"A Man Lost In The Desert" - Part 3
A Man Lost In The Desert
Part 3
Sherlock is curled up on the couch, wearing pajamas and wrapped in a sheet, and John is practically crawling out of his skin with discomfort as he watched. He figured he’d let Sherlock be Sherlock and deal with it on his own, but he so obviously isn’t dealing with, not at all, because he’s barely moved from the couch in days.
John’s become so strung out over Sherlock that he doesn’t have a spare second to think about himself. He doesn’t have a spare second to think about anything at all, for that matter, because every single thought is about Sherlock, which really was or almost was the case even before Mycroft’s death, though now it’s just so stressful because he wants, he needs, Sherlock to be okay again. Sherlock needs to be okay again. London needs Sherlock to be okay again because no one will ever be like him or do what he does and he’s so special- he doesn’t deserve this.
John isn’t a therapist. He’s really quite far from it, considering all the time he’s spent in front of one. He’s probably one of the only people, if not the only person, Sherlock trusts, though, so he’ll try his hand at helping Sherlock to face his feelings, as inept as his attempt may be.
He makes tea first; it seems simply the right thing to do. As he crosses into the living room from the kitchen with two mugs in his hands, Sherlock doesn’t look up or say a thing, just keeps his eyes fixed on the television in front on him which is tuned to some crime show with which Sherlock normally couldn’t be bothered. John hopes will all his heart that this change isn’t permanent as he sits in an armchair next to the couch, sets the mugs down on the table, and chews on his lip for a moment. Sherlock looks up at the sound of the ceramic mugs clanging against the wood of the table.
“Oh, tea, thank you,” he mutters, sitting up and raising the mug nearest him to his lips to take a sip, before lying back down and hugging the sheet tighter around him.
John sighs, trailing his index finger along the rim of his own mug. “Sherlock, what are you doing?”
“I’m watching the telly,” Sherlock says simply, casually.
“And why are you doing that?” John chews, still, on his lip as he watches Sherlock, pained.
“Why not?” The answer is one that John would expect from anyone, anyone at all, but Sherlock. He gulps.
“On any other day you could give me a million reasons why not.” Sherlock doesn’t respond to that in words, just shifts uncomfortably and hugs the sheet tighter still. It’s clear that he’d rather not discuss it, whatever it may be, but this only tells John, to some degree, that Sherlock understands how wrong things are, how wrong he is and how troubled he may be, so John tries with all his might to be as gentle as possible when he then says, “Sherlock, we need to talk.”
Sherlock licks his lips before turning slightly toward John. “What ever about?”
“You,” John says, first. He hesitates, then, takes a sip of tea to draw out the time before he has to continue. Sherlock stares at him with slight puzzlement but mild surprise as well, with somewhat wide eyes and a stern, shut mouth. John speaks again, quietly, because he’s really rather not say it, though he hasn’t much of another option. “…Mycroft.” John cringes a bit at the name; Sherlock stays still.
“Well,” Sherlock says, as if he’s been struck by a particularly relevant or surprising detail of a case, but certainly without the usual grin or excitement, just shock, though still just mild. “What is there to discuss?”
“Oh, Sherlock, you’re…” John groans, rubbing his temples with his thumb and middle finger. Sherlock’s got much too much pride to give in that easily- John should have expected as much. “You’re kidding.” What else is there for John to say? What, possibly could there be? He’s not speechless, not very surprised, actually, but Sherlock is going to be the death of him and that’s all he knows for sure as he watched with a pained expression the consulting-detective-but-possibly-this-no-longer, who says nothing in response to that.
John tries, still, to be gentle with his next words. Not sure exactly if it will soften them, he wishes anything but to come on too strong, too intrusive. “I think this is affecting you much more than you’re willing to admit.”
Sherlock’s eyes seem to darken a shade, his glare smoldering and his shoulders taut. “How so?”
“Sherlock,” John starts, and it’s both a groan and a plea. “Sherlock, you’re… you’re not doing anything.” He pauses, unsure of whether he should continue. Though, he does, when Sherlock doesn’t answer him, verbally at least. Each moment John speaks, Sherlock’s face hardens further, as if he’s explicitly in disbelief of John’s nerve to say such things. John almost feels bad, but he has no other option, as much as both he and Sherlock wish he had. “You… you sit here, Sherlock. You watch crap telly. You’ve got to have noticed this isn’t normal behavior for you? It’s absolutely horrid to watch, Sherlock… horrid, to see you like this.”
“Like this,” Sherlock repeats, mocking and sarcastic, annoyed and quite obviously so. “Well, John, care to elaborate on this this? Please.”
“Sherlock, you’ve, you’ve got to know what I mean!” John’s racking his brain for anything he could possibly say to be anything but offensive or condescending. There is nothing. He speaks, anyway. “Come on, you’re lazy, you’re lazy, you haven’t been doing anything but sitting around all day and you haven’t even been doing any of your experiments, for God’s sake, Sherlock! It’s… it’s pathetic!” Oh, no, John shouldn’t have said that, he shouldn’t have at all. He mentally curses himself for even thinking that was a good idea.
“Oh? And what do you propose I do about that?” Sherlock’s voice is still calm but just barely, dancing on the edge of a cliff that points over a shouting, ill-tempered oblivion.
“Sherlock,” John says, meticulous, trying so very hard not to push Sherlock too far, to push him off the edge of that cliff. “I… I think what you need to do it really… accept your feelings, Sherlock… accept that you really cared about Mycroft.”
The hard, pressed line of Sherlock’s mouth morphs easily into a disgusted grimace. “I don’t care about anyone,” he shouts with a booming voice that could shatter glass. As he does, he sits up, pulling the sheet tighter around him in more of an act of defiance, of separation from John, than one of comfort.
“You can’t believe that!” John shouts in return, and it’s still very much a plea. It can’t be true, can’t possibly be, John’s almost certain of it. Sherlock cares about John, surely, and his family as well, especially Mycroft. Surely. It’s being untrue doesn’t stop John from being hurt, though, just a bit.
“I am a sociopath, John,” Sherlock spits back, gruff and irritated, his voice surprisingly smooth and composed for its alarming tone and volume. “You have been aware of this since you’ve met me, have you no understanding of what this entails?””
“Oh of course I know Sherlock, but I’m sure we both know by now that you’re definitely not!” John tries to breathe slowly, calm, collected, but its no use as he simply is none of those things.
Sherlock stands, then. “I’ll be in my room. I’m going to assume you have enough sense not to follow.” He turns, angrily, and the sheet whips around with him. John lets his head fall into his hands, wondering what he’s ever to do with his mess of a flatmate.
Part 3
Sherlock is curled up on the couch, wearing pajamas and wrapped in a sheet, and John is practically crawling out of his skin with discomfort as he watched. He figured he’d let Sherlock be Sherlock and deal with it on his own, but he so obviously isn’t dealing with, not at all, because he’s barely moved from the couch in days.
John’s become so strung out over Sherlock that he doesn’t have a spare second to think about himself. He doesn’t have a spare second to think about anything at all, for that matter, because every single thought is about Sherlock, which really was or almost was the case even before Mycroft’s death, though now it’s just so stressful because he wants, he needs, Sherlock to be okay again. Sherlock needs to be okay again. London needs Sherlock to be okay again because no one will ever be like him or do what he does and he’s so special- he doesn’t deserve this.
John isn’t a therapist. He’s really quite far from it, considering all the time he’s spent in front of one. He’s probably one of the only people, if not the only person, Sherlock trusts, though, so he’ll try his hand at helping Sherlock to face his feelings, as inept as his attempt may be.
He makes tea first; it seems simply the right thing to do. As he crosses into the living room from the kitchen with two mugs in his hands, Sherlock doesn’t look up or say a thing, just keeps his eyes fixed on the television in front on him which is tuned to some crime show with which Sherlock normally couldn’t be bothered. John hopes will all his heart that this change isn’t permanent as he sits in an armchair next to the couch, sets the mugs down on the table, and chews on his lip for a moment. Sherlock looks up at the sound of the ceramic mugs clanging against the wood of the table.
“Oh, tea, thank you,” he mutters, sitting up and raising the mug nearest him to his lips to take a sip, before lying back down and hugging the sheet tighter around him.
John sighs, trailing his index finger along the rim of his own mug. “Sherlock, what are you doing?”
“I’m watching the telly,” Sherlock says simply, casually.
“And why are you doing that?” John chews, still, on his lip as he watches Sherlock, pained.
“Why not?” The answer is one that John would expect from anyone, anyone at all, but Sherlock. He gulps.
“On any other day you could give me a million reasons why not.” Sherlock doesn’t respond to that in words, just shifts uncomfortably and hugs the sheet tighter still. It’s clear that he’d rather not discuss it, whatever it may be, but this only tells John, to some degree, that Sherlock understands how wrong things are, how wrong he is and how troubled he may be, so John tries with all his might to be as gentle as possible when he then says, “Sherlock, we need to talk.”
Sherlock licks his lips before turning slightly toward John. “What ever about?”
“You,” John says, first. He hesitates, then, takes a sip of tea to draw out the time before he has to continue. Sherlock stares at him with slight puzzlement but mild surprise as well, with somewhat wide eyes and a stern, shut mouth. John speaks again, quietly, because he’s really rather not say it, though he hasn’t much of another option. “…Mycroft.” John cringes a bit at the name; Sherlock stays still.
“Well,” Sherlock says, as if he’s been struck by a particularly relevant or surprising detail of a case, but certainly without the usual grin or excitement, just shock, though still just mild. “What is there to discuss?”
“Oh, Sherlock, you’re…” John groans, rubbing his temples with his thumb and middle finger. Sherlock’s got much too much pride to give in that easily- John should have expected as much. “You’re kidding.” What else is there for John to say? What, possibly could there be? He’s not speechless, not very surprised, actually, but Sherlock is going to be the death of him and that’s all he knows for sure as he watched with a pained expression the consulting-detective-but-possibly-this-no-longer, who says nothing in response to that.
John tries, still, to be gentle with his next words. Not sure exactly if it will soften them, he wishes anything but to come on too strong, too intrusive. “I think this is affecting you much more than you’re willing to admit.”
Sherlock’s eyes seem to darken a shade, his glare smoldering and his shoulders taut. “How so?”
“Sherlock,” John starts, and it’s both a groan and a plea. “Sherlock, you’re… you’re not doing anything.” He pauses, unsure of whether he should continue. Though, he does, when Sherlock doesn’t answer him, verbally at least. Each moment John speaks, Sherlock’s face hardens further, as if he’s explicitly in disbelief of John’s nerve to say such things. John almost feels bad, but he has no other option, as much as both he and Sherlock wish he had. “You… you sit here, Sherlock. You watch crap telly. You’ve got to have noticed this isn’t normal behavior for you? It’s absolutely horrid to watch, Sherlock… horrid, to see you like this.”
“Like this,” Sherlock repeats, mocking and sarcastic, annoyed and quite obviously so. “Well, John, care to elaborate on this this? Please.”
“Sherlock, you’ve, you’ve got to know what I mean!” John’s racking his brain for anything he could possibly say to be anything but offensive or condescending. There is nothing. He speaks, anyway. “Come on, you’re lazy, you’re lazy, you haven’t been doing anything but sitting around all day and you haven’t even been doing any of your experiments, for God’s sake, Sherlock! It’s… it’s pathetic!” Oh, no, John shouldn’t have said that, he shouldn’t have at all. He mentally curses himself for even thinking that was a good idea.
“Oh? And what do you propose I do about that?” Sherlock’s voice is still calm but just barely, dancing on the edge of a cliff that points over a shouting, ill-tempered oblivion.
“Sherlock,” John says, meticulous, trying so very hard not to push Sherlock too far, to push him off the edge of that cliff. “I… I think what you need to do it really… accept your feelings, Sherlock… accept that you really cared about Mycroft.”
The hard, pressed line of Sherlock’s mouth morphs easily into a disgusted grimace. “I don’t care about anyone,” he shouts with a booming voice that could shatter glass. As he does, he sits up, pulling the sheet tighter around him in more of an act of defiance, of separation from John, than one of comfort.
“You can’t believe that!” John shouts in return, and it’s still very much a plea. It can’t be true, can’t possibly be, John’s almost certain of it. Sherlock cares about John, surely, and his family as well, especially Mycroft. Surely. It’s being untrue doesn’t stop John from being hurt, though, just a bit.
“I am a sociopath, John,” Sherlock spits back, gruff and irritated, his voice surprisingly smooth and composed for its alarming tone and volume. “You have been aware of this since you’ve met me, have you no understanding of what this entails?””
“Oh of course I know Sherlock, but I’m sure we both know by now that you’re definitely not!” John tries to breathe slowly, calm, collected, but its no use as he simply is none of those things.
Sherlock stands, then. “I’ll be in my room. I’m going to assume you have enough sense not to follow.” He turns, angrily, and the sheet whips around with him. John lets his head fall into his hands, wondering what he’s ever to do with his mess of a flatmate.