"A Man Lost In The Desert" - Part 4
A Man Lost In The Desert
Part 4
Sherlock is gone, and John frightened beyond repair. He sends text after text to Sherlock’s mobile, each more pressing than the previous. He calls more than once, much more than once, but each time he isn’t met with a single ring before he hears an automated voicemail message. He asks Mrs. Hudson if Sherlock’s said a thing to her, to which she replies, “No, not a thing, he never does. Why, is something wrong?” John doesn’t tell her, decides he shouldn’t, not until Sherlock is ready if that time ever comes.
After hours of John’s worry and panic, Sherlock strolls into the flat as casually as any day, shooting John barely an acknowledging glance as he heads for his armchair. He says not a word. John’s mouth falls open, astounded as well as repulsed by Sherlock’s lack of apology or at least an explanation. But no, nothing, nothing at all which is completely normal for Sherlock, but John will have none of it.
“Where the hell have you been?” he shouts, raging, almost, as he catches Sherlock halfway across the living room.
Sherlock eyes John narrowly as his entire body stills and stiffens. “Out.” His voice is low and sharp.
Out. Genius Sherlock, Sherlock who doesn’t care about his feelings, gives no explanation but out. John shakes his head, pacing angrily around the still, silent man who doesn’t sit, only watches and scoffs.
“No, you don’t get let off that easily, Sherlock!” John stops waving his arms around so obscenely the moment he realized what he’s doing, but carries on his interrogating. “Do you know how worried I was? You owe me at least an explanation, of all things.”
Sherlock huffs loudly and glares with impatient, smoldering eyes. “You’re not my mother John. I owe you nothing,” he sneers, and it’s nearly a growl.
Oh, of course, John thinks, wants to scream it aloud from the rooftops, even, but knows it’s in much worse taste than anything else he could say, You owe me nothing, nothing at all because I’m nothing to you, is that right? I’m just your flatmate, it’s not as if I’m your friend as well, not as if I’ve helped you solve cases and gone with you just about everywhere. Not as if I’m trying to help you be decent again after your brother’s death. Instead, he says, still rearing with exasperation,” I am your friend, Sherlock. I don’t know how you can possibly deny that! If- if you have anything even remotely close to a friend, it’s me.” Sherlock doesn’t reply. John raises his eyebrows, urging Sherlock to say something. “God, Sherlock, your mother! Have you even spoken to her since Mycroft died?”
“I wrote her,” is Sherlock’s reply, spoken quickly and sharply. “I informed her of Mycroft’s death and asked her to choose the coffin.”
“The coffin, Sherlock- you are going to the funeral, aren’t you?”
“Of course,” Sherlock states, as if it’s there isn’t a thing more obvious in the world. “I wouldn’t want to upset Mummy.”
John stops pacing. “You care about her,” he utters, much less aggravated now than hoping he has the opportunity to get somewhere, at least, with Sherlock.
“Excuse me?”
“Well, Sherlock, you do care about your mum, don’t you?”
Sherlock looks just a bit perturbed. “I’m considerate of her feelings.”
“Are you saying that you don’t, then?”
“I never said that.”
John stares through searching eyes at Sherlock, who seems very unsettled and uncomfortable, though John can’t being himself to bother with that now. “Do you care about her, Sherlock?” as asks, as gently as he can, though it may not be very gentle at all.
“John, stop.”
“You do, Sherlock,” John says, stepping closer. You care about your mum, just like you care about Mycroft. You love her, you… you love him, it’s… Sherlock’s, it’s alright, it’s good, it’s…” Sherlock’s lips are beginning to quiver and his glare to intensify, and John’s eyes widen as he watches.
Sherlock is angry. The realization has John fretful. He’d been prepared for this exactly, or so he’d thought, as he’s beginning to doubt his idea of pressing Sherlock until he crumbles just for a poor attempt to put him back together again. “It doesn’t matter, John.”
Sherlock begins to pace, himself, just a few steps before he’s staring John in the face once again with eyes like daggers. “It doesn’t matter if I cared or if I loved him because he’s gone!”
Sherlock’s eyes begin to twitch, then, just so very slightly but nothing John wouldn’t notice. John watches in wonder as those eyes begin to water, still, just slightly.
“Gone, John!” With a choked breath, Sherlock falls onto the cough, laying on his back. “He’s gone, he’s dead.” It’s then when the first tear escapes Sherlock’s eyes, met quickly by the second and soon the tears are streaming freely down Sherlock’s face as he speaks. “What does it matter if I cared? I’ve nothing to show for it anymore. Nothing.”
The stunned John hurries to comfort, easily fitting alongside Sherlock’s thin body as he sits and looks down at Sherlock, who continues on, using exaggerated hand gestures with tears still flowing down his reddening face. “It doesn’t matter if I loved him, nothing matters anymore, not him. God, John.”
It’s lovely in a terrible way, for John, because he knows he, finally, can do something. He can fix Sherlock, finally, make him okay again. As an army doctor, comfort is one of his specialties, second only to medicine., and if he’s sure of anything at all, he’s sure that if such a chance exists, this is his chance to do some good for Sherlock.
“Go on, Sherlock,” John says, soft and urging, and there’s hope, swelling up in him like a balloon and pushing against the edges of his chest. He has a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, rubbing gently, sliding his thumb against the side of Sherlock’s neck ever so often. John normally wouldn’t think Sherlock to succumb to or accept such a gesture, but it only seems fitting, in the state in which Sherlock is. “It’s alright, just talk to me.”
Sherlock says nothing, but chokes and coughs on tears as he breathes. He lips tremble on every breath and he pulls them in several times to try to find control oh himself, of his feelings, to no avail.
“Sherlock, please.” John’s voice grows weak and with hope, there’s an inevitable doubt as well. He fears that Sherlock won’t go on talking, that he won’t share a thing more, that John will have broken him down to this state and will never have a chance to build him back up. “Tell me, please, I want to know.”
Every shaky breath of Sherlock’s releases a small whimper, and every small whimper tears on the rip in John’s tremendously distraught heart. Nothing would make John happier than to assuage Sherlock’s pain, nothing in the world. “John,” Sherlock says, his voice absolutely wrecked, weak and soft and wavering. “I’m telling you this in confidence.”
“Of course, of course, please, go on.” John never imagined that he would need this as much as Sherlock.
Sherlock takes a deep breath that he sputters out with coughs in the second after. “I’m starting to believe that you may be right.”
John says nothing, just waits for Sherlock to continue.
“I cared, John,” says Sherlock, having raised his voice to a frustrated shout and still waving his arms about. He squeezes his eyes shit and rubs at them, all while trying to inhale steadily against the pull of his insistent sobbing. “I cared- this is what you want to hear, isn’t it, John? Well here, I cared, I cared so, so much and I loved him, John. I loved him so much and I want to shoot myself for not realizing it sooner.” Sherlock doesn’t look at John but at the ceiling, almost as if he’s screaming at it personally. Slowly, his eyes find their way to John’s and they’re so terribly sad, so filled with raw emotion and regret, that for the millionth time that night, John feels his heart break right in two. He brings a hand to Sherlock’s forehead and runs his fingers across it and down Sherlock’s wet, though smooth cheek.
Ever so tentatively, John lowers his head to Sherlock’s and presses his lips to Sherlock’s forehead, just barely grazing the soft, trembling skin. With the lips, the sensation of Sherlock’s skin is amplified a hundredfold. Sherlock exhales loudly under John, and every crease born of his stress is so apparent under John’s lips, so strikingly there and worrisome. The hand he has on Sherlock’s shoulder tightens, and Sherlock lays his own hand over it.
As John rises again, he mutters to Sherlock, “Sit up?” And Sherlock does just that, so John can then collect Sherlock in his arms and squeeze Sherlock’s thin frame with every ounce of strength he can muster. Sherlock’s weight, while not much, is significant against John’s chest, and John decides easily that he wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s better now, he thinks. Not good, but better.
Part 4
Sherlock is gone, and John frightened beyond repair. He sends text after text to Sherlock’s mobile, each more pressing than the previous. He calls more than once, much more than once, but each time he isn’t met with a single ring before he hears an automated voicemail message. He asks Mrs. Hudson if Sherlock’s said a thing to her, to which she replies, “No, not a thing, he never does. Why, is something wrong?” John doesn’t tell her, decides he shouldn’t, not until Sherlock is ready if that time ever comes.
After hours of John’s worry and panic, Sherlock strolls into the flat as casually as any day, shooting John barely an acknowledging glance as he heads for his armchair. He says not a word. John’s mouth falls open, astounded as well as repulsed by Sherlock’s lack of apology or at least an explanation. But no, nothing, nothing at all which is completely normal for Sherlock, but John will have none of it.
“Where the hell have you been?” he shouts, raging, almost, as he catches Sherlock halfway across the living room.
Sherlock eyes John narrowly as his entire body stills and stiffens. “Out.” His voice is low and sharp.
Out. Genius Sherlock, Sherlock who doesn’t care about his feelings, gives no explanation but out. John shakes his head, pacing angrily around the still, silent man who doesn’t sit, only watches and scoffs.
“No, you don’t get let off that easily, Sherlock!” John stops waving his arms around so obscenely the moment he realized what he’s doing, but carries on his interrogating. “Do you know how worried I was? You owe me at least an explanation, of all things.”
Sherlock huffs loudly and glares with impatient, smoldering eyes. “You’re not my mother John. I owe you nothing,” he sneers, and it’s nearly a growl.
Oh, of course, John thinks, wants to scream it aloud from the rooftops, even, but knows it’s in much worse taste than anything else he could say, You owe me nothing, nothing at all because I’m nothing to you, is that right? I’m just your flatmate, it’s not as if I’m your friend as well, not as if I’ve helped you solve cases and gone with you just about everywhere. Not as if I’m trying to help you be decent again after your brother’s death. Instead, he says, still rearing with exasperation,” I am your friend, Sherlock. I don’t know how you can possibly deny that! If- if you have anything even remotely close to a friend, it’s me.” Sherlock doesn’t reply. John raises his eyebrows, urging Sherlock to say something. “God, Sherlock, your mother! Have you even spoken to her since Mycroft died?”
“I wrote her,” is Sherlock’s reply, spoken quickly and sharply. “I informed her of Mycroft’s death and asked her to choose the coffin.”
“The coffin, Sherlock- you are going to the funeral, aren’t you?”
“Of course,” Sherlock states, as if it’s there isn’t a thing more obvious in the world. “I wouldn’t want to upset Mummy.”
John stops pacing. “You care about her,” he utters, much less aggravated now than hoping he has the opportunity to get somewhere, at least, with Sherlock.
“Excuse me?”
“Well, Sherlock, you do care about your mum, don’t you?”
Sherlock looks just a bit perturbed. “I’m considerate of her feelings.”
“Are you saying that you don’t, then?”
“I never said that.”
John stares through searching eyes at Sherlock, who seems very unsettled and uncomfortable, though John can’t being himself to bother with that now. “Do you care about her, Sherlock?” as asks, as gently as he can, though it may not be very gentle at all.
“John, stop.”
“You do, Sherlock,” John says, stepping closer. You care about your mum, just like you care about Mycroft. You love her, you… you love him, it’s… Sherlock’s, it’s alright, it’s good, it’s…” Sherlock’s lips are beginning to quiver and his glare to intensify, and John’s eyes widen as he watches.
Sherlock is angry. The realization has John fretful. He’d been prepared for this exactly, or so he’d thought, as he’s beginning to doubt his idea of pressing Sherlock until he crumbles just for a poor attempt to put him back together again. “It doesn’t matter, John.”
Sherlock begins to pace, himself, just a few steps before he’s staring John in the face once again with eyes like daggers. “It doesn’t matter if I cared or if I loved him because he’s gone!”
Sherlock’s eyes begin to twitch, then, just so very slightly but nothing John wouldn’t notice. John watches in wonder as those eyes begin to water, still, just slightly.
“Gone, John!” With a choked breath, Sherlock falls onto the cough, laying on his back. “He’s gone, he’s dead.” It’s then when the first tear escapes Sherlock’s eyes, met quickly by the second and soon the tears are streaming freely down Sherlock’s face as he speaks. “What does it matter if I cared? I’ve nothing to show for it anymore. Nothing.”
The stunned John hurries to comfort, easily fitting alongside Sherlock’s thin body as he sits and looks down at Sherlock, who continues on, using exaggerated hand gestures with tears still flowing down his reddening face. “It doesn’t matter if I loved him, nothing matters anymore, not him. God, John.”
It’s lovely in a terrible way, for John, because he knows he, finally, can do something. He can fix Sherlock, finally, make him okay again. As an army doctor, comfort is one of his specialties, second only to medicine., and if he’s sure of anything at all, he’s sure that if such a chance exists, this is his chance to do some good for Sherlock.
“Go on, Sherlock,” John says, soft and urging, and there’s hope, swelling up in him like a balloon and pushing against the edges of his chest. He has a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, rubbing gently, sliding his thumb against the side of Sherlock’s neck ever so often. John normally wouldn’t think Sherlock to succumb to or accept such a gesture, but it only seems fitting, in the state in which Sherlock is. “It’s alright, just talk to me.”
Sherlock says nothing, but chokes and coughs on tears as he breathes. He lips tremble on every breath and he pulls them in several times to try to find control oh himself, of his feelings, to no avail.
“Sherlock, please.” John’s voice grows weak and with hope, there’s an inevitable doubt as well. He fears that Sherlock won’t go on talking, that he won’t share a thing more, that John will have broken him down to this state and will never have a chance to build him back up. “Tell me, please, I want to know.”
Every shaky breath of Sherlock’s releases a small whimper, and every small whimper tears on the rip in John’s tremendously distraught heart. Nothing would make John happier than to assuage Sherlock’s pain, nothing in the world. “John,” Sherlock says, his voice absolutely wrecked, weak and soft and wavering. “I’m telling you this in confidence.”
“Of course, of course, please, go on.” John never imagined that he would need this as much as Sherlock.
Sherlock takes a deep breath that he sputters out with coughs in the second after. “I’m starting to believe that you may be right.”
John says nothing, just waits for Sherlock to continue.
“I cared, John,” says Sherlock, having raised his voice to a frustrated shout and still waving his arms about. He squeezes his eyes shit and rubs at them, all while trying to inhale steadily against the pull of his insistent sobbing. “I cared- this is what you want to hear, isn’t it, John? Well here, I cared, I cared so, so much and I loved him, John. I loved him so much and I want to shoot myself for not realizing it sooner.” Sherlock doesn’t look at John but at the ceiling, almost as if he’s screaming at it personally. Slowly, his eyes find their way to John’s and they’re so terribly sad, so filled with raw emotion and regret, that for the millionth time that night, John feels his heart break right in two. He brings a hand to Sherlock’s forehead and runs his fingers across it and down Sherlock’s wet, though smooth cheek.
Ever so tentatively, John lowers his head to Sherlock’s and presses his lips to Sherlock’s forehead, just barely grazing the soft, trembling skin. With the lips, the sensation of Sherlock’s skin is amplified a hundredfold. Sherlock exhales loudly under John, and every crease born of his stress is so apparent under John’s lips, so strikingly there and worrisome. The hand he has on Sherlock’s shoulder tightens, and Sherlock lays his own hand over it.
As John rises again, he mutters to Sherlock, “Sit up?” And Sherlock does just that, so John can then collect Sherlock in his arms and squeeze Sherlock’s thin frame with every ounce of strength he can muster. Sherlock’s weight, while not much, is significant against John’s chest, and John decides easily that he wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s better now, he thinks. Not good, but better.