Sherlock fanfic: 'Burn Me from the Outside In' - ch2
Sherlock wearily makes his way out of the pub and into the cool London night, immediately spotting John a few feet from the door, on all fours and dry retching into the gutter. Sherlock is beside him in an instant, tentatively laying a hand on his friend's back as his choking quiets and eventually subsides completely. John trembles under his hand as Sherlock helps him to turn away from what once occupied his stomach and sit a few feet away from the mess. He looks exhausted, Sherlock notes with some alarm. Barely five minutes have passed since they were upstairs and it seems that his flatmate has aged years in that time. Making a snap decision - one that he’s never made before, but one that is so obviously needed at this moment - Sherlock stands, reaching down a hand to help John up as well.
“Come on. We’re leaving.”
John blinks up at him owlishly, barely seeming to process his words and the out of character response only confirms Sherlock’s thoughts. He needs to get John home. He takes his friend by the arm and wraps a cautious hand over his shoulder, steering him away from the crime scene and towards the end of the street where the signs of life are bright and obvious.
They clamber inside the first taxi that stops for them, and Sherlock makes sure to sit in the middle seat, hoping that his presence offers some form of comfort, but unable to tell if it actually makes any difference. He whips out his phone and sends Lestrade a text.
To: Lestrade
Message: I am taking John home. Collect as much data as your team
possibly can and arrange a viewing time at Bart’s tomorrow.
Bring the letter - do NOT open it.
His reply was almost instantaneous.
1 TEXT
Received from:
Lestrade
Message:
k. Barts 2moro @ 10am. Meet u there.
~
John is still silent as they ascend the staircase at 221B, but finally he speaks as Sherlock goes to unzip his coat.
“I can do that”
Sherlock glances up from his task, hoping that John will meet his gaze - but no. His eyes are closed and so doesn’t see Sherlock nod. However, Sherlock knows that John notices as he moves away - the next question stopping him as he goes to hang up his own coat and scarf on the back of the door.
“Why did we leave, Sherlock?”
“Pardon?”
“We left. My sister is- and we- You never leave a case... Not ever.” John didn’t sound angry, just tired and confused and Sherlock stepped back to him quickly - needing him to understand.
“John. I am in no way leaving this case. I will find him, and I will stop him. I promise you.”
“Then why aren’t you back there helping?”
“Because right now I have more important things to be looking after.”
Sherlock knows this is the wrong thing to say as soon as it leaves his mouth. John hates being babied. He hates feeling weak. It’s why his limp had been so awful for him. He didn’t want pity - never had and never would. But then; this wasn’t pity - Sherlock knows pity. It's an old accomplice of his. He knows how it bubbles under the surface and eats away at him every time he speaks to someone particularly stupid - and this? This is nothing like pity. It’s warm and so, so painful and he can’t explain it to himself let alone John, but he needs him to know - this is not pity. He says the only thing he can think of.
“I’ll make you a cup of tea, shall I?”
He doesn’t get a response, so turns and strides into the kitchen anyway, ignoring the fact that his actions are a little desperate and he’s concentrating far too much on making the tea just the way John likes it. Sherlock is adding the first spoon of sugar when he hears the door to John’s room open and shut in the otherwise silent apartment.
He finishes making the tea and leaves it sitting on the small table beside John’s chair.
~
John is lying in his bed, staring at the phone in his hand. Harry’s old phone. Every so often the screen would go dark, prompting him to press a random button to light up the message again for him to read.
Received from:
UNKNOWN NUMBER
Message:
If you can still stand to be with him
by the time I’m finished, Johnny...
you’re even madder than I am.
J.M.
PS:
She screamed.
Mostly for you.
The phone went into power-save mode, plunging the room into darkness once more.
He lets it.
~
In his room, Sherlock is lying awake. He’s listening for any sound from above that indicates that John is having a nightmare; he knows if it does happen, it won’t be the battlefield his flatmate dreams of.
In the meantime, he berates himself. He should have acted faster - as soon as he’d seen who it was, he should have rushed John out of that building and as far away as possible. But he hadn’t - he’d been too slow, too stupid. He’d frozen up, and John had seen.
He shuddered.
Corpses didn’t bother Sherlock Holmes. He was used to death; even mutilation to some extent. But what he’d felt, when he realised who it was, lying in her own blood on the floor...
The panic of that moment and the sheer dread that had settled in him at the look in John's eyes...
That was more disturbing to him than a room full of bodies.
Sherlock sighed and rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling. It took him awhile to become aware of the sound rising ever so slowly in the back of his awareness, but once he did notice it, the muffled noise from above was unmistakable. Uncertainty and guilt battled against one another within the detective; should he go upstairs and - -
- - and what? Sherlock thought to himself with a sneer. Make everything better? Solve the puzzle and make all the problems go away? Well guess what, genius. There is no puzzle, and you certainly can’t make things better. Based on your experience with comforting people, you’d only end up making matters worse. Leave the man be - John doesn’t need any more of your interference. Just look what happened last time.
Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to relax his clenched fists. Eventually, after a long while, the darkness stole him away into a fitful sleep haunted by blame-filled blue eyes and the sound of crying from the room above.
~
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“Come on. We’re leaving.”
John blinks up at him owlishly, barely seeming to process his words and the out of character response only confirms Sherlock’s thoughts. He needs to get John home. He takes his friend by the arm and wraps a cautious hand over his shoulder, steering him away from the crime scene and towards the end of the street where the signs of life are bright and obvious.
They clamber inside the first taxi that stops for them, and Sherlock makes sure to sit in the middle seat, hoping that his presence offers some form of comfort, but unable to tell if it actually makes any difference. He whips out his phone and sends Lestrade a text.
To: Lestrade
Message: I am taking John home. Collect as much data as your team
possibly can and arrange a viewing time at Bart’s tomorrow.
Bring the letter - do NOT open it.
His reply was almost instantaneous.
1 TEXT
Received from:
Lestrade
Message:
k. Barts 2moro @ 10am. Meet u there.
~
John is still silent as they ascend the staircase at 221B, but finally he speaks as Sherlock goes to unzip his coat.
“I can do that”
Sherlock glances up from his task, hoping that John will meet his gaze - but no. His eyes are closed and so doesn’t see Sherlock nod. However, Sherlock knows that John notices as he moves away - the next question stopping him as he goes to hang up his own coat and scarf on the back of the door.
“Why did we leave, Sherlock?”
“Pardon?”
“We left. My sister is- and we- You never leave a case... Not ever.” John didn’t sound angry, just tired and confused and Sherlock stepped back to him quickly - needing him to understand.
“John. I am in no way leaving this case. I will find him, and I will stop him. I promise you.”
“Then why aren’t you back there helping?”
“Because right now I have more important things to be looking after.”
Sherlock knows this is the wrong thing to say as soon as it leaves his mouth. John hates being babied. He hates feeling weak. It’s why his limp had been so awful for him. He didn’t want pity - never had and never would. But then; this wasn’t pity - Sherlock knows pity. It's an old accomplice of his. He knows how it bubbles under the surface and eats away at him every time he speaks to someone particularly stupid - and this? This is nothing like pity. It’s warm and so, so painful and he can’t explain it to himself let alone John, but he needs him to know - this is not pity. He says the only thing he can think of.
“I’ll make you a cup of tea, shall I?”
He doesn’t get a response, so turns and strides into the kitchen anyway, ignoring the fact that his actions are a little desperate and he’s concentrating far too much on making the tea just the way John likes it. Sherlock is adding the first spoon of sugar when he hears the door to John’s room open and shut in the otherwise silent apartment.
He finishes making the tea and leaves it sitting on the small table beside John’s chair.
~
John is lying in his bed, staring at the phone in his hand. Harry’s old phone. Every so often the screen would go dark, prompting him to press a random button to light up the message again for him to read.
Received from:
UNKNOWN NUMBER
Message:
If you can still stand to be with him
by the time I’m finished, Johnny...
you’re even madder than I am.
J.M.
PS:
She screamed.
Mostly for you.
The phone went into power-save mode, plunging the room into darkness once more.
He lets it.
~
In his room, Sherlock is lying awake. He’s listening for any sound from above that indicates that John is having a nightmare; he knows if it does happen, it won’t be the battlefield his flatmate dreams of.
In the meantime, he berates himself. He should have acted faster - as soon as he’d seen who it was, he should have rushed John out of that building and as far away as possible. But he hadn’t - he’d been too slow, too stupid. He’d frozen up, and John had seen.
He shuddered.
Corpses didn’t bother Sherlock Holmes. He was used to death; even mutilation to some extent. But what he’d felt, when he realised who it was, lying in her own blood on the floor...
The panic of that moment and the sheer dread that had settled in him at the look in John's eyes...
That was more disturbing to him than a room full of bodies.
Sherlock sighed and rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling. It took him awhile to become aware of the sound rising ever so slowly in the back of his awareness, but once he did notice it, the muffled noise from above was unmistakable. Uncertainty and guilt battled against one another within the detective; should he go upstairs and - -
- - and what? Sherlock thought to himself with a sneer. Make everything better? Solve the puzzle and make all the problems go away? Well guess what, genius. There is no puzzle, and you certainly can’t make things better. Based on your experience with comforting people, you’d only end up making matters worse. Leave the man be - John doesn’t need any more of your interference. Just look what happened last time.
Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to relax his clenched fists. Eventually, after a long while, the darkness stole him away into a fitful sleep haunted by blame-filled blue eyes and the sound of crying from the room above.
~
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