Two Months Later
Title: Two Months Later
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Word Count: 1,371
A/N: Beta thanks to mandac424.
Warnings: SPOILERS through "The Reichenbach Fall". Summary under cut, as it contains spoilers.
Summary: Its been two months and Sherlock still hasn't told John he's alive.
Molly
It takes about a week of living with Sherlock to cure Molly of her misguided crush for him. Sherlock, for all his brilliance, is a terrible person to spend an extended amount of time with. He’s a good person, with good intentions, but he has absolutely no idea how to interact with other people and very little patience with them. Other people are too slow, too dull, too boring and Molly finally understands that Sherlock can’t help the way he is.
He isn’t rude for the sake of it; he just doesn’t understand the niceties that go with human interaction. He doesn’t try to be cruel; he just doesn’t realize how harmful his words can be until too late. While he can be merciless and frightening when he wants to be, most of the time people just confuse him and irritate him with their rules of social interaction. He isn’t good with empathy, either.
Molly may work in a morgue, but she went to medical school. She knows what Asperger’s Syndrome is and is a little embarrassed that it took her so long to realize.
Now that she understands, she tries to be more patient. That doesn’t mean she isn’t pissed as hell that it’s been nearly two months and Sherlock still hasn’t told John he’s alive.
“Just when do you plan on telling him, Sherlock? He’s miserable.” Molly stands before the stupid, irritating man with her hands on her hips.
Sherlock doesn’t meet her eyes. “John nearly lost his life simply for being my… my acquaintance. I cannot in good conscious keep endangering his life in such a manner. He mustn’t ever know I’m still alive.”
Molly sighs and collapses down into the chair opposite Sherlock. “For someone so clever, you can be really stupid sometimes.”
Sherlock glares at her.
“John loves you, Sherlock. He loves that you’re clever, that you don’t concern yourself with being nice because it’s the proper thing to do, that you take risks because it’s what needs to be done, because you play your violin at three in the morning, because you leave body parts everywhere. Because he loves you, there isn’t ever going to be a moment when he doesn’t miss you and it doesn’t hurt and it’s never going to get better for him. If you gave him the choice, John would take all those risks to his life over not having you in it.”
“How could you possibly know that?” Sherlock snaps.
“Because that’s what I would choose and I don’t love you nearly as much as John does.”
Sherlock stares at her and then, “I need to go.”
Molly sits back and if her smile is smug, Sherlock is no longer there to call her on it.
John
Two months since John lost his best friend, and the pain is still there. His psychologist says that it will fade, in time. That one day he’ll be able to get up in the morning and it won’t feel like a part of him is missing.
He always did think she was a crock of shit.
There is no getting over Sherlock Holmes. There is no forgetting him, or moving on from having known him. John’s life was changed from that very first moment he met Sherlock in that lab and life without Sherlock is dull and boring and meaningless.
He still pays Mrs. Hudson the rent for 221B, but he hasn’t stepped inside since Sherlock died. He stays with Harry, instead, even though Harry has started hinting at him finding another flatmate and “going back home”.
221B isn’t much of a home without the books and lab equipment and surprises in the fridge. Mrs. Hudson put up new wall paper to cover the spray painted face and the bullet holes. Mycroft had taken Sherlock’s clothes, cancelled his phone service. His books and microscopes were donated. His violin had been left to John.
John doesn’t want it, doesn’t need it, and he’s going to punch Sherlock Holmes the next time he sees him for making him go through this.
His blog hasn’t been updated since his last post: a clip of that stupid newscast and his official statement that Sherlock was his best friend and John will always believe in him. The count is still frozen at 1895 but John doesn’t think he gets many hits anymore anyway. Mostly he gets emails from strangers about how terrible a person Sherlock was and how it’s a good thing he’s dead now.
John stops checking his email, stops going online. John doesn’t leave Harry’s house, really, and he doesn’t answer Lestrade’s phone calls and if he ever sees Sally Donovan again, he’s likely to break the promise he made to his mother about never hitting girls.
John gets text message from an unknown number. It says, Baker street. Come at once if convenient. There’s a pause and then, If inconvenient, come anyway.
John takes off at a run. He knocks over a vase on his way down Harry’s hall, nearly runs Harry herself over on the stairs, and barely has time to shout an apology before he’s through the front door and headed towards Baker Street. He runs the entire way, until he’s gasping for breath as he shoves inside and nearly trips up the stairs. He barrels into the apartment, panting.
Sherlock turns to look at him, a hint of a smile on his face. “Hello, John.”
John punches him, hard, right in the mouth.
Sherlock
Sherlock is careful. He doesn’t go outside much and tries instead to occupy himself inside. He smokes a lot, spends a week high on cocaine before Molly finds out about it and screams bloody murder at him, ranting until she’s shouted herself horse and flushed a good three hundred dollars’ worth of good drugs down the toilet.
He’s careful with his words, too. He doesn’t call John his friend. He distances himself from that word, from all of its connotations. Sherlock isn’t used to feeling so much and damn John Watson to hell for it. Sherlock says “acquaintance”, “flatmate”, and “assistant” and Molly lets him get away with it.
John stops going online and Sherlock has to risk sneaking out into the public to check on him. He watches from afar as John gets into an argument with Lestrade, as he wonders with his sister grocery shopping, as he stands outside the hospital and stares up at the roof. And then John stops going outside and Sherlock can’t even watch.
Molly gets fed up with him quickly. She lasts longer than Sherlock thought she would, longer than everyone else but John and Mrs. Hudson. She lets him get away with a lot, but not with hurting John. Sherlock doesn’t much want to do that, anyway.
Sherlock lets himself into 221B and sends John the first text, the second as he steps into their flat. He looks around, takes in the differences. Most of his things are gone. The wall paper is different. John’s things haven’t been touched. There’s dust everywhere. Sherlock finds his violin placed carefully on John’s bed - Mycroft’s work, no doubt.
He’s waiting for John, standing in the middle of the room and facing the windows. John isn’t quiet, like Sherlock had been, and crashes into the room. Sherlock turns, can’t help the way his lips automatically twitch when he sees John, and says hello.
John punches him and Sherlock goes sprawling onto the floor. It’s unexpected, but as soon as it’s happened Sherlock knows it shouldn’t have been. He tastes copper in his mouth, feels his lip sting where it’s split between his teeth and John’s knuckles.
“You stupid bastard,” John yells, fists wrapping tight into Sherlock’s coat. Sherlock expects another punch, but it never comes. Instead John’s mouth presses to his, hard and painful, and for once Sherlock can’t even think, fingers finding John’s hair, pulling him closer.
John pulls away, but doesn’t go far. He leans his forehead against Sherlock’s and just breathes. He’s ended up kneeling between Sherlock’s legs, supported by one arm next to Sherlock’s head. His lips are swollen from their kisses, red with Sherlock’s blood.
“Don’t you ever do that to me again.” John says, commands.
Sherlock promises.
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Word Count: 1,371
A/N: Beta thanks to mandac424.
Warnings: SPOILERS through "The Reichenbach Fall". Summary under cut, as it contains spoilers.
Summary: Its been two months and Sherlock still hasn't told John he's alive.
Molly
It takes about a week of living with Sherlock to cure Molly of her misguided crush for him. Sherlock, for all his brilliance, is a terrible person to spend an extended amount of time with. He’s a good person, with good intentions, but he has absolutely no idea how to interact with other people and very little patience with them. Other people are too slow, too dull, too boring and Molly finally understands that Sherlock can’t help the way he is.
He isn’t rude for the sake of it; he just doesn’t understand the niceties that go with human interaction. He doesn’t try to be cruel; he just doesn’t realize how harmful his words can be until too late. While he can be merciless and frightening when he wants to be, most of the time people just confuse him and irritate him with their rules of social interaction. He isn’t good with empathy, either.
Molly may work in a morgue, but she went to medical school. She knows what Asperger’s Syndrome is and is a little embarrassed that it took her so long to realize.
Now that she understands, she tries to be more patient. That doesn’t mean she isn’t pissed as hell that it’s been nearly two months and Sherlock still hasn’t told John he’s alive.
“Just when do you plan on telling him, Sherlock? He’s miserable.” Molly stands before the stupid, irritating man with her hands on her hips.
Sherlock doesn’t meet her eyes. “John nearly lost his life simply for being my… my acquaintance. I cannot in good conscious keep endangering his life in such a manner. He mustn’t ever know I’m still alive.”
Molly sighs and collapses down into the chair opposite Sherlock. “For someone so clever, you can be really stupid sometimes.”
Sherlock glares at her.
“John loves you, Sherlock. He loves that you’re clever, that you don’t concern yourself with being nice because it’s the proper thing to do, that you take risks because it’s what needs to be done, because you play your violin at three in the morning, because you leave body parts everywhere. Because he loves you, there isn’t ever going to be a moment when he doesn’t miss you and it doesn’t hurt and it’s never going to get better for him. If you gave him the choice, John would take all those risks to his life over not having you in it.”
“How could you possibly know that?” Sherlock snaps.
“Because that’s what I would choose and I don’t love you nearly as much as John does.”
Sherlock stares at her and then, “I need to go.”
Molly sits back and if her smile is smug, Sherlock is no longer there to call her on it.
John
Two months since John lost his best friend, and the pain is still there. His psychologist says that it will fade, in time. That one day he’ll be able to get up in the morning and it won’t feel like a part of him is missing.
He always did think she was a crock of shit.
There is no getting over Sherlock Holmes. There is no forgetting him, or moving on from having known him. John’s life was changed from that very first moment he met Sherlock in that lab and life without Sherlock is dull and boring and meaningless.
He still pays Mrs. Hudson the rent for 221B, but he hasn’t stepped inside since Sherlock died. He stays with Harry, instead, even though Harry has started hinting at him finding another flatmate and “going back home”.
221B isn’t much of a home without the books and lab equipment and surprises in the fridge. Mrs. Hudson put up new wall paper to cover the spray painted face and the bullet holes. Mycroft had taken Sherlock’s clothes, cancelled his phone service. His books and microscopes were donated. His violin had been left to John.
John doesn’t want it, doesn’t need it, and he’s going to punch Sherlock Holmes the next time he sees him for making him go through this.
His blog hasn’t been updated since his last post: a clip of that stupid newscast and his official statement that Sherlock was his best friend and John will always believe in him. The count is still frozen at 1895 but John doesn’t think he gets many hits anymore anyway. Mostly he gets emails from strangers about how terrible a person Sherlock was and how it’s a good thing he’s dead now.
John stops checking his email, stops going online. John doesn’t leave Harry’s house, really, and he doesn’t answer Lestrade’s phone calls and if he ever sees Sally Donovan again, he’s likely to break the promise he made to his mother about never hitting girls.
John gets text message from an unknown number. It says, Baker street. Come at once if convenient. There’s a pause and then, If inconvenient, come anyway.
John takes off at a run. He knocks over a vase on his way down Harry’s hall, nearly runs Harry herself over on the stairs, and barely has time to shout an apology before he’s through the front door and headed towards Baker Street. He runs the entire way, until he’s gasping for breath as he shoves inside and nearly trips up the stairs. He barrels into the apartment, panting.
Sherlock turns to look at him, a hint of a smile on his face. “Hello, John.”
John punches him, hard, right in the mouth.
Sherlock
Sherlock is careful. He doesn’t go outside much and tries instead to occupy himself inside. He smokes a lot, spends a week high on cocaine before Molly finds out about it and screams bloody murder at him, ranting until she’s shouted herself horse and flushed a good three hundred dollars’ worth of good drugs down the toilet.
He’s careful with his words, too. He doesn’t call John his friend. He distances himself from that word, from all of its connotations. Sherlock isn’t used to feeling so much and damn John Watson to hell for it. Sherlock says “acquaintance”, “flatmate”, and “assistant” and Molly lets him get away with it.
John stops going online and Sherlock has to risk sneaking out into the public to check on him. He watches from afar as John gets into an argument with Lestrade, as he wonders with his sister grocery shopping, as he stands outside the hospital and stares up at the roof. And then John stops going outside and Sherlock can’t even watch.
Molly gets fed up with him quickly. She lasts longer than Sherlock thought she would, longer than everyone else but John and Mrs. Hudson. She lets him get away with a lot, but not with hurting John. Sherlock doesn’t much want to do that, anyway.
Sherlock lets himself into 221B and sends John the first text, the second as he steps into their flat. He looks around, takes in the differences. Most of his things are gone. The wall paper is different. John’s things haven’t been touched. There’s dust everywhere. Sherlock finds his violin placed carefully on John’s bed - Mycroft’s work, no doubt.
He’s waiting for John, standing in the middle of the room and facing the windows. John isn’t quiet, like Sherlock had been, and crashes into the room. Sherlock turns, can’t help the way his lips automatically twitch when he sees John, and says hello.
John punches him and Sherlock goes sprawling onto the floor. It’s unexpected, but as soon as it’s happened Sherlock knows it shouldn’t have been. He tastes copper in his mouth, feels his lip sting where it’s split between his teeth and John’s knuckles.
“You stupid bastard,” John yells, fists wrapping tight into Sherlock’s coat. Sherlock expects another punch, but it never comes. Instead John’s mouth presses to his, hard and painful, and for once Sherlock can’t even think, fingers finding John’s hair, pulling him closer.
John pulls away, but doesn’t go far. He leans his forehead against Sherlock’s and just breathes. He’s ended up kneeling between Sherlock’s legs, supported by one arm next to Sherlock’s head. His lips are swollen from their kisses, red with Sherlock’s blood.
“Don’t you ever do that to me again.” John says, commands.
Sherlock promises.