"A Man Lost In The Desert" - Part 2
A Man Lost In The Desert
Part 2
The cab ride is completely silent, apart from Sherlock’s loud slamming of the door as he’d gotten it and his spouting Mycroft’s address at the driver. John had barely known Mycroft, but despair sits heavy in his heart and its almost as if he’s at a lot of oxygen. He’s had friends die before, far too many, and the feeling is horridly familiar. He can’t even imagine how Sherlock must feel, never having lost a friend and just now having lost his brother. Or rather, how Sherlock should feel or would feel if he was anyone other than himself, as he quite possibly may not be feeling very much at all.
John doesn’t expect Sherlock to speak, so he stays quiet himself. The ride passes fairly quickly with his staring out the window and basking in his own grief for a man who had been little more than an acquaintance.
When the cab pulls up to the house, Sherlock hops out of it quickly and tosses the owed cash absently into the passenger’s seat through the window. As soon as John’s out of the car, the driver speeds away without a word.
John spots Lestrade first, who in turn spots John and Sherlock almost immediately. They meet halfway across the lawn, and Lestrade is the first to speak. “Sherlock,” he says, and there’s genuine concern written all across his features. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” He doesn’t touch Sherlock, he knows better, but it’s clear that he, just like John, itches to reach out and do something to help.
Sherlock merely grunts in response.
John speaks then, after the uncomfortable, worrisome silence that had been clearly present. “So… Mycroft… he’s, he’s in there?” His voice is weak and somber, and he makes a limp gesture toward the house.
Lestrade nods, just as melancholy. Sherlock is off, then, turning on his heels as he begins to walk toward the house. He pauses in his tracks when he realizes that John isn’t following. “Aren’t you coming?” he asks, as if he’s referring to something like an amusement park, some place of the sort, one to which John obviously would like to go and would not doubt it for a second- certainly not as if he’s referring to the house inside which his own dead brother lies.
“Sherlock, it’s Mycroft,” John says with a small shrug and a shake of his head. “I can’t.”
There’s a flash of something on Sherlock’s face- disappointment, possibly?- but John doesn’t quite catch it before Sherlock’s back is to him again.
John sighs, turning back to Lestrade.
“You know, I never really thought I’d say this,” Lestrade starts, with a small, sad smile, before his face falls again with a shake of his head. “I’m so worried about him.”
“Yeah, I am too. I think he’s handling it…” John thinks first to say well, but it would probably be a terrific lie. “I don’t know is he’s even handling it, honestly. If he is, it’ll be in his own way.”
Lestrade chews on that for a moment, looking off to the side. “Maybe. You’ve got to help him, John.”
“I’m trying.” John can only shrug and sigh again. He hopes will every fiber of his being that Sherlock will let him at least try. “Did you know Mycroft?”
“Not well,” is Lestrade’s answer, accompanied by a shrug. “Did you?”
“No, not well either.”
There’s another silence, in which neither man knows exactly what to say. It’s broken, again, by John. “So, murder, then?”
“Yeah,” sighs Lestrade. “Shot.”
Lestrade’s eye is caught suddenly by something behind John. As he looks, John noticed around turns around to see Sherlock hurrying out of the house and ignoring all who try to get his attention. “Sherlock” he calls, approaching the man, who wears the same stoic expression that he had been wearing ever since Lestrade had called. Sherlock stops and turns to face John without saying a word. He stares expectantly. “Where are you going?”
“Taking a walk,” is Sherlock’s reply.
“You’re taking a walk?” John doesn’t mean to sound as disbelieving as he does.
“Yes, I…” Sherlock’s voice trails off and his eyes dart around the lawn. “Squeamish, yes. Blood, gore, you know. Got to get out.” With that, he’s off, again, walking down the sidewalk with feet moving like the wheels of a bicycle.
Sherlock is not squeamish. Sherlock is the least squeamish person John’s ever met. He’s kept severed heads in the fridge, for God’s sake! John and Lestrade both stand gaping as Sherlock turns the corner with his head held high, his chest heaving underneath his black coat, and his legs pumping so strongly and swiftly he could easily be mistaken for someone simply exercising if it weren’t for his elegant attire and somber demeanor.
“He’s not squeamish,” John says blankly,. He turns to Lestrade, who is still staring after Sherlock.
“I know he’s not squeamish. I was there when Sergeant Donovan found the eyeballs in his microwave.” Lestrade lets out a deep sigh. “What are we going to do with him?”
John wonders the same. He wonders, also, why Sherlock would lie so obviously. The conclusion he comes to is unsettling. What is Sherlock’s somehow made himself believe it? He could be in denial of his feelings because he doesn’t see himself as one to feel them. John considers, and it’s going to be hell trying to fix him up again, there’s no doubt in John’s mind about that. He hangs around the crime scene for a while because he doesn’t want to be gone when Sherlock returns.
However, Sherlock doesn’t plan to return, as John finds out about an hour later when he gets a call from Mrs. Hudson asking where’s he is because Sherlock’s home and refusing to speak to her.
That night, for the millionth night since they had moved in together, Sherlock keeps John up with his loud, erratic violin playing. This time, John doesn’t have the heart of the energy to ask him to stop. The next night is the same.
Part 2
The cab ride is completely silent, apart from Sherlock’s loud slamming of the door as he’d gotten it and his spouting Mycroft’s address at the driver. John had barely known Mycroft, but despair sits heavy in his heart and its almost as if he’s at a lot of oxygen. He’s had friends die before, far too many, and the feeling is horridly familiar. He can’t even imagine how Sherlock must feel, never having lost a friend and just now having lost his brother. Or rather, how Sherlock should feel or would feel if he was anyone other than himself, as he quite possibly may not be feeling very much at all.
John doesn’t expect Sherlock to speak, so he stays quiet himself. The ride passes fairly quickly with his staring out the window and basking in his own grief for a man who had been little more than an acquaintance.
When the cab pulls up to the house, Sherlock hops out of it quickly and tosses the owed cash absently into the passenger’s seat through the window. As soon as John’s out of the car, the driver speeds away without a word.
John spots Lestrade first, who in turn spots John and Sherlock almost immediately. They meet halfway across the lawn, and Lestrade is the first to speak. “Sherlock,” he says, and there’s genuine concern written all across his features. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” He doesn’t touch Sherlock, he knows better, but it’s clear that he, just like John, itches to reach out and do something to help.
Sherlock merely grunts in response.
John speaks then, after the uncomfortable, worrisome silence that had been clearly present. “So… Mycroft… he’s, he’s in there?” His voice is weak and somber, and he makes a limp gesture toward the house.
Lestrade nods, just as melancholy. Sherlock is off, then, turning on his heels as he begins to walk toward the house. He pauses in his tracks when he realizes that John isn’t following. “Aren’t you coming?” he asks, as if he’s referring to something like an amusement park, some place of the sort, one to which John obviously would like to go and would not doubt it for a second- certainly not as if he’s referring to the house inside which his own dead brother lies.
“Sherlock, it’s Mycroft,” John says with a small shrug and a shake of his head. “I can’t.”
There’s a flash of something on Sherlock’s face- disappointment, possibly?- but John doesn’t quite catch it before Sherlock’s back is to him again.
John sighs, turning back to Lestrade.
“You know, I never really thought I’d say this,” Lestrade starts, with a small, sad smile, before his face falls again with a shake of his head. “I’m so worried about him.”
“Yeah, I am too. I think he’s handling it…” John thinks first to say well, but it would probably be a terrific lie. “I don’t know is he’s even handling it, honestly. If he is, it’ll be in his own way.”
Lestrade chews on that for a moment, looking off to the side. “Maybe. You’ve got to help him, John.”
“I’m trying.” John can only shrug and sigh again. He hopes will every fiber of his being that Sherlock will let him at least try. “Did you know Mycroft?”
“Not well,” is Lestrade’s answer, accompanied by a shrug. “Did you?”
“No, not well either.”
There’s another silence, in which neither man knows exactly what to say. It’s broken, again, by John. “So, murder, then?”
“Yeah,” sighs Lestrade. “Shot.”
Lestrade’s eye is caught suddenly by something behind John. As he looks, John noticed around turns around to see Sherlock hurrying out of the house and ignoring all who try to get his attention. “Sherlock” he calls, approaching the man, who wears the same stoic expression that he had been wearing ever since Lestrade had called. Sherlock stops and turns to face John without saying a word. He stares expectantly. “Where are you going?”
“Taking a walk,” is Sherlock’s reply.
“You’re taking a walk?” John doesn’t mean to sound as disbelieving as he does.
“Yes, I…” Sherlock’s voice trails off and his eyes dart around the lawn. “Squeamish, yes. Blood, gore, you know. Got to get out.” With that, he’s off, again, walking down the sidewalk with feet moving like the wheels of a bicycle.
Sherlock is not squeamish. Sherlock is the least squeamish person John’s ever met. He’s kept severed heads in the fridge, for God’s sake! John and Lestrade both stand gaping as Sherlock turns the corner with his head held high, his chest heaving underneath his black coat, and his legs pumping so strongly and swiftly he could easily be mistaken for someone simply exercising if it weren’t for his elegant attire and somber demeanor.
“He’s not squeamish,” John says blankly,. He turns to Lestrade, who is still staring after Sherlock.
“I know he’s not squeamish. I was there when Sergeant Donovan found the eyeballs in his microwave.” Lestrade lets out a deep sigh. “What are we going to do with him?”
John wonders the same. He wonders, also, why Sherlock would lie so obviously. The conclusion he comes to is unsettling. What is Sherlock’s somehow made himself believe it? He could be in denial of his feelings because he doesn’t see himself as one to feel them. John considers, and it’s going to be hell trying to fix him up again, there’s no doubt in John’s mind about that. He hangs around the crime scene for a while because he doesn’t want to be gone when Sherlock returns.
However, Sherlock doesn’t plan to return, as John finds out about an hour later when he gets a call from Mrs. Hudson asking where’s he is because Sherlock’s home and refusing to speak to her.
That night, for the millionth night since they had moved in together, Sherlock keeps John up with his loud, erratic violin playing. This time, John doesn’t have the heart of the energy to ask him to stop. The next night is the same.