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A Bit Better	By : VulpineBeesKnees Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3330 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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Chapter List
- 17
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Everything was gone. The once cluttered sitting room was stripped clean of everything, save for the union jack pillow. Slowly he stepped into the empty room, shock crashing over him. The kitchen was spotless, every trace of Sherlock’s experiments wiped clean. It was all wrong. All the furniture was gone, and a few boxes were stacked in the corner the corner neatly labeled. John’s things.
John sank to the floor to grab the worn pillow, clutching it to his chest like a life vest, because that’s what it was. John had had nothing before he met Sherlock, no home, no life, and now Sherlock had left, taking everything with him.
Before he could think of anything else John pulled out his phone, tears slowly working their way out. He typed a short message and pressed send before dropping his face into the familiar pillow. John didn’t know why he’d left it. The pillow had been Sherlock’s as well. Breathing deeply he could smell a faint hint of tobacco and he lost any ounce of willpower as he sat on the floor of his now empty flat, openly sobbing into the pillow.
Come home. JW
...
Sherlock had gone to the one place he thought he’d be safe. His brother had answered the door, taken one look at him and after figuring out what had happened, called in his moving team immediately. Greg had been over with his children, and until they went to bed, he was blissfully alone. He lay on the bed, still in his rain soaked clothes, in his thinking pose until a knock on his door received a wary bid for entrance.
Lestrade stepped inside, shifting from foot to foot as he looked at the obviously distraught detective. “Mycroft sent me to fetch you.”
“Unnecessary. I won’t be coming down for dinner as he wants.” His voice was calm and even, the voice the DI had heard before when he was trying to conceal his drug habits on a case.
“Sherlock we just want to know what happened, we want to make sure you’re alright.”
“You mean you two want to pry into my private life?”
“Damnit Sherlock! We just care about you alright? We want to make sure you’re okay. We’re not trying to pry we’re trying to help!” Finally the lanky detective looked over and the distraught he saw in those normally cold green eyes made him sigh defeatedly.
“Alright. I will come down.”
Within a few moments the two older men sat on a couch facing the younger as he regaled the story of the entire weekend for them clinically, from John’s worry that afternoon to leaving him in the rain before coming here.
“So you just ran away?” Came the DI’s question. Mycroft had been in thoughtful silence throughout the entire ordeal, “You just picked up and ran away because you’re afraid John isn’t happy? You obviously haven’t been looking at him mate. He’s been happier than I’ve ever seen him, even since before you decided to take a swan dive off of Barts.”
“I do not need relationship advice from someone who has been married, divorced, and is now taking it from my brother.”
“Sherlock!” When Mycroft finally spoke it was harsh and angry. He glared at Sherlock a moment before leaning forward onto his knees. His features gave away nothing as he berated his brother. “I am afraid you have made a grave mistake. You and Doctor Watson needed each other. You know full well how deep the man fell while you were away and yet you still chose to leave him. Why? Because you’re ego was hurt by his mother? Because you are so emotionally inexperienced that you don’t see that the you do in fact love John Watson? Or because you're afraid to admit that you may be emotionally compromised?”
“You are an idiot. I was willing to help you when I was unaware just how insane you were being. Now that I know you were simply running like a child, I do expect that you waste no time in fixing this. As for the time being, you will not insult Greg and you will behave in front of his children or you can leave immediately.” His gaze was icy as he leaned back against the couch, then looking over Sherlock carefully, his idle fingers twitching ever so slightly he added, “And if you start using I will send you back to rehab. I know your demons brother, and I know John Watson has been your drug of choice as of late. Do not consider falling back into bad habits.”
"I chose to leave because it was the most logical thing for me to do. He will be hurt much less now than if something were to happen at a later date." His voice was almost as calm and cold as his brother's, "And how dare you chastise me brother when you were the one that drilled it into my very being that sentiment is weakness? There is no need to throw me out. I will leave willingly. I neither need nor want your advice on the matter."
He stood to leave but Greg stood as well, stopping him with a hand on his arm.
"Don't leave just... Just take some time and think about what you're doing to him and to yourself yeah? You aren't showing it, but you're hurting too..."
"I refuse to be a part of this good cop bad cop routine." He said petulantly, but Greg noticed he went upstairs instead of leaving. He looked back to Mycroft and let out a small sigh.
“We’ll give him a few days.” Mycroft said softly, the icy demeanor swept away now that it was just him and Greg. Standing to move behind the DI, his arm slipping around his waist. “If he doesn’t fix things on his own, then we’ll step in.”
...
The next morning Mycroft called Harry. She hurried home to find John bumbling around the almost empty flat with his phone clutched in one hand, the Union Jack pillow in another. It wasn’t until later that day, after she’d moved John and a few of his things back to her flat, that she called Mycroft back.
“This is ridiculous. I know John has tried calling him. Why isn’t your brother answering?” She’d already spent the better part of a half hour recounting her own version of the story, including the fact that her mother had purposefully goaded John, knowing Sherlock was listening.
“He has convinced himself that this is best.” Mycroft explained.
“Best?” Harry spat, a little too loudly. She lowered her voice, not wanting John to know she was talking with Mycroft. “Who exactly is this supposed to be ‘best’ for?”
“For John. I didn’t say I agreed with him, that is just what Sherlock has convinced himself.”

“And we’re just supposed to let this happen?”
“For the time being, yes. They both have feelings to work through. Particularly Sherlock.”
The line fell silent for a few moments.
“I hope to God you’re right.” Harry said finally, her tone softer than before.
“Me too.”
...
Greg knocked on the door of Harry Watson’s flat feeling anxious already. She opened the door and smiled warmly at him.
“Good evening Detective Inspector.” She said with a small smile. He noticed it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“That bad yeah?” he asked. Of course it was bad. He knew how much John loved Sherlock, even the nasty git that he was. He knew this had been unexpected and so out of left field to John that it would drive anyone mad. Not to mention the other half of this problem had been living in the spare room at Mycroft’s, which meant he knew that the two had had no contact since Sherlock moved out.
“He hasn’t been to the surgery in days. Most of the time he just sits on the bed, clutching that god awful stuffed animal, or the pillow, whatever’s closest when he sits down. He’s hardly eaten at all.” She sounded really worried, “I don’t know what to do. I’ve never seen him this bad, not even when the man was dead. What’s going on?”
“A stupid git trying to be a martyr for him. Let me talk to him?”
“If you think it’ll do any good.” The woman didn’t sound hopeful. Leading him to a plain door, she knocked softly and opened it enough to stick her head in, “John, you have a visitor.”
When no response came, she opened the door, and let the DI in, closing the door with a soft click behind him. Greg almost turned around and walked back out. John looked awful. He was a little thinner than the last time the DI had seen him, and dark circles had formed under his eyes. He was sitting on the bed, staring out the window, a plush hedgehog wedged under his chin, arms wrapped tightly around it.
“John?” He asked softly, as if trying not to frighten a caged animal, “John you look god awful, tell me what’s going on?”
John’s attention quickly snapped to Lestrade, as if he hadn’t quite noticed the detective inspector until that moment. His brows furrowed for a moment, confused, but as realization spread over him and his features relaxed.
“Have you heard from him?” John’s voice was clear and concise, not quite what Lestrade had been expecting to hear from looking at the destroyed man. “I’ve tried texting and calling him, but he won’t answer, it’s no use. Have you seen or heard from him?”
The hedgehog stayed tucked tightly against his chest as he spoke, as if John had almost forgotten that it was even there. He was at his breaking point, and somehow, letting go of the stuffed animal meant letting go completely. He couldn’t do that. John had to believe that they could fix this.
"Both." He said miserably. He didn't want to lie to the doctor, but he also didn't want to have to tell him no when he asked to see the detective, "He's petulant as ever, pissed Mycroft off a time or two, and the kids are getting on his nerves..." He trailed off not quite knowing what to say.
"I didn't come to talk about him though. I came to talk about you."
John tensed again, tucking his chin against the stuffed animal in his arms. The last thing he wanted to talk about was himself, and he was quickly shutting down again. His gaze fell away from Greg’s as he processed everything that the man had said. He had seen Sherlock, from the sounds of it he was staying with Greg and Mycroft, so he was still in London, he hadn’t completely run off. Somehow that in itself was a bit of relief.
“There’s nothing to talk about.” John clipped, now refusing to look at the eyes boring into him from across the room.
Greg stayed for a little while longer, but after a few more failed attempts at conversation he gave up. John let out a shaky breath as the door snapped close behind Greg. He wasn't sure if he felt better or worse when he was alone. He was being, for lack of a better term, an idiot.
They’d broken up. Couples broke up every day, and despite the fact that he knew that he should be able to move on he couldn't. He was ridiculously dependent upon their relationship, he always had been. For as long as he'd known Sherlock he's found himself entrapped. Clinging to the end of a comet that was just a little too bright. It had been one thing when he'd thought Sherlock was dead. That has left him with a memory, something to still believe in, but this left them with nothing. It was like he'd just come home again, only this time he knew what he was missing and that it was still out there.
...

The second week after he’d come to live with his brother, Sherlock stalked into his room, intent on taking a shower, when he found a small girl lying on her stomach on his bed.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, his voice pitched low.
“I’m writing poetry.” was the teenager’s reply, “Your room is dark and brooding, it’s the best place for inspiration.”
“Poetry. What kind?” he asked, trying hard to bite his tongue.
“Love poetry.” Sherlock tried not to blanch, but failed, “Not like that kind of love poetry. Dark love poetry, like vampires and the renaissance...”
“Victoria. That’s not love, that’s nonsense...” he said. He was just all around angry, mostly at her for being in his room, but for her jaded attempt at art. Wanting to teach her a lesson, he remembered something he’d kept, that he still never let leave his side.
“This...” he said reaching into his breast pocket, “This is love.” He tossed down a folded piece of paper that she quickly snatched up and read. When she lowered it, she looked up at him once more.
“This is the man papa talks about isn’t it? The one you loved that you left.”
“The one I protected.” Sherlock corrected, his tone dark, but controlled, “Now get out of my room.” The young girl looked up once like she was going to argue, but seeing the look on his face she decided better. Sherlock escorted her to the door before moving on to his shower. However, what had started out as an activity to calm his overactive mind about John, only made him think of him more, what with the letter. There in the privacy of his shower, he wrapped his arms around himself for comfort.
“You did the right thing...” he mumbled to himself.
Early the next morning, a sudden crash, from the sounds of it a mug hitting the wall of his office, pulled Mycroft from his sleep an hour and seventeen minutes earlier than he’d intended to wake. Letting out an exasperated sigh he slipped from the bed, thankful Greg was such a deep sleeper. When he pushed open the door to his office Mycroft stopped, staring almost pitifully at the man behind his desk.
“This is getting out of hand.”
He walked slowly, each step ringing out in the silence of the room, until he was behind Sherlock. His lips pursed as he saw CCTV channels layered over each other. The surgery, Baker Street, and Harry’s flat all running at the highest speed. John had finally returned to work after a week off, but the rest of his time had been spent at Harry’s. He’d yet to return to Baker Street despite the fact that most of his things were still there.

“Had you asked I would have told you his whereabouts.” Mycroft spoke plainly, not making any move to pull Sherlock away from the recordings.
The detectives shoulders were hunched, his eyes barely a visible glitter under his mop of curls. His eyes were red and puffy showing he'd spent the better part of an hour trying not to cry.
"He's not doing well." Sherlock stated the obvious and paused the CCTV feed of Harry's home, in one window he could see the outline of John staring listlessly into the sky, clutching something fluffy and brown.
"Why does he keep that? Doesn't it hurt?" The detective sounded very young all of a sudden, almost childlike, and in that moment Mycroft realized just how naive Sherlock really was.
“Of course it hurts.” He pulled one of the chairs in front of his desk to the side so he could still see the monitor as he spoke. “Did you really think if you walked away from him he’d simply move on with his life?”
Mycroft shook his head and took a deep breath before pressing forward. “He keeps it because it’s the only thing you left him with. You won’t talk to him, you won’t see him, so he’s clinging to the only piece of you that he has.”
"Why?" The one word sounded so miserable and angry that it even surprised the detective. "What do I have to offer him Mycroft? Danger? Putting up with me? I have done so much, put him through so much hurt... Why wont he just let me go?" His voice wavered and he burrowed his eyes in his arms, the skin on his neck flushed with embarrassment at showing this kind of emotion in front of his brother.
It took a few moments for Mycroft to respond, trying to articulate the answer to the question in a way that Sherlock would understand. He didn’t want to chide the detective for his inability to comprehend the emotions obviously coursing through him.
“Why are you watching CCTV recordings in the middle of the night? Can you really walk away and let him go so easily?”
"I-" the detective didn't know how to answer that. He thought for a long moment before answering. "I have to. This is... This is how it has to be. I couldn't bare it if he left me... I couldn't take that again. So many people Mycroft, you know better than anyone. And he is so much more than any of them. It was inevitable. I am saving us both pain." He heaved a sigh. It was hard to imagine a pain more than what he was feeling now. All the torture he'd endured didn't even surmount to the tendrils of depression and utter ache that had filled his body since he'd taken that cab back to London.
"I can't.... I can't walk away completely, but this... Will be enough."
“That’s cowardly brother.”Mycroft's statement snapped Sherlock from his reverie, but his expression didn’t hold the same bitterness that his harsh tone had.
"John is the brave one, not I."
“So you’ll put him through the same pain you’re so desperately trying to avoid? By being the one that leaves him?” Mycroft shook his head, standing and moving to leave the study. “Maybe it was for the best then. John would have never left you... No... It’s your own fear that destroyed your relationship.”
Mycroft stood on the other side of the desk for a moment, hoping to draw a rise from his younger brother, because that was always his last resort with Sherlock. To bait him into proving himself.
"How could you possibly know he would never leave?"
“It’s no mystery that he loved you, but of course that doesn’t necessarily keep people from leaving or falling out of love. John isn’t other people though is he? He waited three years for you to return, even when the whole of London was against him he still stood by your memory. He never gave up on you and when you returned he was the one that truly brought you back. When you first came back to London... You weren’t really here were you? So strung out on drugs you could barely function, but you saved each other again. And then of course there is the fact that it is because of you that he doesn’t see that dreaded psychiatrist any more. You think you have nothing to offer him. John Watson needs you just as much as you need him.”
The statements and accusations fell quickly from Mycroft’s lips, much like Sherlock’s own deductions, but of course Sherlock would have never seen things this way on his own. His deductions were constricted by his own understanding of relationships and emotions in a way that Mycroft’s were not.
A curly head lifted from the table and Sherlock's eyes were glassy and red rimmed, his face screwed up in an expression of pain and anger.
"You are listing only the good. Do you know what it's like to watch the most important person in your life be branded right before your eyes? He was kidnapped, put through god knows what because of me. Because I cared about him. He broke his own finger.... I..." The detective shook his head curls falling over his eyes.
“You asked how I knew he wouldn’t leave. I only listed the good because you and I both know that is all John sees when he looks at you. Could you ever believe, even for a moment, that John blames you for any of that?” Mycroft’s voice softened and he rested one hand on the edge of the desk, leaning forward slightly.
"If he doesn't he should." Came the soft reply, "God knows I do." With that he stood and moved away from the CCTV recordings and headed towards the door, however, he stopped with one hand on the jamb, head turned so his voice would carry over his shoulder.
"How am I supposed to believe I can love anyone when I know nothing but hatred for myself?" And with that he stalked off towards the staircase.
As Sherlock’s footsteps faded away Mycroft walked around the desk to look back at the CCTV screens still open. Sherlock had been fast forwarding through the past week, but the tapes had finally caught up with the live feed and had slowed to real time. John was pacing the small room, Mycroft could see his form each time he walked back towards the bed. Grabbing for something out of the view of the window Mycroft witness what he was sure was something off the end table being violently thrown against the opposite wall in frustration.
A sad smile pulled at one side of his lips. Even through all their differences the two could be frighteningly similar.
Turning off the computer he went back to his room, gently rousing Greg. When his sleepy mumbles became coherent enough that Mycroft was sure he was listening he spoke.
“I do believe it’s time for us to step in.”
- 17
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- 19
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