"I shouldn't have."
"I shouldn't have."
"I shouldn't have."
The litany of John's admission cycled in a loop that Sherlock couldn't silence. The new phrase now added to the lexicon of John in the permanent commentary that narrated Sherlock's existence.
Stupid.
'What did you expect, Sherlock?' Mycroft's voice taunted in that damnable, all-knowing way.
"Do shut-up." Sherlock growled, hurling himself away from the door where he had leaned, defeated, after his hasty retreat from John.
'The doctor is married, Sherlock. Expecting a child.'
"I know that! Don't you think I don't know that?" Was his angered, piteous reply. It was all Sherlock had been capable of thinking of since his return. Mary: not who any of them thought she was, his own failure in that regard nearly too much for him to endure, both literally and figuratively. Then there was the knowledge of a baby, John's baby, in which capriciously, Sherlock had managed to block the thought that Mary might have any influence over it's development. Sherlock was thoroughly convinced the child would be a carbon copy of her father. Perfect and healthy and strong. The thought manifested in a wistful smile.
'Oh, dear lord.' Mycroft bemoaned his little brother's flight of fancy before pressing further on his previous course and redirecting the conversation back to where it had begun. 'Be that as it may, if this sordid little liaison had managed to come to...fruition-'
Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother's use of the euphemism. Mycroft's distaste in such base interactions had always bordered on the comical. But, this wasn't funny. Definitely not funny.
'It's much better this way.'
"Oh, is it?"
'Of course.' The smug git replied with an imperial lift of his chin. 'Can you imagine? The guilt? The lamenting?'
"I wouldn't have felt guilty."
'I wasn't referring to you, little brother. Yes, I dare say, it's much better this way.'
Easy enough for him to say. He wasn't the one standing there, naked in a blanket with the pressure of a tea-tinted first kiss still tingling on his lips. Sherlock now knew the exact way John Hamish Watson fit against him, the cage of Sherlock's body the perfect receptacle for every angle and soft edge of John's own. He now knew the incredible feeling of John's breath against his skin; he had mapped the edges of John's teeth; had been intimate with the slick slide between their tongues. Closing his eyes, Sherlock relived the bliss of having John's hand twined in his hair and the near-rapturous feeling as he had pulled, strong and commanding, while Sherlock wilted beneath.
His reply was fatuous. "We don't know that's how he would have reacted-"
'Balance of probability, Sherlock.'
"For God's sake, you really need a new catch phrase."
Mycroft's lips pursed as if he'd just sucked a persimmon, which pleased Sherlock to no end.
'To have that knowledge of John Watson, now, after all the years you've denied yourself, and after all you've sacrificed. No. You couldn't have come back from that, Sherlock. You're barely here now.'
Harsh as it was, Sherlock let the statement sink in, and it caused a hot, rising wave of nausea from the pit of his stomach; a sickening flash of acknowledgment for the truth he knew Mycroft now spoke.
'So you see- for the best.'
"Not for me." Sherlock whispered, tugging the duvet tight against the all-too-familiar chill of despair that now leeched into his bones.
Mycroft heaved a terse, albeit, patient sigh on his brother's behalf. 'How many times have you heard the good doctor say, quite unequivocally, that he wasn't that way, Sherlock? Correct me if I'm wrong, but hasn't he even printed as much on that ghastly log of banality he calls a blog? So really, dear brother, can it come as such a shock that things didn't progress as you had wished?'
Sherlock flopped in an inelegant heap upon the side of the bed, shoulders rounded and head hanging in bitter defeat under his brother's more insightful knowledge.
'Lovely. Now, that we are on the same page and you can put all this senseless sentiment away-'
"How? How do I just 'put it away, Mycroft? It's all just so easy for you, to always be telling me 'sentiment is useless', 'all hearts are broken, Sherlock'," He mimicked in that condescending tone Mycroft always used to hammer home his meaning to Sherlock. "What do you even know of sentiment? Of feelings? You wouldn't know a true one if it smacked you in the nose." Sherlock hissed.
'On the contrary, little brother. I know plenty,' he reminded Sherlock pointedly. 'But, what I also know is this- this involvement you seem so keen in fostering with the good doctor, can lead to nothing but heartache and bitter disappointment for you. Look at all you have suffered so far in your liaison: a faked suicide to protect him; two years exile under conditions the UN would be appalled to know existed under their management; a lukewarm welcome upon your return; watching him wed someone else; being shot; committing mur-'
"Enough!" Sherlock roared, his hands finding his hair and pulling with all the intention of scalping himself, his only recourse to subject himself to literal pain to subsume the harsh and aching realisations in Mycroft's soliloquy. "I don't need a bloody reminder, I lived it, remember? Got the bloody scars to prove it."
'And, not just ones that we can see.' Mycroft quietly replied before forging ahead when Sherlock refused to be goaded into a response. "Right, good then, now that we are at an understanding there are more important matters to attend. Moriarty-'
"No," Sherlock hissed, tensing at the name. "No, no, no. Not him. I will not discuss him."
'Don't be ridiculous, brother dear. His reappearance is the only reason you aren't once again, in some hovel in Eastern Europe, suffering a slow but thoroughly, painful death. Moriarty's return is the only thing-'
"For God's sake! STOP saying his name! Stop it! I don't want to hear it. He's dead. He is. He is," Sherlock tried desperately to control the rising panic that filled his skin at the thought the consulting criminal could still be...No. No. It was too much- too horrid to think; the possibility terrifying. "I stood on that roof and watched him put a gun to his mouth and pull that trigger. He's dead, Mycroft. Dead. He couldn't have faked-"
'You did.' The statement is so matter-of-fact that Sherlock winces. 'Just look at all he was able to accomplish, brother mine, without ever lifting a finger. You think this was beyond his skill set? Why, with Mary on his payroll, it's practically a given.'
"Do not mention that- that woman's name to me." From the moment of Sherlock's return, Mary had been a sore subject for him. Coming back to find John living with her and on the cusp of proposing marriage was a possibility that had never entered Sherlock's realm of consciousness during his two years away. Not that he thought John would have waited for him-
'Yes, you did.' Came Mycroft's swift rebuttal, which Sherlock blatantly ignored.
But for John's sake, Sherlock had managed to muddle through, to the point where he grew a grudging respect and mild affection for the woman John made his partner in life.
That was to say, up until the point she had shot Sherlock, point blank, and his brother had seen fit to 'go a little deeper' into her background. Mycroft has shared the intel with Sherlock (against his wishes) revealing to the consulting detective Mary's employment under Moriarty. He hadn't wanted to know. If he knew about Mary, anything at all, what was he to do? Tell John? That would just ruin his marriage. Not tell John? Then Sherlock would always have to pretend. Not tell John and someone else find out about Mary? Then John was in danger and would never see it coming. Not tell John and have John find out that Sherlock had known all this time and hadn't told him? Then Sherlock would lose the only person in his life that he cared about, because there was no way John Watson would ever forgive him of that kind of betrayal.
Not again.
'Yes, it's quite the conundrum, seeing as you do know about the lovely Mrs. Watson and her dealings with Moriarty.'
"Mycroft, do shut up."
With the lift of a haughty brow, and the patience of a saint, he continued his diatribe without missing a beat. 'Be that as it may, you have more important things to worry about now, brother mine. Moriarty is apparently back and you are the one to which the entire British Security Service is looking to deal with the matter. It's the whole reason you were granted this stay of execution.'
"I didn't ask for any stay of execution, brother. I didn't ask for any of this."
'Of course not. Ever the martyr, Sherlock.'
"I'm not! I'm not trying to be a martyr, I don't want to be a martyr. I don't want to hear about Moriarty! I don't want to hear his bloody name. I just want you to Leave. Me. Alone!" Sherlock lashed out, the flash of his anger and fury immediate, tempered by the blinding edge of fear that culminated in his sudden outburst.
His foot connected with the bedside table, sending it crashing on it's side. The pounding on the door sounded before the remains of his mother's tea service came to a shattering rest across the floor.
"Sherlock!" Came John's frantic call as he continued knocking furiously against the door. "Sherlock, are you alright? Open this bloody door!" He cursed, his voice steely in it's resolve that Sherlock obey as he now rattled the handle furiously.
"It's- I'm ok, John. Just another nightmare." Sherlock managed to modulate his tone as he gingerly stepped across the broken shards of pottery. "Nothing to worry about. Sorry to have disturbed you."
"Sorry to have disturbed me?" He could make out John muttering under his breath from the other side of the door. Never a good sign to have John Watson muttering to himself. "Jesus. Sherlock. Just open the door."
Pulling himself up to his full height with all the imperial grace one could muster while wrapped in the shroud of a cotton duvet, Sherlock hauled the door open just as John poised to give it another pounding, causing him to stumble forward a bit with the momentum. He cleared his throat as he managed to right himself before giving Sherlock a quick once over. "All right?"
"I'm perfectly fine, John. Nightmare, as I said, though you know I hate repeating myself-"
"Yeah, yeah, I remember. But you only just left so you couldn't have fallen asleep that fast."
"Is that your medical opinion, doctor?' Sherlock scowled, a brow raised high on his forehead leaving no room to misinterpret his scepticism at such a paltry diagnosis. 'I mean, you can't have failed to notice I am coming off a pretty spectacular high."
"'Spectacular'?" John hissed, running a frustrated hand down the back of his head. "That's not even a little funny. And, of course! I haven't 'failed to notice', Christ, Sherlock."
"Yes, well," Sherlock hedged, swishing the trailing ends of his blanket to the side as he quickly skirted past John and into the hallway behind him. "The drugs, you know. Terrible things. Wreak havoc on normal functions. I have always had just the worst drug-induced nightmares. Would be enough to scare any normal person straight, but," He laughed, hollow and self-deprecating as he chattered on and waltzed back into his own room- the one John was using, the one where John had just kissed him, on his childhood bed, where he had thought-
"But, what, Sherlock?" John's voice halted the images apparently eager to be relived in Sherlock's fervent imagination and Sherlock suppressed a shiver, the interruption the perfect dousing of cold water he needed to thwart that torrent of wasted sentiment.
Sherlock scowled, trying to recall just what he had been saying. "Oh. Yes, well, that, obviously, I'm not normal." The comment was offered with an uninterested flick of the wrist in John's general area before he turned and began rifling through the wardrobe.
"What are you doing, Sherlock?"
Casting a gaze over his shoulder at the question, Sherlock caught John's expression as he wiped a weary hand down his face.
"Clothes, John, I need clothes. And this being my old room and mum being the sentimental fool she is, I'm certain there should be something here." Sherlock was flinging clothes behind him as he spoke, unaware of the mania that now gripped him. "A remnant of my misspent youth. A tee shirt." Another piece over his shoulder. "Jogging pants." John feigned to the right, to avoid the latest article of clothing from hitting him in the face, allowing it to land in the growing pile at his feet. "A bloody dressing gown for Christ's sake." He groused, poised to hurl another offending item blindly when John grabbed his wrist, halting the follow-through.
"Jesus. Can you-" John cleared his throat, that little anomaly of his that had a myriad of implications, of which Sherlock was unable to pinpoint at this exact moment. He didn't let go of Sherlock's wrist and Sherlock didn't turn around. "Can you just stop? For a second? Breathe and maybe we could... I don't know. Maybe we could sit down and talk about all of-"
"There's nothing to talk about, John."
"There is. Of course, there is. I didn't mean," John stammered. "You misunderstood-"
"No, I understood clearly. It's fine, John. I'm not a child, and although, I may lack personal experience in these areas, I'm not completely ignorant of how they work. Both parties must be interested and free to pursue those interests without conflict. And most certainly, these types of interactions should never be undertaken out of...guilt or a sense of obligation." The words were fired at machine-gun speed, and he was at the ready to launch even more until he was silenced by John.
"Stop it!" he yelled, the facade of his usual control slipping for a split second before once more reining it all in. With a deeply frustrated breath, he pulled Sherlock around to finally face him, his grip tight and unrelenting. "You sound like you got that from a bloody book."
"Of course, I got that from a book." Sherlock couldn't help but toss out, loathe as he always was to repeat himself (he just couldn't help it), and the rejoinder sent a shard of bitter, fleeting glee singing in his veins at the reminiscence of when he had said just that same thing to John about his 'relationship' with Janine.
Another false glimmer of hope he had seen in John's reaction then, too. So stupid! Sherlock pulled his wrist free of the circle of John's fingers, inwardly cursing just how much he wanted to keep that touch there. To have more. Always more.
"Did you not hear any of the things I said to you, earlier?" John was looking at the floor, his hands at his sides, fists clenching and relaxing. He took a deep breath, shoulders back before lifting his head and meeting Sherlock's eyes. "I care for you. Have always cared-"
"I know, John." Sherlock was surprised by the quiet tone of his own words now, but he was tired and he didn't want to fight with John. He didn't want to be the reason John looked so tired. The reason the lines of his face seemed deeper. The reason his brow furrowed and his shoulders sagged when he thought no one was looking. The reason for the bruised flesh beneath his blue eyes. The reason why his step sometimes faltered; a tiny misstep here and there, not enough for anyone else to notice, but Sherlock did. Sherlock saw it all and Sherlock was the reason so much in John Watson's life was a bit not good. "It's enough, just to know that you do."
Sherlock's heart seized, his chest constricted, as John reached out, taking his wrist again, carefully, gently, the pads of his fingers sliding against the tender skin of his inner wrist, his thumb twining, encircling it's circumference. All of the air left the room as Sherlock stared into the watery blue depths of John's eyes; the moment hung in suspended silence before John swayed, moving slowly forward to close the distance between them.
God, Sherlock wanted that to happen, wanted nothing between them but the whisper of breath and the kiss of skin. It was like an itch beneath Sherlock's skin- out of reach. So much Sherlock wanted was just at the tips of his fingers but may as well have been on the other side of the world.
John Watson belonged to someone else.
Sherlock broke his gaze away first before slowly, gently, easing his arm from John's grasp. He could feel the heat in his face, the rising tide of shame and humiliation as he turned from John's questioning stare. He couldn't bear the thought of John seeing just how devastated he was by his shameful desire; his aching need for the man. John didn't need that guilt on top of everything else.
"I'm going to take a shower." Sherlock managed, though how he wasn't certain, his throat nearly too tight to force the words through.
John cleared his throat. "Yeah, right. Good. Um, I think I'll make some tea. Yeah. Do you-"
"Um, no. No, thank you. I'm really crashing now, so," God, this was awful, the two of them so uncomfortable with each other, but what could Sherlock do? He didn't know how to fix this. "I think I'll just try to get some more sleep."
John nodded, looking a little hopeful as he offered, "Do you need anything? Something to help? You know, with the...nightmares? Mycroft's left an entire pharmacy downstairs, I'm certain there's something I could get for you-"
"No," Sherlock said softly, a sad smile gracing the corners of his lips. John Watson was an awfully good man. "Thank you, but it's probably best if I didn't take anything..."
"Right. Of course." John rocked back and forth on his heels, before shoving his hands deep in his pockets, his shoulders rising up around his ears. "Well, then, have a good shower and I hope you get some rest. And, um, I'll just be...Yeah, I'll be downstairs if you... need anything." He made a military-sharp pivot turn and headed for the door.
"John," Sherlock called out, halting John at the doorway. He didn't have anything else to say but the thought of John leaving this room...it was too final. "Thank you. For everything."
He watched the rise and fall of John's shoulders as he took one long, deep breath before turning his head and fixing Sherlock with that mesmerizing marine stare. "Anything for you, Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock sagged against the cupboard he stood in front of as John left, his words heavy on Sherlock's heart. He heaved a sigh, bullying his heart back under control in order to finally find something that could pass for clothes before making his way to the bathroom.
The light on the vanity is harsh, and he blinks, trying to adjust to the bright environment. He feels exposed; vulnerable. The blanket slips to the floor in a puddle around his feet and he looks at himself in the mirror. It isn't something he's been too keen to do, since his return from the dead. His vanity had always known no bounds but now...well, now. His eyes rest on the scar on his right side, low on his rib cage, the line jagged and still red. Mary's handiwork. It's ugly but most of that is his own fault since the doctors had had to open him back up to stop the internal bleeding his traipsing around Lauriston Gardens had caused.
Sherlock didn't look any further than that. He didn't have the stomach to look at or think about the others that now marred his body. It was a kind of twisted relief (ha!) that things hadn't progressed any further with John. He knew he couldn't have handled John's pity, his questions, or ultimately, Sherlock was certain, his repulsion. Because if he had seen them all, it wouldn't have been hard to figure out all that Sherlock had endured and the doctor would have been appalled.
No, no matter how much Sherlock wanted John Watson, it was all for the best, just how it ended up, although that didn't stop Sherlock now from imagining what never would be. He wanted something he was only vaguely aware had a name. The feeling had been so ephemeral for so long, but now he had a reference point. He had kissed and been kissed. His fingers traced the seam of his own lips, the remembered reciprocation nearly as potent as the moment itself. He closed his eyes, remembering the smell, the taste of John. Sherlock had been so out of his depth and now he didn't have enough data to even articulate the desire that rose to color his chest, his neck, his cheeks. He was stupid and blind in the face of want and need and hunger. All of it was too vague, too unfamiliar and left him uncomfortable and hot.
He flinched, jolted from his thoughts when he found his hand had drifted. It had been mapping the plains of his chest, the slope of his abdomen and now rested in the thatch of dark hair that sprung from between his legs, surrounding the jutting length of his arousal. His fingers twitched as he debated-
'Are you really so obvious?'
Sherlock groaned as he quickly pulled his hand away, fighting the wave of embarrassment that flooded his system. He placed both hands on the lip of the wash basin and leaned over it, his head hanging low between his shoulders. "Your timing leaves so much to be desired."
'Apologies, brother mine, but we were rudely interrupted by your outburst earlier.'
"No, we weren't. I was finished talking about...that."
'And, I wasn't. There are things that we need to discuss. You need to focus, Sherlock, put this childish infatuation with Doctor Watson aside since it's obviously come to it's natural fruition."
"You really think it's all so beneath you, don't you?"
His brother sighed, heavy and disheartening. 'Sherlock, for years, you have pined for a man that will not, cannot return your feelings. How can you not see that it is beneath you as well?'
Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head because he had no answer to that question.
'Yes, well,' Mycroft cleared his throat, plainly uncomfortable with the sentiment. 'May we focus now? Moriarty-'
"Oh, my God. Please, Mycroft, I can't. I can't think of that now. Not now." Sherlock was too weary to focus. Too tired to think. He didn't want to weight of the Commonwealth's safety to rest on his shoulders.
His mind flashed the image of eyes, cold and dark, an eerie madness reflected in their black pools and the juxtaposition of a lilting Irish brogue and the cold, damp wind from the roof of St. Bart's and he shuddered in fear.
Not again. Sherlock couldn't play his game again.
'And, what of your doctor, Sherlock? What will become of him, if you don't play? When you know that his own wife-'
"Shut. Up." he growled, his hands covering his ears as the words rushed out of him. "I'm just not going to do anything about it. If I don't engage, then there is no reason to target me or anyone associated with me."
But, Mycroft was undaunted by Sherlock's fear and near-hysteria. 'You think that will stop him? Do you think that will protect John? He's obesessed with you, Sherlock. You gave up your livelihood and went off for two years, doing nothing but dismantling his organization with single-minded focus. Now, he's back and one of his most-trusted employees is married to the man you love. The very same person that has shot you, that you forgave for shooting you, that you encouraged John to forgive, as well. Ignoring Moriarty will not make him go away.'
"Why not? He'll grow bored. He will. If he can't get me to respond, he'll just move on and John will be safe. He'll be safe and that's all that matters."
'Oh, Sherlock.'
"I can't do this, Mycroft. Please."
'Then will you disappear again? Is that the answer? You'll do anything to keep John safe, is that it? You've given everything for this man, Sherlock. What have you left to sacrifice for Doctor Watson?'
Sherlock finally lifted his head, meeting his own tired pale gaze in the mirror. His skin too pale under the harshness of the overhead light, his chest too thin, his shoulders too narrow- a fascimile of the man he once was.
What have I left, indeed?