Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor, John Watson/Sebastian Moran, John Watson/Greg Lestrade,
John Watson/Mycroft Holmes, John Watson/Others
Warning: M/M Slash
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson belong to each other.
Thanks to NOFAVRELL for the Beta. See her art =)
http://nofavrell.deviantart.com/art/I-m-back-John-322461855?q=gallery:nofavrell/32180411&qo=31
You can also read the whole fic in ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN:
"http://archiveofourown.org/works/616139/c
Summary: It wasn’t like John didn’t know… but this doesn’t lessen the hurt that he felt to recognize that Sherlock would just leave him, or has already left him, or has chosen another man of the past over him.
Link to Chapter 1: http://akistrife.blogspot.com/2012/12/fault-lines.html
Chapter 2
HIM
*~*~*
“You would not believe your eyes
If ten million fireflies
Leap up the wall as I fell asleep
Coz they feel the open air
And leave tear drops everywhere
You think me rude but I would just stand
And stare,”
It wasn’t like John didn’t know… but this doesn’t
lessen the hurt that he felt to recognize that Sherlock would just leave him,
or has already left him, or has chosen another man of the past over him. He knew. He’s braced himself for it but you just never get used to this sort of
thing. No one ever gets used to idea of being left behind by
someone you love for the world. He was second. He has always been second to
Sherlock’s heart over a man he’d struggle to win against. On the detective’s part,
Sherlock has always been true and honest to him and this infuriates John even
more because there was no one to blame for this, no one to point your finger
at. Sherlock had said even from the beginning that he was married to his work
and that he was waiting for another man. It was John who’d been willing and
who’d wanted to be the etcetera, to be the reserve, all to
get the chance to be with the consulting detective he’d met over a get-together
sort of party, and John had loved it bitterly so, every minute of it. He didn’t
like the Sherlock back then when they’d first met, Sherlock who’d been drugged
to his eyeballs of cocaine but he loves every bit of Sherlock nonetheless.
John’s hand was shaking as he held his mug to his
lips, pleased with the hot liquid searing his lips. He was tired and weary and
most of all, he felt like shit. He foresaw a heavy migraine coming. The
throbbing over his temples was a killer. He hadn’t really cried properly last night. Tears and hurt and pain
sprung but he hadn’t really cried. He must’ve been so exhausted that after the
initial tears had rolled down his cheeks, he had fallen to a long uninterrupted
dreamless slumber. He’d woken up to the sound of glasses and metals clanking
together and walked out of his room to find Sherlock already up and poking at
his microscope. They hadn’t really talked about anything, about what could
possibly be the most important thing between them, and Sherlock never really
stated that it was time for John to leave. The ex-army doctor silently went
about his business of preparing his cuppa before going to their sitting room
and settling down his chair. Sipping his coffee, trying to think, John barely
noticed as Sherlock rose up from the kitchen table and made his way place a plate
of bacon and eggs on the small coffee table in front of their sofa. John raised
an eyebrow in response at the tall detective who’d sunk down at the arm chair
opposite John’s.
“Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock simply said as if it explained
everything. Mrs Hudson had recently taken into a habit of sharing whatever it
is she cooked for her Saturday breakfast in exchange for asking John to fix her
leaks in 221A whenever necessary.
John was really glad that Sherlock has not yet gotten
any texts from Lestrade. With no case to take up the detective’s time, John and
Sherlock could have all the talk they want. And he had a feeling that it would
get awfully awry.
“I was planning for a take-out but Mrs Hudson was very
prompt with her routines as usual.” Sherlock said brightly as he spooned a
piece of bacon to himself.
John was planning to say that no, -Sherlock wasn’t
really truthful about getting that take-out because he already knew full well
that Mrs Hudson was going to share her meal and that Sherlock was probably all
hitched up with his experiments so early in the morning to be bothered about
the concerns of the living- but realized that this isn’t really the
conversation they both had to have, so John let out a breath he hadn’t known he
was holding before staring at Sherlock and meeting his eyes imploringly. We have to talk.
Sherlock met his gaze and understood. Of course he
did. He was the very definition of ‘deducer’ if there ever was a word, or if there
will come a time it’ll be finally incorporated into a dictionary; And even if
Sherlock wasn’t the great genius that he is, they’ve been together for months
already he would’ve been too dumb not to recognize and understand what the
other wanted. John furrowed his brows gloomily and bit the side of his lips,
bracing for whatever inevitable they have to face. Things like this were never
easy.
“Are we doing this now or are we doing this after
eating? You haven’t really touched your food and we hadn’t really eaten last
nig—”
“Sherlock,” John gritted as he took a lungful of
steadying breaths. “Let’s have it now. I want to hear what you want to say now.”
Sherlock looked at him, inhaled subtly and, in stride,
answered with the most expressionless face he could muster. “Next Tuesday at 1400
hours.”
John raised an eyebrow, his mind too beaten and tired
to actually try to be witty and pretend he knew what the detective was talking
about. He kept his lips pursed to encourage the taller man to elaborate.
It pained Sherlock equally to have to say whatever it
was that he was going to say and seeing his face, John suddenly understood
without hearing it from the other man. It just dawned on him like a bucket of
cold water poured over his head. It was like an ebb of pain somewhere in his
gut, unfurling and twisting and stretching and knotting. “He’s coming back on
Tuesday.”
Suddenly, John’s throat ached. It burned and dried
that even after he’d taken a gulp of his hot tea, it still felt withered. He
could feel his own eyes well up and the lines of their table mantle had become
blurry and jagged. He wasn’t gonna cry now, he told himself. But his tears
betrayed him and it was all John could do to try to stop himself from shaking.
It was a small mercy that Sherlock didn’t say the name. The other guy’s fucking
name. John wanted to laugh dryly at the black humour.
This time, contrary to his usual expression, Sherlock
failed to try to act detached. As much as he wanted their break up to be swift
and less painful for John, he knew he couldn’t act crueller. Sherlock reached
out his hand, in an attempt to console the doctor, but the other had recoiled
from his touch. John looked repulsed and bodily flinched from the detective’s
hand that Sherlock withdrew his limb. The ex-army doctor has never been
disgusted of him but today could be the first.
“It hasn’t even been a year.” John managed to croak.
“It hasn’t even been seven
months for god’s sake.” John
hated himself for saying it. Sherlock hated repetition and the doctor knows
that the detective was already thinking about it. Sherlock’s been probably
counting up to the seconds when it comes to that god forsaken man but it was
all John’s mind could come up with. He had been telling himself and had been
conditioning himself under pretence that he could claim Sherlock’s heart wholly
as long as he beats Sherlock and the dirt’s previous 7 months relationship. It had become some sort of a goal, some sort of helpless
hope and now he wasn’t even gonna get that. No. It wasn’t enough that the other guy’s
always been the winner for owning Sherlock’s heart, he also gets to have the
longest relationship with the detective. John knew it was futile to be holding
on to some sort of contest he only made up inside his mind to fuel his blind
hope but for it to be taken away too was too much of an insult.
“John—”
“It’s unfair.” John hissed despite his failing self-control.
“He wasn’t supposed to get back after a year. He wasn’t supposed to taint our time together. He was supposed to let the chips fall in their own
places! It’s unfair, Sherlock,
and you know it!”
“I know. And I’m sorry I---”
“You’re not sorry!” John snapped, slapping his
hands against the table as he rose from his chair. Sherlock was looking at him with
gentled eyes. Pity. John thought it was pity in the
detective’s eyes. He gasped for air and was holding himself back from
sniffling. “You knew he was coming back weeks ago. You knew for a long time
Sherlock and you’ve been enjoying every minute of it!”
John counted to ten with long whistling exhales and
with resigned, gentler voice continued, “I may not be much of a genius like
you, Sherlock, but I do notice when you stay glued to your phone that you don’t
talk to me even when you’re not in your Mind Palace. You weren’t gonna tell me
in the first place, were you?”
“For god’s sake we’ve been over this!” Sherlock snarled, rising to his feet. “Don’t
make it sounds like you were played or that it was my fault, John! You knew
this was coming!”
It was the perfect slap on the face should anyone
encounter one. John thought he could hear his insides squeezed to bleed dry.
There wasn’t really anything to talk about. John clutched bit at his cheeks and
closed his fists in terms of bracing himself. “I’ve been hoping for seven
months to pass.” He choked helplessly, his jaws set tight.
“I didn’t promise I’d stay with you even if we reach
that long…” Sherlock whispered ever so gently and matter-of-factly. True.
John paced towards their bed room, not caring whether
Sherlock followed him or not. He raised his hands and covered his face. This
was all too painful for him. But he’d chosen it. This was a grave he’d dug by
his own, for his own. He felt rather than saw Sherlock’s shadow loom over him
but the detective kept his silence. John was appreciative of the illusion of
peace the silence granted as he grabbed hold of his shit.
“Do you love me?” John asked, almost in a whisper,
after a few heart beats, his face still on his hands.
“Yes.” Sherlock simply answered.
“But you’re still choosing him.”
“Yes…”
There was just silence and stillness for a long time, neither
one of them moved nor spoke. John was distressed but he was feeling numb and
mind drained enough to keep it all at bay and do what he does best. He was a fucking
soldier for nothing, after all. John
breathed and reckoned that he smelled Sherlock’s unique scent. Then he was
pulling Sherlock by the collar towards him and was kissing him bitingly, all
nipping and licking and sucking. Sherlock didn’t kiss him back but he didn’t
pull away either. When John finally let go, they stood frozen and tired facing
but not looking at each other. Finally it was time for John to let go and be
the person he ought to be.
“Finish you breakfast,” John said more softly. “You
haven’t eaten anything last night too. I’ll be in my room. I can be out within
the day.”
Sherlock’s eyes widened, almost scandalized. John was
almost a little amused at the play of surprise on the consulting detective’s
face. Sherlock seemed to have hesitated a bit before plunging forward. “You’re
going to leave?”
John gave a once over at Sherlock’s deep frown and
furrowed brows but otherwise remained quiet.
Sherlock looked back at him, scrutinizing, before his
silver eyes widened in comprehension. “Oh! No, John. There’s no need for you to
leave.”
“Pardon?”
“Your room, John!” Sherlock drawled with exasperation,
“The one upstairs. You could always go back to it. There’s clearly no need for
you to move out nor do I want you to.” Then Sherlock, the git, tried to lighten
things out by smiling that awkward smile of his that John used to find adorable
but at this moment abhorred.
“You want me to stay here with you even after you get
back with him?” John patiently elaborated in an attempt to clear any
misunderstanding despite the grating nerves he could feel at the back of his
eyes.
“Of course.” Sherlock quipped, eyebrows in confusion
as if it was John who was babbling up some insane, ridiculous stuff.
“You utter
bastard.” John hissed immediately soon after the detective’s answer came
out of his mouth.
John strode out of the room passing by Sherlock
briskly without a word before the other could catch up to him. His hands were
trembling so he fisted them out and stuffed them inside his pockets. He started
with a short quick dash to get out of the bedroom that suddenly felt stifling
and disgusting until he was with a fast trot that turned into a run as he
stomped down the stairs.
He needed to get out of the place and away from
Sherlock fast.
He’ll never be fast enough.
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