Adult-FanFiction.org : Television / Streaming

A Bit Not Good	By : VulpineBeesKnees Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 2926 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: We do not own or make any profit on BBC's Sherlock or any of their characters. It's all for fun.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
John stopped on the stoop of 221B to look cautiously down the street. The shadow had disappeared. Someone had been following him for a few days now, three that he had noticed at least. It couldn’t have been a reporter, they were far too obnoxious to stay anonymous that long, besides he was old news. Most likely it was some psychopath that thought they could be the next Sherlock Holmes or, worse yet, Moriarty.

Satisfied that he hadn’t been followed home tonight John went inside, locking both locks tightly behind him. He was glad Mrs. Hudson was out for the weekend with her sister. Hopefully he could get this all worked out before she got home. She had done so much for him over the past few years, it wasn’t right to mix her up in it all, not any more.

Once upstairs he beelined for the kitchen to make himself the cuppa he so desperately needed at this point. His phone chirped from across the room, alerting him that he had a text message, but John continued fixing his tea, ignoring the phone. It was probably Harry or Mycroft, or even Lestrade. Between the three of them he got at least a text a day. It was funny how many times they stopped by just to say hello, or called him just to see what he was doing. They were worried about him, and for good reason too. John knew he had gone downhill since Sherlock left. His psychiatrist had tried to insist that he continue blogging, but how could he? That was part of his life with Sherlock.

After finishing the tea he had settled into his armchair with a novel, forcing himself to stare at the empty seat across from him. The oversized armchair had begun to collect dust, but as painful a memory as it was, John couldn’t stand the thought of getting rid of it. Mrs. Hudson had long since given up trying to tidy up after him. He had yelled at her one too many times for trying to move Sherlock’s things.

Finally settled in for the evening he opened his phone.

I’m not dead. Let’s have dinner. - SH

His tea slipped from the arm of the couch with a thud, as the hot liquid soaked into the throw rug, but he managed to gain hold of the phone. The logical side of John’s brain told him this was another game. Another trick, but the other side begged to differ. How would anyone but him know to say that? With shaking fingers he replied.

What took you so long? JW

It wasn’t safe for anyone. It still really isn’t, but life is boring, and I know you can handle yourself. SH

Boring. Such a ridiculously overused word when it came to Sherlock. That didn’t prove anything, seen as anyone that had ever met him would know of Sherlock’s attachment to the term. John was shaking all over slightly as he responded again.

Why should I believe this? You honestly expect me to believe it took three years for Sherlock Holmes to get bored? JW

Yes well, even being plagued by my own boredom was better than putting certain lives at risk. I feel the trouble has died down enough for now. Enough that anything could be handled that was thrown our way. However John… my life seems to be increasingly dull without my blogger. If you don’t believe me just look out your window. SH

Hurrying from his seat, now dropping his novel on the ground with the forgotten teacup, John scrambled to the window. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust so that he could actually see anything out on the dark street, but when they did his breath caught in his chest. Sure enough, there he was, as same as ever. Sherlock, or the man whom John assumed was the detective, was standing next to the tagged phone booth across the street from the flat. He couldn’t see his face, not really. What he could see was the old coat, with his collar popped up, his hand shoved deep in the pockets. Fleeing from the window he made his way down the steps of 221b, and stopped at the front door. After taking a deep breath John pulled the door open, but he didn’t run out. Instead he just stood in the doorway staring at the man he had believed to be dead.

To be fair, a part of him had always wanted to believe he was alive. Hell, he returned to the gravesite too many times, begging Sherlock to return. So this was what he had asked for, right? John stayed in the doorway, staring incredulously at the dark figure across the way.

Of course it was Sherlock Holmes standing down on the street. He had been following John for days trying to see just how much damage had been done. Mycroft had warned him that John hadn’t taken the detectives death well, but it seemed like sure understatement. The doctors life had grown monotonous and rather dull, which meant of course that his cane was back. Surely if the cane was back so were other things, like his nightmares, and his disinterest in keeping himself healthy and well. Hopefully, Sherlock thought to himself bitterly, he would be able to fix the damage he’d caused to the both of them three years before.

The lines on the doctor’s face were deeper, as if he’d been aged more than the three years they’d been parted. His hair was a little disheveled, probably from running his hand through it, but it was the expression on his face that pierced Sherlock. The way John looked at him as if he couldn’t believe this was truly happening.

With a swirl of his black coat, he was crossing the street, mindful of taxis, and shortly he was taking the few steps from the street to the stoop of their door. He stopped a few inches away from the shorter man, standing on the step and looking down, his head tilted so that he didn’t come off as haughty as he usually would.

“Hello John.” He said softly, his eyes brightened at the sight of his one and only friend.

Running a nervous hand over his face, pulling at his lips slightly John breathed out a mangled mess of words. “Jesus fuck- how?” Finding his voice he spoke a little more solidly, “I saw you Sherlock. You were dead.” His voice shook as his eyes jutted around, taking in everything that was Sherlock. It was definitely the same coat, but it looked slightly more worn, the only real sign that anything had changed over the past three years. That and how thin Sherlock was. The hallowed skin forced his prominent cheekbones to the surface even more. John reached out slightly, pressing his fingertips into Sherlock’s chest, as if he wasn’t sure he was really there.

Sherlock normally didn't like being touched, but the three years apart had felt like lifetimes, and he owed John this much. The fingers were warm as they rest on his chest, and Sherlock was sure John was needing the physical reassurance that he was indeed here and alive to be able to process through the shock of his sudden reappearance. Shifting his weight he pressed forward a bit, allowing that hand to press flat against his chest. One cold hand came up to circle John’s wrist and he tipped his head down, catching the doctors eyes with his own.

"It's alright. I'm alive..." he said. Comfort was not his thing, but he was sure John was in sore need of it. He'd asked Mycroft often how the man was doing, but the reports from his brother were never good. He'd worried for the doctor while he'd been away, which was odd for him. Normally, his mind was so focused elsewhere that sentiment for others was so far from his thought process that he often came across callous. However the circumstances of his false death had made him more aware of the true danger and consequences others suffered because of him. Now as he looked down at his old flat mate, he knew his brother hadn’t been telling him the whole truth.

Spending so long away from John had made the detective realize that his life had changed, and for the better, when he had entered his life. After his false suicide, things had gone back to the way they were before John had limped into his life. He felt miserable. Without John there to pester him to eat, sleep, and stay off the drugs, he had remissed into his former self. He felt utterly childish for depending on the man so much, but he knew that the doctor depended on him too. In very different ways yes, but the bond was still there. The changes that had been made to his life in recent days made him acutely aware of how much his life had improved and how much the doctor actually helped his thought process. He hadn't realized how much he had come to depend on John to tell him when the things he did were a bit not good. If John had been with him, things might have been different, but without him the world had seemed bleak and easy. John had told him once that just because it was easy didn't make it right, but easy was just a word to Sherlock. Nothing was ever easy or difficult. Just a problem that he solved, so the proverb was easily lost on him without his blonde conscience following him around.

"John... I'm home..."

Pulling his hand away, startled by the skin on skin contact and the realization that Sherlock was honestly standing in front of him. John let out a choked sob muffled by his hand now pressed against his mouth. There were no tears, just a wave of emotions as his mind absorbed the fact that the past three years had been a lie.

John shook his head softly as he breathed through his nose heavily, trying to center himself. When he had finally regained control he let his hand fall back to his side listlessly. His mind ran over the many scenarios, how this could be happening, how Sherlock could possibly be alive. But all he could see was Sherlock plummeting from the building, his blood staining the concrete. There had been no pulse.

Of course Sherlock could pull off some sort mad escape, so the next question that begged for an answer loomed in his mind painfully. When he spoke his voice was harsh, cruel, and pained.

"Why?"

He knew Sherlock would understand all of the why's he needed answered. Why did he leave? Why did he lie to him? Why did he wait three years before coming back? Why?

For the first time in Sherlock's life, he wanted to reach out and touch someone for more than just information gathering, but he refused himself. He could see all the pain he'd caused the man lined out before him now. The hand against his mouth to keep from letting more than that initial cry escape, then the measures to keep himself calm. Sherlock knew he was selfish, but this, this had all been to keep them safe. It was not right that by following him blindly they had been put into danger too. His brows knit together and he clenched his fists at his side to squash the strange feelings inside of him.

"John there are so many answers to that simple question. I will answer what I can, but there are some I will not. It's better off you do not know all of the details." He looked away for a moment, then back at the doctor, " I did it to save..." He sighed and tried to think of the right words to adequately explain the entire crazy situation.

"Moriarty had three trained assassins ready to kill the people I was closest to. If they didn't see me jump, those people would be dead. He killed himself before I could force him to call them off, and to be completely honest, it was something I expected from him, but I had no idea how to counteract it." His eyes captured the doctors then, and practically demanded John to understand. "It wasn't safe for me to be around after that. I've been taking care of things these last three years."

The words seemed to register somewhere deep within John as he nodded blindly. Of course there were reasons. Moriarty, yes he had been dead on top of the building as well. Nobody really cared after Sherlock's jump though. No one seemed to know what had happened.

With a slight limp he stood to the side, wordlessly inviting Sherlock inside. His voice softened as he spoke again, but it still cracked slightly, riddled with emotions. "We can talk about it over tea."

Tea. Tea would make it right.

Tea was his answer to everything. After all the breakups a good cuppa and John would be better at pretending he was alright. All the times Harry called for something and they got in a row, a good cup of tea would fix things. However, Sherlock knew that doubt was there, and that a good cup of tea was not going to make everything okay. There were rifts in their friendship that could take a lifetime to rebuild.

John had swept up the stairs as quickly and fluidly as he could, given the reemergence of his limp. He didn't try and hide it, not from Sherlock. Partly because he now realized that Sherlock had been the mysterious shadow that had been following him for the past few days, there was no way he hadn’t already noted the fact that John was dependent upon the cane when he was out and about, and partially because he wanted Sherlock to know what the past three years had done to him.

Sherlock followed John upstairs, and held a hand up when the man moved to start the kettle. He figured he at least owed him a hot cuppa. Hoping that John would sit, he moved to take the kettle back to the stove to warm it back up. It was still warm but not hot from the tea John had made earlier. He could see the mug on the carpet from here and knew that Mrs. Hudson would have a fit over it later.

But, when Sherlock took over he simply stood dumbly as he watched Sherlock prep the tea. After a moment he backed up so he was leaning against the counter in the middle of kitchen. He took the time to attempt to organize his thoughts. Finally deciding on where he wanted to start John spoke softly, hurt and confusion reflected in his eyes.

"Why so long? I mean fine, you were forced to, Moriarty was going to kill people but. . . . Why so long?"

The past three years had been hell for John. His PTSD had quickly resurfaced but his nightmares were now riddled with Sherlock as well.

The detective pulled out a pair of mugs and started measuring out sugar for himself and tea bags for each of them. He didn't answer for a long time, and when he finally did, he turned around, leaning against the counter, his hands on either side of his hips, resting the heels on the edge. How could he truly tell John what he had been doing for the past three years? The doctor would surely leave after hearing that, or tell him to. They had been through so much already.

"I've been taking care of things." He said authoritatively, letting John know this was one topic he would not elaborate on, "I've been making sure that nobody else would die from my tangle with Moriarty." He let his eyes meet John's and he could read measured calmness in them. He was trying, "Please don't ask me to tell you more than that."

Anger ebbed into John's voice, he could feel his pulse rising. "You show up after three bloody years, when you're supposed to be dead, and you have nothing to say? What can you tell me then?!"

John knew he should be happy, and he was, in a way. But he couldn't get over the fact that Sherlock was supposed to be dead. John had spent the first year after the fall trying to accept that. It was the hardest thing he had ever done. John didn't realize that as he spoke he was beginning to shake. Just his hands at first, but it quickly spread to a tremor across his entire body. Even his breath was shaky.

Sherlock simply could not. It was very rare that he ever even thought that phrase, but he couldn't bear the thought of losing John due to his good intentions. He shook his head and took a step forward. His hands fluttered around like they weren't quite sure what to do, but they finally rested on John's upper arms. "Do not mistake my hesitance to explain myself as an unwillingness to speak." He was becoming frustrated with the doctor, as he often did when having to explain something that seemed so obvious. For the millionth time since he met the doctor, he wondered why John couldn't just understand.

"There are just some things I can't tell you. Isn't it enough to know that I am not dead, and that I have spent the last three years of my life doing something bigger than myself? I did not spend it in the shadows protecting the ignorant like Mrs. Hudson, just to have you condemn me for things I can't tell you." He had expected John's anger, and was surprised he hadn't received a well placed fist to the face yet. But, just because he expected it did not mean he was going to lie down and take it without defense.

His fingers were digging into John’s arms a bit in his frustration. Sherlock held onto him for a moment longer, searching his eyes for understanding before he released him and turned away as the kettle boiled, mildly agitated at the doctor's obvious anger. He was thankful the tea had boiled, he didn't want to see his mistakes reflected through the blonde anymore. Things seemed so much worse through his eyes.

"At least let things settle down first. Things are strained between us John, I know you know it. Can you not just let it be for a while? I know you owe me nothing, but please, save the questioning of where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing until we are both sure the other will not up and disappear." He bit his cheek at those last words. They were meant to have been internalized, but somehow they had fought their way through his lips.

As Sherlock's hands left John to tend to the boiling water John slipped to the ground, the shock finally getting to him. His back was pressed against the cabinets behind him as he glared up at Sherlock incredulously. "Let things settle?" He was shaking his head slightly. “Bloody hell Sherlock.” Dropping his head to his hand he let out a deep sigh, pinching his furrowed brow between his thumb and forefinger. He couldn't seem to form a coherent sentence as his anger gave way and his head swam. John pressed the palms of his hands into eyes trying to focus as he continued to shake his head. His breathing was rapid and short, even John could tell he was beginning to suffer from minor shock. Without looking back up at Sherlock he spat bitterly, “You can’t just show up with hardly any explanation and expect a sodding cup of tea to fix things.” John knew he’d suggested the tea, but Sherlock was the one that had taken over. John would be damned if he thought that he could win forgiveness that easily.

Sherlock poured the hot water into the cups and let it steep. His hands were on the counter, fully extended his head hung as he waited for the tea to brew. Then he heard John speak. His frustration flared into anger for a moment before he tamped it back down. Turning to look at him, he could see everything John had been thinking. Running a hand through his hair in frustration, he wanted to tug it out. He was torn between knowing he deserved John’s anger, and wanting to lash out at him because no matter how he’d gone about it, he had spent the last three years saving people. Wasn’t that what John had been wanting him to do the whole time they’d been together before? He’d wanted him to be compassionate, to care for others, but now that he had done this on his own John was reprimanding him for it.

He took a deep breath and told himself John had no way of knowing all that he’d given up and done to protect the innocents that surrounded him. He supposed he’d developed a sort of martyr mindset when he had put this plan into action, but he hadn’t thought about what his actions had really done to others. Perhaps he had not exactly had their best interests in mind after all. At least not effectively.

“I’m not asking for your forgiveness John.” He removed the teabags and stirred in some milk from the fridge. When he returned the carton and closed the door, he stayed with his back to the doctor for a long moment. “I haven’t earned it. You have no clue what I’ve been doing, and I can’t tell you. Not yet. I don’t expect you to leap into my arms telling me how happy you are that I’ve come back, or that I’m not dead. I fully expected a violent reaction, but, that doesn’t mean that I’m going to sit by without defending myself or attempting to make peace with you. The past three years have been difficult for the both of us. We have both suffered and each have our own reasons.”

He turned around then, moving to the counter to take their cups and squatted down in front of the doctor, the cup extended to him, “Is amiable such a bad way for me to be?”

Taking the cup, without meeting Sherlock’s gaze, John considered what was being said. He had forgotten just how painfully logical the detective could be. Unable to come up with a retort John spoke softly, "You're really back then. For good?"

"Yes, I'm back for good.” He chuckled softly and moved to sit next to John, leaning against the cabinets.

John sipped at the tea slowly even though the liquid was far too hot. The painful sensation helped bring him back to reality. "If you ever do anything like that again. . . . " His voice trailed off. He didn't know what he would do, but he just couldn't handle anything like this again. He led the sentence dangle in between them as he stared into the swirling liquid.

Sherlock nodded. He knew the unspoken words the doctor was trying to say but couldn’t voice. Moriarty had forced them apart, and due to that fact they had both regressed to their former selves. Being together made them better, and their strengths made up for each other’s weaknesses. If something like this happened again, there was a good chance neither of them would make it back to where they’d been before his fall.

After taking another sip he held up the cup a bit, looking at Sherlock. "You remembered?" It was a question more than a statement. John was rather surprised Sherlock had remembered after all this time.

"Mind Palace..." he said. He had that urge to touch John again. It was how normal people expressed emotion or concern he had gathered. Taking a sip of his own hot tea, he gently placed his hand on John's knee. He'd thought he'd be revolted by the feeling, never having really liked physical contact, but something was different. He felt as if he were comforting his friend, and in turn he felt comforted a little as well.

There was a whole wing in his mind palace just for John. It was a part of how he’d gotten by over the past three years. He could ask himself what would John say if he were here and he wouldn't have to guess. He had meant it when he told John he didn’t have friends. He only had one, which was why he had a section in his mind allotted to him. But Sherlock wasn’t sure if he could still consider John his friend. The man was angry, and rightly so, and he worried that this time that anger might not ever ebb away.

"I left you for three years, and I have no idea whether you will be willing for me to stay or not. I had assumed you would, but it was based upon falsified information, and now I am at a loss. Given the new data I’ve observed since my stepping into the flat, I believe it could go either way." he shook his head and looked away, into his tea, anywhere but at John, "You have every right to be angry, but there are things I have done, things I have seen that I don't want to risk dropping on the fragile remains of your trust in me...." He sighed and finally turned to the doctor, looking at him now. "I don't want you to think that I'm keeping things from you either."

John nodded curtly and downed the last of his tea. Part of him wanted to tell Sherlock of course he wanted him to stay. He had been waiting for three years and pissed as he was John wasn’t about to kick him out, but the words wouldn’t come. Placing the cup on the ground he set his hand on top of Sherlocks, still slightly amazed by the feel of Sherlock's skin against his own. A physical reminder that this wasn’t some sick hallucination, and the only gesture he could manage to show Sherlock that right now, he needed him to stay.

"It's surreal you know. You being here. I had dreams sometimes, you would show up with some amazing story as to how you weren't really dead. Other times they were nightmares. I should have known that call about Mrs. Hudson was fake. I shouldn't have left you." The guilt that had eaten away at him over the past three years began spilling out. "The things I said, when I left. I didn't mean that. I don't really think that you're a m... Just... I'm here for you. I am. It's just going to take time for me to adjust, for me to understand. I get that you can’t tell me everything right now, fine. But when things are better, between us I mean, I need you to tell me everything. I have to know."

"I know... after so long, being able to talk to you, not having to hide..." he shook his head, not wanting to reveal too much. "It's good to be back home." He was secretly glad that John was asking him to stay, and his fingers flexed slightly under the doctor's reveling in the feel, mapping it out so he would always remember it later.

"And you had every right to say those things. Sometimes I do tend to be more like a machine, times when I need someone to remind me that I'm not just an intelligence, but, that’s why I have you.” He turned, an eyebrow raising as if that could add an implied question mark at the end of his statement. “However, when things are better..." he promised, "I will tell you everything."

Sherlock took a deep breath and held it for a moment. What he had to say next he knew would be tough both for him to say and for the doctor to hear. He let the breath out slowly before continuing. "Without you to nag me about it, I've fallen back into some habits that were easier to deny before. I'll need your help John. You're the only one who has ever been able to enable me to change some of my distasteful character traits." His chest felt clear, and the weight that had settled over him since the moment he'd watched his best friend fall apart at his grave started to lift.

John pulled his hand away to run it through his hair nervously. "How bad did things get, for you I mean?" He knew Sherlock had many distasteful habits, some worse than others, and the fact that he was asking for help said everything

Sherlock felt the loss deeper than he should as John pulled his hand back, but he tried not to draw too much from it. There went the calm and ease. Once he showed this to John, there was no going back. He knew John was about to get angry again, and he knew he deserved every bit of that anger, but he also knew he didn't want to lose the doctor due to hiding things from him, and in the end, John was the only person he could count on. Fingers shaking, he reached for his cuffs and began to roll them up. Slowly, alabaster skin was revealed, and he rolled both sleeves up to the bicep, showing John exactly what he had meant.

On both arms, there were raw, blotchy red spots from where the nicotine patches had been slapped, ripped off, then replaced a few too many times. The inside of one arm was covered in a large self adhesive bandage, the other was bruised and several track marks were visible. He averted his eyes, unwilling to watch the disappointment he knew was coming travel over John's face. He felt raw, and naked in front of the man, bearing all his flaws as if they were jewelry. Clenching his jaw, he stared blankly at the wall, eyes unfocused.

"I wish I’d never left.”
- 1
- 2
- 3
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

A Bit Not Good