literature

SHERLOCK - Here's a Hand, My Trusty Friend c26, p1

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"John! Jooohnn!" Sherlock bellowed as he fumbled to get the front door to 221 Baker Street open. He stumbled across the threshold and shouted gleefully once more. "John! The case... I knew there was a case. John!" He clamored up the stairs to the flat.

"Good heavens, Sherlock. Whatever are you carrying on about?" Mrs. Hudson stepped out of her flat. She was drying her hands on her apron.

"A case..." Sherlock backtracked a few steps to address his landlady. "I have to tell John that he was wrong and I was right!" He charged back up the steps then.

"I don't think he's up there dear. I haven't heard him moving around all day!" Mrs. Hudson called up after Sherlock. The only response she got was the slamming of the flat door. She shook her head and grinned. "Those boys."

Sherlock leaned against the door he had slammed only long enough to catch his breath. He began pacing the width of the sitting room, hands and mouth flying wildly as he spoke.

"John, it was brilliant. A brilliant scheme. And they almost got away with it. If you hadn't complained about that market being out of frozen chickens, I never would suspected. Oh, it was ingenious, really! The butcher stored all the frozen poultry, chicken, turkey, goose, everything, in a freezer behind the counter. In over half the frozen birds, he had removed the packets containing the necks and other revolting innards, and replaced them with packets of the same weight of different types of drugs. Costumers would have to answer a question, and depending on their answer, they'd get either a regular bird, or one stuffed with drugs. The drug birds brought a much higher price, of course."

Sherlock paused to look out the window. "Oh, it was like Christmas. I mean, I know it is Christmas tomorrow, but this case was brilliant. The first true caper, not just a dull crime scene, since I've been home. I got to go undercover. There were back alley drug deals, thugs, and a marginally intelligent criminal. I was able to find and solve a crime that was happening right in front of the MET, and they were oblivious! And it was roughly a seven. The only thing I regret is that I had you stay behind this morning when I left to observe the operation. Everything happened so quickly, and your added support would have come in very useful."

He rubbed the blossoming bruise on his jaw and turned away from the window. "So, there really was a case. I was right, and you... were..." Sherlock slowed his rambling to a halt as he finally glanced around the sitting room.

They'd not had time to decorate properly for Christmas. John had been inclined to skip it altogether, but Sherlock had hinted that he'd really like to, since it was his first Christmas home and all. John had relented and brought the box of fairy lights and garlands down from the attic just that morning. The box sat on the coffee table where John had placed it, untouched. The flat remained undecorated.

It was going on half four in the afternoon. On a dreary December day in London, there wasn't much light available through the windows, which meant the absence of lamp light left the flat bathed in shadow. Odd. John always had at least one of the side lamps on.

And the dreary weather was part of the reason Sherlock had insisted John stay home. The temperature had been frigid for the past several days, and John's shoulder had been aching as a result. Sherlock noticed that the flat was actually quite chilled, and the fire hadn't been tended to for hours.

John was sat in his chair, head slightly bowed, with something gripped tightly in his hands. He was as still as Sherlock had ever seen him. The fact that his breathing was controlled and slightly forced let him know the doctor had not dozed off. He was fully dressed, including his shoes, as he had been this morning. He had been prepared to brave the shops on Christmas Eve. What appeared to be a full mug of tea lay spilled at the side of the chair, the puddle of tea had spread out and sat long enough that it was turning to a sticky film of goo. It didn't look like John had missed the side table, but that he had dropped the mug outright.

"John?" Sherlock approached carefully. If this were a flashback or panic attack of some sort, he wouldn't want to get too close in case John's response was a violent one. But if he'd received bad news, Sherlock knew his friend would want him near. John's mobile chimed with a text, and Sherlock realized that the phone was laying on the table next to John's wallet, keys, and gloves. He'd laid them out while he was getting ready. He managed to see that John had twenty unread texts and two missed calls before the screen went dark. So John hadn't touched his mobile all day.

Another few paces closer. "John? Are you unwell? Has something happened?" From where he stood Sherlock could see that John wasn't as still as he initially appeared. He was incredibly tense, it seemed every muscle was flexing and vibrating as he fought to maintain control. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly. And then John blinked. He didn't move. Didn't acknowledge Sherlock, but he did blink. "John, can you hear me? It's Sherlock. I need to know what's happening. What do you need? How can I help you?" He stretched his hand out to John, but didn't actually touch him.

"Shut. Up." John's voice was gravelly and low, he all but growled the words out. He'd been crying at some point.

Frozen in place by the unexpectedly harsh response, Sherlock cleared his throat. "John, please, I just..."

"I said shut up. You've done enough talking." It would have been better, Sherlock thought, if John were shouting. As it was, this growling was more than a little alarming. John was so measured. So controlled. Sherlock couldn't read him. He thought perhaps this was John Watson in a proper rage, but he couldn't be certain.

The not knowing was killing him. He had to know what had caused this reaction, which meant he would have to push John, and suffer the consequences.

A tiny voice in the back of his mind questioned whether, after two and a half years away, Sherlock truly wanted to take the risk. If the cost might prove to be too high.

He squashed that voice right down.

"So, are you going to tell me what offensive, socially unacceptable thing you think I've done this time, or shall I deduce it?" Sherlock fixed his face into a derisive sneer. "I thought, after nearly two months back, we would've been through with these emotional dramatics John. I'm really rather disappointed..."

Without looking up, and without raising his voice, John interrupted. "You lied. To me." John was still growling, the words were absolutely feral. Sherlock's blood seemed to suddenly go cold, and his stomach clenched.

"I... I'm sorry... Wha... When? You know why I had to jump..." John’s indictment sent Sherlock's mind off-line for a moment as he scrambled to figure out what John could be referring to.

"Was that day... the day you jumped, in front of me, the first time you actually told me the truth about anything? What was it you said? 'Nobody could be that clever.' Found this in your alias kit." John all but spat the last words as he tossed the item he'd been gripping at Sherlock's feet. "Research?"

Sherlock blanched and stumbled back a few steps as if he'd been punched in the gut. It certainly felt as if all the air had been forced from his lungs. He looked down at the tatty old wallet laying at his feet, the contents spilled out onto the floor. A very young John Watson stared up at him from the university student I.D. card. "John." Sherlock's voice cracked as he forced himself to look at his flatmate. It was desperate, and terrified, and an appeal all in one. "Please... You have to..."

"What? I have to what, Sherlock? Believe you?" John raised his voice marginally, though he was still growling as he spoke. "Because I don't." He gripped the arms of his chair as if he were hanging on for dear life. "Not any more. This is too much... It's too far..."

Sherlock pressed his fingers to his lips and shook his head. "No, John. Please." He could barely manage more than a whisper.

"Almost four years now since we met. Or... Well, you already knew me, didn't you? Lied to me with the very first words. 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' You bloody well already knew. And you knew the whole time Harry was my sister, but you had to make it believable didn't you? Couldn’t play all your cards at once. You let me be impressed. What an idiot I must've sounded like to you, carrying on about how brilliant and amazing you were. Did you come back here after that day at Bart's and have a good laugh at the foolish crippled doctor. So gullible. So desperate for anyone to notice him. Thought it'd be a lark to play your mind games on me, yeah? Did you decide to keep me around as an experiment then? See how long it would take me to figure it out?"

Sometime during his tirade John had managed to stand and turn to face Sherlock. He'd also begun shouting in earnest, red faced and shaking. Not just trembling, but quaking.

Still shaking his head, Sherlock could only whisper a repeated, ragged litany of "No. No, John, no. John, please. No."

"Are you disappointed in me, Sherlock? Did I take too long? Bloody hell, I'm stupid. Such an idiot. It took you wearing that damned cap, it's the same one isn't it? From that night on the street? And Mrs. Hudson's infernal Christmas records, and that song... 'I'll Be Home For Christmas.'" John was nearly at a roar as he unleashed an obscene diatribe of every vulgarity he could think of. "I'm such a fool. To think that anyone would want me as a friend... Would sacrifice of themselves for me... Let alone someone like you, up on your pedestal, so out of the reach of all us commoners."

"John." Begging. Sherlock was begging now. "John." He took a step forward. There was nothing to be done about the tears streaming from his eyes. "Never... never a disappointment. You... You're my best friend. My only friend."

John laughed bitterly at that. "Almost convincing, Sherlock."

The detective drew in a sharp breath as if John had just slapped him. He wished he would. He willed John to stop saying these horrible, self loathing, hateful words and turn his focus back onto Sherlock. He'd willingly allow John to beat him within an inch of his own life, if only he'd stop talking. He pulled the cursed cap from his head, he'd only worn it for a disguise, and took another step toward his flatmate. "Hit me, John. Like you did when I first came back. It'll make you feel better."

John’s eyes grew wide in horror and the color drained from his face. "What? You think... You think the best possible response would be for me to lash out like he use to? You want to see how very like my father I really am? Is this a game to you? Am I only an experiment waiting to happen?"

"John... No. That’s not what..." Sherlock was cut short then when Mrs. Hudson entered carrying a plate of gingerbread men.

"Boys. Whatever is the matter? I can hardly hear my records over all the shouting." She turned to John sympathetically. "What silly thing has he gone and done now, dear?"

John took a controlled breath in, clenched and unclenched his fists, and forced himself to smile. It was his deadly, straight lipped, teeth gritted smile that meant certain death, but it was a smile nonetheless. "Sorry for the noise Mrs. Hudson." He chuckled, but the sound was hollow and turned Sherlock's stomach. "It wasn't Sherlock who's done the silly thing. It was me."

"Oh?" Mrs. Hudson looked surprised as she glanced between her boys. Sherlock held his breath and clutched the infuriating cap to his chest.

"Yeah." John stepped to the table and grabbed his wallet. Shoving it in his pocket he brushed past Sherlock and stepped up beside Mrs. Hudson. Without looking back, he shrugged. "I believed in Sherlock Holmes. Silly me." Mrs. Hudson gasped as she placed a hand over her mouth. Sherlock, shattered, did nothing to contain the sob that rose from his chest. John pulled on his coat quickly and stepped out onto the landing. "I'll just go now."

"John!" Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock cried simultaneously. The elderly lady seemed frozen in her spot, but Sherlock dove through the door and caught John by the arm.

"Please! John..."

With a roar, John turned on Sherlock until he had him backed up and pinned against the door frame. "Do not touch me. And do. Not. Follow. Me." With a shove John forced Sherlock back into the flat and slammed the door behind him. He all but ran down the steps and slammed the front door with such force it rattled the windows.

Sherlock stumbled to the window and threw it open. He leaned out as far as he could in order to see which way John had marched himself off to. He assumed the tube station, but was dismayed to see no sign of John anywhere. Sherlock cursed and slammed both fists on the window sill. "He took a cab. He never takes cabs." He closed the window with a bit too much force, and began pacing the room frantically. Drawing to a stop in front of the bookshelves, he noticed one of Mycroft's intrusive spy cameras. Oh brilliant. He'd probably seen the whole thing.

Wait. Brilliant. Mycroft had probably seen the whole thing. Sherlock pulled out his mobile.

"Use your ridiculous authority position to do something useful and find John. -SH"

"Whatever has happened, dear brother? -MH"

"I've ruined everything. -SH"

"But you already knew that. -SH"

"We have eyes on his cab. I'll keep you updated. -MH"

"Thank you, My. -SH"

"And brother? For both of your sakes, fix this. -MH"

Sherlock shoved the mobile in his pocket and turned around in time to see Mrs. Hudson stooping over the mess of John's old wallet on the floor. She sniffled. "What is all this, dear?"

"No!" Sherlock dove to his knees and crowded Mrs. Hudson away from the wallet. "Please, Mrs. Hudson. I just need some space."

She placed the plate of biscuits on the table and patted Sherlock's shoulder lovingly. "Give him some time dear. He'll come around. You boys always work it out."

"I'm just not so sure this time." Sherlock mumbled. "I really messed up."

"Did you do anything to hurt him intentionally?"

"Not intentionally, no. But the motivation was purely selfish, despite John being his kind, compassionate, brilliant self." Sherlock groaned and pressed the heels of his hand to his eyes. "He's never coming back."

"Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson squeezed his shoulder.

"There is no excuse for me this time. He won't forgive me." Sherlock hung his head and gingerly began picking up the bits and pieces of John's past life, his life pre-Sherlock Holmes. Well, with the exception of that time Sherlock had punched him in the face. Oh God, had John remembered that too? Sherlock groaned once again.

"But Sherlock, it's John."

"I know. And he deserves better. So very much better." Sherlock looked up at Mrs. Hudson and could no longer contain himself. He wrapped his arms around her waist and wept into her hip.

"Oh, my dear boy." She dabbed her own tears with a handkerchief and then wrapped her arms protectively around Sherlock's shoulders. "Your clever brother will find him, you'll make it right, and John will forgive all."

"H-how could you po-pothibly know that?" Sherlock wiped his eyes and his nose on Mrs. Hudson's apron before looking up at her.

“I know because you are Sherlock Holmes, and he is John Watson. These things are obvious." Mrs. Hudson attempted to pat Sherlock's unruly mop of curls into some semblance of order, but gave up with a smile. "Up with you now. I'll make some tea, we'll hang these decorations, and wait for John."

Sherlock allowed Mrs. Hudson to help him up off the floor. He placed John’s old wallet next to the gloves, keys and mobile he'd left there when he stormed out. Sherlock refused to contemplate the implication of such a decision. He noticed Mrs. Hudson's concerned glance at the items on the table, gently guided her by the elbow to the kitchen. "Tea?"

"Of course dear." She patted his arm and went to work. "And I'll clean up the spill while I'm here. But just this once, mind you."

Sherlock chuckled despite himself as he paced the room. He checked his mobile every two minutes and eyed the third step leading up to John's room. No. Certainly John wouldn't still have the cigarettes, and if he did, he wouldn't be pleased that Sherlock had smoked them if he were to come back. When. When, not if. Not. If.

"Tea's ready, dear. Why don't you sit?"

Sherlock waved his hand noncommittally  and turned to stare out the window. It was fully dark out now. And the temperature had dropped well below freezing. The street was mostly empty, as families were gathering inside their brightly lit homes to begin their celebrations. But inside 221b Baker Street, the mood mirrored the dark, frozen, desolate street below.

Just as Sherlock was contemplating throwing himself onto the couch, a text arrived. Mrs. Hudson looked up expectantly. It was the name and address of an antiques shop.

"What am I supposed to do with this? -SH"

"John is currently at that location. I suggest you hurry. They close soon. -MH"

"Mycroft found him. I..." Sherlock stood with his hands hanging at his sides. "What do I do, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Go!" She grabbed Sherlock’s coat and shoved it at him. "Go and drag him in here out of the cold. This is his home. Besides, his shoulder will be aching something fierce the longer he's put there."

"But John said..."

"Well, you'll still need to apologize, won't you? Now off with you!"

Sherlock wrapped his scarf securely around his throat, buttoned his coat carefully, and slowly pulled on his gloves.

"Sherlock! Don't you want to go find him?" Mrs. Hudson crossed her arms over her chest.

"I do... I'm just afraid he'll... What if he won't come back. What if all of this..." Sherlock swept his arm broadly to indicate the entire flat. "What if this is it? What if we're done?"

"Impossible!" Mrs. Hudson scooped John's belongings up off the table and shoved them into Sherlock's gloved hands. "Go. Now." She manhandled him to the door and shoved him through. "Wait." She returned with a bundle of gingerbread wrapped in a tea towel. "He gets hungry. Now go!"

"Yes ma'am," Sherlock ducked his head and smiled fondly. He kissed his landlady on the cheek and hurried down the stairs, tucking John's keys and mobile securely in his pockets. His own mobile alerted him to a message then.

"He's left the shop. Headed north on foot. -MH"

Sherlock hailed a cab and gave the driver the address to the shop. He considered the neighborhood where the shop was located, and considered any possible destination. "Oh my God."

"I know where he's headed. I'm on my way there now. -SH"
CHAPTER 26, PART 1: CHRISTMAS EVE, 2014 - SHERLOCK & JOHN
© 2015 - 2024 Scrub456
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Tamuril2's avatar
Oh my gosh!!!! This is bad. Very bad. The epitome of bad. Poor John. Poor Sherlock. This.....I can't even really say more. I think my heart just about broke from John's words to Sherlock (though I understand them) and when Sherlock cried. Mrs. Hudson is a saint!