AN- Here's what happens when I get depressed and bored. Never a good combination.
Disclaimer: Yep, still don't own
I am but a heap of broken pieces,
Though I was once beautiful and fair.
I'm sure I want you,
But I don't want you to end up like this too.
For damaged goods never really repair.
Well, this is slightly unnerving. John thought as he drifted back to consciousness. The soldier found himself lying in his bed, which was to be expected since he had actually managed to get to sleep the night before. What was unnerving was the fact that a rather lanky Sherlock Holmes was currently sleeping, yes, sleeping!, on top of him. Well, half on top of him. John gazed down at the man using his chest as a pillow in bewilderment. It was a good thing he hadn't leapt up the moment he realised he wasn't alone. It was good that the detective was finally getting some rest, after all; the man hadn't gone to sleep for at least four days. However; the doctor was mildly curious as to how the man came to be in his bed in the first place. His breath caught as the other man stirred slightly and shifted his position. If there was one thing John didn't want it was the awkward moment when the other man woke up and found himself on his flatmate. The soldier quickly went through all the options on how to get out of the mess, the outlook on any of them didn't look good. He lay his head back on the pillow and sighed, it's no use, I'll have to wake him. John steeled himself and carefully nudged the other man.
'Sherlock,' He cooed softly. 'Sherlock, wake up.' For a moment the was no answer. Then Sherlock turned to face him.
'I've been awake for some time now John.' John's thoughts halted and he suddenly seemed to have lost control of his mind. Sherlock's face creased into a smirk and the doctor regained control.
'Wha-what are you doing in my bed? With me.' He gently pushed off the detective and sat up quickly. Sherlock lay back against the pillows, leaning on his forearms.
'Well, the heating broke and I know you get cold easily and you're always more grumpy when you're cold. I needed sleep and my bed is currently being used for an experiment. Also, I wanted to see how you would react.' He looked away and quickly added, 'I like you, John.' The soldier got up and took his clothes into the bathroom. He needed time to think. He washed his face, his mind sharpening as the cold water hit, and got dressed with precision, something from his army days, then walked back out into his bedroom. John couldn't go out with Sherlock, he just couldn't. so one question remained. How am I going to put Sherlock down gently?
Sherlock sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed. His eye's flicked over the doctor then he nodded tightly to himself, got up and walked out of the room. John was about to call after him but he knew it would only make the man worse. Instead, the doctor walked out of his room and down to the kitchen. When he got there, he was surprised to find that he had been beaten to his shrine by the detective who was currently waiting for the kettle to boil. The taller male turned to him, his expression perfectly blank.
'It's ok, I'll get the tea this morning. Go sit down.' John was about to move to the toaster when he realised that that was on as well. Ok. This is either really good or really bad. The blond couldn't help but think it was the latter as he left the kitchen and sat in his chair. He silently prayed that Sherlock would get a call from Lestrade. At least that way he could try to ignore the detectives strange behaviour. His thoughts were interrupted by the man in question bringing his breakfast to him. He was wary at first, Sherlock had been known to experiment, but he soon found that his breakfast was done to perfection. It was better than when he did it himself. He heard Sherlock scoff,
'Please, I'm a far worse cook than you, John.' The doctor grinned to himself then looked at his flatmate, properly looked. It was something that he hadn't done before. Being a doctor and a ex soldier, his usual glance was something in kin with the detectives, only not as deep. He could usually tell lies from truth and how ill someone was just by glancing at them but he didn't see people like he used to. The war had definitely changed that. When Mary was murdered then Joe had died practically the middle of nowhere, John had decided that having any kind of relationship with anyone, male or female, would end badly. 'Trust issues' his therapist had said but it ran so much deeper. Sarah really was a beautiful woman, she was kind and witty and clever and John knew that it wouldn't last. He ran his eyes over his flatmate, ignoring the fact that the other was doing the same thing. Tall, surprisingly strong, slender, gorgeous, eyes that seemed to stare straight into your core. Yes, he adored the man, he felt joy when the other showed his talents, worried when he did something stupid, happy to just be in the same room but he wouldn't, no, couldn't let it go beyond friendship. He just wasn't willing to risk what he had for what he wanted. With his mind set he thanked Sherlock for breakfast and went for a walk.
Two laps round the park had sufficiently cleared the doctors head and also had such an effect on his leg that he doubted he would be able to walk for the rest of the day. He was just turning onto Baker Street when a shiny black car pulled up beside him. John sighed, it looked like he wouldn't be getting a rest after all, and got into the car which pulled away as soon as the door closed.
Inside the car, Mycroft sat facing the doctor but his assistant was nowhere to be seen. John raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything. When the elder Holmes was ready to speak, he would do. Until then, John was content to sit in silence and stare aimlessly out of the window. He knew that the other man was using that vast well of Holmes intelligence on him but he wasn't going to crack under any pressure the 'minor' government worker was going to throw at him. Not yet, anyway. Finally, Mycroft spoke,
'John, it's been a while. How are things with my brother?' John dragged his eyes away from the window to face the other man.
'As if you don't know. I expect the whole reason I'm here is because of how things are going with your brother.' Mycroft's smile became a tight lipped line.
'Yes, quite.' He paused for a moment. 'John, I would like to offer you the services of the therapist I supply for my men. Yours clearly isn't doing the job properly. I also implore you to stay with my brother.' John snapped.
'Ok, so what happens if I don't? I get arrested by your men and held against something, or are you just going to force me to stay in the flat, house arrest. Come on, Mycroft, enlighten me on how you plan to control my life.' John hadn't seriously even considered leaving the flat but he had thoroughly had it with Sherlock's meddling brother. The other man seemed uneasy as he contemplated how much to tell the doctor. He sighed then spoke again.
'I do not plan to control your life in any way. I just thought you might like to know that Sherlock has been acting strangely today. By the way you were acting I suspected it was a row of some kind.' He looked up at the doctor, 'John, I've never seen him like this. He's distraught. But over what, I don't know. When Mummy was seriously ill, nothing. Even when father died, he wasn't like this. What ever it is, he's trying to hide it. From me.' Mycroft's voice subtly changed. 'So tell me doctor, what have you done to my brother?'
John was pinned to the seat by the elder Holmes eyes. He felt as though he had been tied up then weighted down with lead. Never had the soldier felt so powerless in the presence of an unarmed person, it was ridiculous but he knew he wouldn't be able to escape.
'I haven't done anything to Sherlock.' He finally managed to say. Even Mycroft's silence sounded sceptical. The fighting soldier inside him seemed to have seen he was facing a futile battle and so had jumped ship, leaving the blond to face the elder Holmes by himself.
'Hmmm, so you say. However; it seems that all the evidence would point otherwise. So, Doctor Watson, I'll ask again.' Mycroft leaned forward, 'What have you done with my brother?' John took a slow breath while he steeled himself. He looked up to the other man.
'What do you take me for, Mycroft?' He asked, his control slipping little by little. 'Do you think that I'm someone who would do anything to your brother? Really?' John's gaze found its way into the other mans eyes. 'If you honestly believe that I have harmed Sherlock in any way, no matter how mistaken you may be, nothing I say will change your mind.' He tried to stare down the other man but quickly gave up, deciding that it wasn't worth the effort. Mycroft tapped the glass behind him that lead to the drivers area. His attention didn't leave the blond man sat opposite. It was as though the little men which inhabited his mind were running about behind his eyes, trying to find if his hostage was indeed telling the truth. Though John found the image of tiny Mycrofts highly amusing, he didn't let it show on his face, he was in a deep enough hole as it was and laughing was a sure fire way to trade in his shovel for a large digger.
Finally, the car came to a halt. Through the tinted windows, John saw he was back at Baker Street just as the elder Holmes mobile phone beeped. He looked questioningly at Mycroft, who had become as still as a marble statue as he read the text he'd just received, then opened the car door.
'John, I just wanted to make sure.' John stopped and looked back and the man. 'We all know that no one buys damaged goods.' John gave him a guarded expression and exited into the street. The car drove away, leaving him alone on the doorstep of the flat. He checked his watch and swore, he'd now been gone over three hours, Sherlock would know immediately that he'd been having another 'chat' with Mycroft. If there was one thing John didn't want right now, it was an interrogation by Scotland Yard's, no, the world's finest. He didn't think he'd be able to stand up to it. Never the less, the soldier opened the door and enter the flat. He cautiously looked around the flat for any sign of the detectives existence, he found none and breathed a sigh of relief. The next thing he knew, he was pinned up against the nearest wall by his wrists, which were currently above him. The familiar features of Sherlock's face were an inch away from his own. John felt the breath rush out of him.
'Sherlo-' John tried to say but was cut off by a pair of lips pressed against his own. His mind burst into colour, bright, hot, swirling colour and before he knew it, he was kissing back. He couldn't stop, he didn't know how, but even if he did he doubted that he would. He'd wanted this for so long now, what did it matter what happened? The thought dragged up a half forgotten memory; gun shots, blood splatter, explosions, Joe. John pushed Sherlock away and ran to the sink. He couldn't stop the rising bile and threw up. He felt long hands gently massage his shoulders while he emptied his stomach. When he'd finished, the hands turned on the tap and washed the sink. John left Sherlock to clean the kitchen and went to sit in his chair. He laid his head back and closed his eyes.
When John opened his eyes again, he was spread out Sherlock's sofa. A long hand was softly caressing his stomach. He realised that the hand was attached to the lanky detective who was currently lying on the sofa behind him and had one of his arms under Johns head.
'John.' The smooth, baritone voice muttered softly from behind the doctor. 'How are you feeling?' John turned round to face the detective, subconsciously snuggling up to the taller man.
'Imhok.' He murmured into Sherlock's shirt. He could tell by the others body language that his answer wasn't believed for even a second but for some reason the detective had decided to leave the conversation be and move on. He slipped off the sofa, leaving John, and went into the kitchen. A few moments later he brought a steaming cup and gently sat his flatmate up, pressing the cup into his hands. The corners of Johns mouth twitched upward as he accepted the cup, taking it to his lips almost immediately. It wasn't tea as he'd expected but something sweet, fruity and it seemed to free up all the stiffness he felt. His cares and worries seemed to lift from his shoulders.
'Now then John,' Sherlock said softly, pulling the shorter man close to him, 'Tell me what's wrong.' John heard a voice in the back of his mind screaming at him but it was being piled under the urge to do as Sherlock asked him. He complied, a problem shared is a problem halved after all. The detective sat in silence as his flatmate began his story.
I suppose it started when Mary, my wife for six years, was murdered. It happened in front of my eyes, we were mugged and I froze. She was always a free spirit and so fought back. He stabbed her and ran and I was stuck fast to where I stood. It was the reason I joined the army after all. I didn't know what I had to live for. I had nothing, my life fell apart. I decided that if there was nothing useful I could do, I could at least find something in the army. And, if I got killed, well that would be fine since it wouldn't be that much of a waste, what good was a doctor who couldn't even save his wife? But anyway, I joined the army and fell right into place, as it turned out, they needed medics in the field but most had the sense to know that they had the qualifications to get a job where they wouldn't get shot. They sent me out almost straight away. In the emergency ward I met Joe, a volunteer nurse, he didn't have the qualifications to be a doctor or a surgeon but on the battlefield, it didn't really matter that much. He had a compact figure and a smooth face with kind eyes. We were put to work together on the same ward. It wasn't love at first sight, I suspect we did begin the fall when we first saw each other but it was a slow fall, one that people don't realise is happening until they look at that person one morning and suddenly realise they don't want to live without them. A few weeks later, we let the rest of our ward know we were a couple. On the whole, they were pleased to hear I'd finally got a little piece of happiness, there were no secrets on a hospital ward when it comes to family.
But, like everything in this world, it wasn't to last. We were called out to a nearby village to help a civilian. Yes, it was a trap. Turns out the opposition wanted to get rid of the medical help for the army. What actually happened blurs in my mind, we walk in, find the 'gunshot victim', then the next thing I know, I've been pushed up against a wall by Joe. I look at him as if to say 'what the hell are you doing?' Then he falls to the ground. I bring out my gun (standard issue-even the medics have one) and shoot. The army had realised it was a trap before we'd got there but were unable to contact us so they sent backup, backup that saw my extremely accurate shot through an assassins' chest from 7 metres in dark surroundings. It was safe to say they were impressed but I had more pressing issues. My heart lay in a puddle of his own blood on the floor. I ran and knelt by him immediately, already crying. He coughed and I flickered inside with hope. We got Joe to the operating theatre but no one could save him. He had known that from the beginning and so had I but I refused to believe it. The operating team left us alone as he was quickly slipping away. I carefully lifted him and sat him between my legs, leaning against me. It was the position we were known for to the rest of the ward. He is, was, smaller than me and would lay the back of his head against my shoulder. As he finally left us he murmured he loved me then went limp. I had no tears left to cry as I held him for an indeterminable amount of time. Time didn't matter anymore. Nothing did.
Soon after, the army transferred me somewhere were my skills could be better put to work. By the time I got invalided home, I was about to jump into the line of fire. I couldn't take it anymore. God, or someone like him, must have some problem with me and the plans I make because nothing ever seems to go right
John felt the tears stream down his face as he recounted the story. It was as if he had been suddenly sent back there. He had been made to relive to moments and he didn't think his shattered heart could take the strain. His eyes felt heavy and he could feel his self being moved to a lying position on the sofa. Nothing seemed to make sense as conscious slipped from underneath him, sending him spiralling into sleep.
How dare he? How Dare he? John thought as he sat up bolt right. His head still felt fuzzy but he had been in too many kidnappings to not know what it felt like to be drugged. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, which was probably for the best as John didn't think he would be able to be within ten metres of that man without knocking him out. He stood up and willed his legs to carry him to the kitchen. He forgo-ed the usual cup of tea in favour for a glass of water and a couple of paracetamol. Inside the painkiller packet, he found a small note made by the detective.
The soldier scrunched up the paper and threw it in the bin. He and Sherlock were going to sort this out or he was going to move out. He swallowed the pills and put on his coat. The most likely place for the detective to be was Scotland Yard so that's were he would go. He was going to drag that mans sorry ass back to the flat if it killed him in the process. It was still quite early and he managed to sneak out of the flat without waking Mrs Hudson, then he caught cab to the Yard.
John stormed into the main room and faced no opposition from anyone. The tall man he was after was stood with his back to the door.
'Sherlock.' He said in a calm voice. The man jumped and spun round. He seemed to shrink a foot in the presence of the soldier.
'John,' Sherlock said, utter surprise clear in his voice. 'I didn't think you'd come here.' John strode over til he was half a metre away from his flatmate. Sherlock looked lost.
'I'm sorry, John, I-' A small crowd had gathered round the to, the great Sherlock Holmes was in trouble for something with his boyfriend. They weren't going to miss out on a chance to see him getting knocked down a peg. Or fifty.
'Sherlock, I don't care what you have to say. I just can't believe you did. I know you don't have a case, I asked Lestrade before I walked in here so don't give me that bullshit.' He looked at the staring faces round the room. As much as he would love to yell at his flatmate in front of the Yard, he wasn't that heartless.
'Home. Now.' He said through grinding teeth. Sherlock didn't argue. Anderson moved away feeling cheated out of seeing the detective getting scolded.
Once they were back inside the flat, John waited for Sherlock to sit down. Then man had refused to look into his eyes, or even his face, for the whole journey home. John stood in front of him.
'Sherlock. What the hell were you thinking? How dare you drug me? I want answers. Now.' Sherlock began to mumble something to the floor. John grabbed his chin and brought his face up so their eyes met.
'I want you to tell me, not the floor, so at least look at me when you speak.' Sherlock held his gaze.
'I-I'm sorry John. I thought that it would help.' He paused and John gestured for him to continue. 'You were so upset, I thought that if you let someone in then you'd find things easier. I want you to be happy John. I couldn't stand it.' The soldier knew that his flatmate wore emotions like a actor wore masks but he could help but feel that the hurt in his friends eyes were real. They felt real. He sighed and sat next to the taller man.
'There are some things I never wanted you to know, Sherlock. That hell on earth was one of them. Just promise me you'll never do that to me again.' The detective looked at him, confused.
'You're not leaving?' He asked, genuinely surprised. John smiled subconsciously.
'To be honest, Sherlock, I doubt I ever could.' Before he had the chance to breath, he was knocked backwards, a pair of arms wrapped tightly around him.
'I will never do anything like that to you again. I swear it-' John nodded, unable to speak. He gingerly wrapped his own arms around the detective. '-but why didn't you tell me before?' The doctor looked away.
'I thought you'd- I'm mean, come on, look at me. I'm-' He sighed, 'Mycroft said that no one buys damaged goods.' John's chin was lifted by a delicate finger til he was looking into the others eyes.
'You are not damaged, John. I will have words with my brother on what accounts as 'friendly chats' but until then you best listen to me. Fatcroft wasn't talking about you. He was talking about me. I'm the one who's damaged. A druggie with sociopathic tendancies and who lives off the murder of others. Most people would have left me long ago.' The detective's mouth twitched into a careful smile, 'I love you John, for all your faults and shortcomings. To be honest, I don't see any there.'
The soldier in Johns mind nodded and stepped back, the walls he had built over the years were already worn and failing but now he let them fall freely. The emotions escaped in a torrent and the doctor felt himself reaching up to kiss his flatmate properly, letting his senses flood him until all he could feel was him and the man infront of him. A content sigh slipped past his lips as the two parted, yet still stood in each others arms. John smiled, eyes closed, as he felt teh steady beat of his detectives heart. Finally, he had found a love to last a life time and, now he had a hold, neither hell nor high water could take it away.
AN- Well, there you go. I gave it a happy ending, that seemed to lift my mood a bit, but there were just so many ways that story could have gone.
Anyway, as always, my enteral love and hypothetical hugs to all who review