relaxed, finally turning his gaze toward the man asleep in the chair next to his bed. Five days without rest and very little food and now he was here, for the third time, worrying his friend and likely any other friends he'd made since his arrival in Atlantis once they all found out. That thought, more than anything, was what motivated Sherlock now. With rest and fluids, he felt far more focused than he had since the new episode aired, and it was clear what had to be done. Neither of them were any good at it, of course, but John hadn't left him yet. He knew everything and yet he was still here — that had to count for something. "John," Sherlock said, already scooting up on the bed so that he could see him properly. "John. Wake up, look at me. We need to talk." “Huh?” The sound of somebody speaking his name stirred John awake. There was some initial confusion, because he hadn’t even remembered falling asleep. He grunted as he lifted his head from the uncomfortable position he’d been sleeping in, and rubbed the crick in his neck as he groggily straightened his posture in his chair. “I’m up,” he weakly declared, with cobwebs of sleep still lingering in his brain, then looked over at Sherlock. “How are you feeling?” "Fine." Sherlock paused, realized this wasn't the best word choice, then sighed. "Stable, rather. I didn't expect the lack of sleep to have such an ... adverse effect on my mental capacities." Of course, that was the understatement of the year. He couldn't remember exactly what he'd said back in the lab, but the way John looked right now told him everything he needed to know about how their exchange had gone. Poorly. So Sherlock forced himself to hold John's gaze despite the awkward tension in the room. "I'm ... sorry to have worried you. I was stupid." Another understatement, but one he surmised John might need to hear. Now that the fog from the past few days had finally cleared, Sherlock felt more guilty than anything else, and honestly a bit fearful of how far he'd lost himself to his own intrusive thoughts. He never, ever wanted to get that bad again. This was the time to heal — for both of them. “Yeah,” John agreed, nodding his head, with slight tone of irritation in his voice. “It was stupid.” He then snapped his mouth shut, thinking he might’ve just said something that would set Sherlock off on another downward spiral of self-loathing and anxiety. A worried look crossed his face, and he nervously looked away. He started to say something twice, but censored his speech by sealing his lips together into a thin line, before finally finding the nerve to tell Sherlock what was going through his mind. “I don’t… I don’t know what to say to you, if you keep pushing me away and telling me it’s alright for me to leave.” His emotions were a mixed batch of aggravation and sadness, and John kept his gaze directed at some nondescript corner of the hospital room because it was easier to speak that way without seeing Sherlock’s reaction. “It makes me think like you don’t want me around. Which is fine,” he quickly added. “Fine. I mean, if that’s how you feel. You’ve made new friends here. You’d rather be with them,” he added, jealousy creeping in. Sherlock just blinked when John expressed his frustration. He wasn't anywhere near as bad as he had been earlier, which made hearing the truth of the matter much easier. If anything, it was embarrassment that rippled through him at his friend's words, not self-loathing. Except that quickly turned to surprise when he heard how John had interpreted his behavior. "No —" Sherlock pushed himself into a better sitting position, desperate to clear all of this up once and for all. "No. That's not how I feel at all." God, why was this so difficult? They were just talking, and John clearly hadn't left yet. He would have to tread carefully here. Sherlock continued to stare at the man opposite him, gaze bright and unwavering. "I thought that ... when you married Mary, you wouldn't want me in your life anymore. I've, er. Clearly misinterpreted the situation." There were months worth of misunderstandings to sort through, but it was enough to hear that John felt the same as he did. It was only painful to find out that Sherlock had unknowingly been the one to drive them apart. Could he fix this? Was it even possible? He'd try to. "You're everything to me, John." Sherlock's voice had dropped lower, warm and a bit rough. He had to clasp his hands together — tightly — to keep from fiddling nervously with the sheets, though. "Everything. I've always wanted you with me. I was just ... too afraid to tell you, because I didn't want you to feel obligated." John could tell by the way Sherlock carried himself and spoke that he was better, which gave him the freedom to vent without hesitancy. “Obli…obligated?” John fumbled over the word, and threw his hands up in frustration while looking up to the ceiling as if to supplicate some unseen deity for the patience not to throttle the other man. He then turned on Sherlock and asked him, “When have I ever given you the impression that I felt obligated? HUH? When have I ever suggested that I didn’t want you in my life? And I’m not counting the time when you surprised me by not being dead and I tried to strangle you.” John then leveled an accusatory finger at Sherlock, “Which, by the way, you deserved!. Not twenty four hours later, I was on my way to Baker Street.” His anger then reached a higher pitch, this time fueled not by Sherlock, but from what he’d watched the other night, “And I’m not counting that bloody new episode that just came out! I don’t know what the fuck was going on, but whoever that was, it wasn’t me! It wasn’t me! I watched the rest of those episodes after my wedding, and I was able to anticipate how the me-on-the-screen would react, sometimes right down to the exact same facial expressions. But that last episode?” John shook his head. “There were times when it was nearly like watching somebody else. I didn’t get it. And then there were all those discrepancies…” Veering back on subject, John told Sherlock, “You try to push the people who love you away, but that’s not going to keep them away! Not if they really care. You just make them even more worried!.” He scowled. “This self destructive behavior’s got to stop.” There was a pause, and when he spoke again, his anger had dissipated; what remained was concern. “Please don’t do it again. You… you mean a lot to me, too.” Sherlock stared at John throughout his speech, listening carefully to it all with a quiet sort of surprise. This was the first time they'd spoken — really spoken to each other — and he didn't want to miss any of it. Even if it continued to confuse him. "You're right," he said, and yet, he didn't feel defeated like he thought he might. There was still some lingering stress and more than a little guilt, but the fact that John was talking gave him hope to cling to. They could move past this if he'd only work at getting better. But that would have to start with being honest to John. Sherlock shifted slightly and dropped his gaze, uncomfortable. "I don't have any ... experience in this area. Nothing remotely similar to compare it to." He picked at the sheets and considered his next words very carefully. "My parents hadn't planned for another child. I was largely raised by Mycroft, and you can imagine what that was like." Even now, Sherlock didn't quite know what to do with all the attention directed at him from people who cared. He'd never had this many friends before. It was dizzying. His gaze caught John's again and he held it. "When I let people in, they get hurt. I get hurt. But I think ... I'd like to try to do this differently, now. Will you answer questions if I have them? Help me make sense of this?" The way Sherlock candidly spoke was so different than what John was used to, he was taken aback. John knew that Sherlock hadn’t been given any medication, so that couldn’t be the reason. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Sherlock, but his expression softened as he continued to describe, in brief, his childhood. By the time Sherlock made his request, the rest of John’s sour mood had dissipated. Sherlock had asked with such sincerity, that John couldn’t help but feel nervous. What sort of questions? he wondered, but replied, “Sure. I’ll answer. What do you want to know?” "Um." Sherlock suddenly looked very uncomfortable, a blush creeping up his neck all the way to his ears. "That's — I don't — not yet." He hadn't prepared himself for the possibility that John would actually agree to this. "When I have questions, I'd like to ask you. We can try more of this ... er, talking. Thing. That's good, right? Or ... isn't it? I don't actually know." Sherlock was completely floundering. He really had no idea how much or how often very close friends confided in one another, and what exactly they confided about. Mycroft always just did whatever pleased him and waited for Sherlock to catch up, and he'd never seen his parents verbally discuss things before. Mummy functioned the same way Mycroft did, and his father trailed along, content to find out one way or another. He stared at John a little helplessly, hoping he'd fill in the blanks here. While Sherlock floundered, John was relieved. Temporarily he was off the hook, so to speak. He breathed out a sigh, and said, “Alright… I’m okay with that… whenever you’re ready.” but then squared his jaw and continued, “You have to promise me something.” John put on his serious face. “These next two episodes that are coming up of our show? We watch them together. Whatever our future has us facing, we can get through it, side by side.” "Together," Sherlock echoed softly. He began to smile just a little, gaze darting over John as if to reassure himself that his friend was really still here, ready and willing to face whatever their future held side by side. It was more comforting than anything could have been, and he felt a renewed sense of determination to do better from now on. For the friendships he'd made on the island, and especially, for his enduring friendship with John Watson. |