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Science and Faith	By : ambersue Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3734 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock (BBC). The show and all characters belong to BBC, Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I don't profit from a thing.

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Marks of battle, they still feel raw

A million pieces of me on the floor…

Lose your clothes and show your scars

That’s who you are¹
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It doesn’t take long for John to collect the basics: a change of clothes, his toothbrush, his gun. After a moment’s consideration, he adds a pair of towels and two sets of sheets—for someone so maddeningly logical, Sherlock is hardly ever practical, and even if the detective has thought to bring a few essential items with him back to London, John very much doubts he included linens on his list of necessities.

Glancing around the sitting room to see if he’s missed anything, John’s gaze lands on the rubbish bin just inside the kitchen. He reaches inside and retrieves the smaller of the two skulls, placing it in his bag with the rest. The doctor is in and out of his flat within ten minutes. With London traffic, however, it is nearly an hour later before Lestrade drops him back at Baker Street.

He finds Sherlock sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the sofa, facing the wall. The detective does not look up when John enters, his gaze fixed on the array of photographs on the wall. The doctor climbs the stairs to his old bedroom, placing his things on the mattress, which is, as he predicted, bare.

Withdrawing the skull from his bag, John clumps back down the stairs, wondering if by some miracle the detective at least had the foresight to purchase some tea. He wanders into the kitchen to search, opening and closing cabinets rather louder than necessary. Sherlock does not move from his place on the sitting room floor, does not even blink as John, concluding his fruitless search, sighs loudly and sinks to the floor beside him.

“No tea,” remarks the doctor. Sherlock is silent.

“No food of any kind, in fact. How are we going to eat, Sherlock?” More silence. “Right, I’ll just pop out for some Chinese then, shall I?” John moves to get up.

“You can’t leave,” the detective says flatly.

“Ah, not catatonic, then.” John settles down once more.

“I’m thinking.”

“Yes, well, even you won’t think very well if you starve to death.”

“We won’t starve. I’ll send Mrs. Hudson for some groceries.”

“Mrs. Hudson—she knows? That you’re not—”

“I called while you were out. Bit difficult to convince her over the phone, not the way I’d have preferred to do it, but we could hardly have her coming home to find two squatters in the flat above her.”

John sets the skull on the floor between them and leans back on his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him and letting his eyes rove over the photographs.

“Brought your friend back,” the doctor says, indicating the skull.

The detective’s hand moves absently, scooping the skull into his lap.

“You’re welcome,” John grumbles.

“Did Mary call?” Sherlock changes the subject smoothly, his voice all honeyed innocence.

“Don’t,” the doctor tells him.

“Don’t what?”

“Talk about Mary.”

“I’m just making conversation.”

“No, you’re not,” John says mildly. “You never ‘just make conversation.’ You’re terrible at making conversation.”

“What would you like me to say, John?”

“Nothing at all, if you can manage it. At least not about Mary.”

They are silent again. After a moment, John gestures to the display over the sofa. “So tell me,” he says, “about this.”

“Be more specific, John. You want to know about the murderer? The mutilation of the corpse?” The barest hint of a pause. “Or about the victim?”

The doctor glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “If you’re not allowed to ask about Mary, it hardly seems fair for me to ask about him.” And if John wasn’t watching for it, he’d have missed it, but he sees Sherlock’s eyelids flutter closed for a brief moment, the faintest sigh escaping his lips. Relieved.

“Let’s start with the murderer,” John says, “since he seems to have it in for me as well.”

The detective opens his eyes. “Colonel Sebastian Moran.”

“Colonel?”

“Dishonourably discharged.”

“Well then he’s hardly a colonel anymore.”

A half smile from Sherlock. “It bothers you that he outranks you?”

“I’m not a child,” John snorts. “I just thought you would prefer to be accurate.” The irritating half smile stays in place, so the doctor pushes forward. “You said he was one of Moriarty’s men?”

“His number two, actually. If Moriarty was a spider, Moran is a rat; he’s smart, he’s sly, and he’s not at all afraid to get himself dirty—rather enjoys it, even.”

John looks up at the photographs. “I can see that.”

Sherlock stands, reaching for the wall and pulling down an image that shows a ribcage cracked open, white bits of broken bone standing out against the deep red-black of burned flesh. In the background, blurry, the suggestion of a skull is visible just above the shoulder. The detective hands him the photo.

“What do you see?” he asks softly.

“You’ve already read the coroner’s report. What could you possibly—?”

“John. Please. Second opinions, yes?”

“Fine,” says the doctor, pushing himself up from the floor and taking the photo. He sits on the sofa, scanning the image, willing his brain to work like Sherlock’s, willing his eyes to observe. “Sternum removed. Ribs broken inexpertly, but in the right places. Just a guess, but I’d say your man has done some research on post-mortems. From the look of these bone shards, though, he used a tool not meant for the job—garden shears rather than rib cutters, maybe.”

He studies the skin—or what remains of it. “Extensive burns, unevenly distributed. The body wasn’t lit on fire. God, he’d have had to burn each section of skin separately. And here—oh. Christ, Sherlock, that’s started to heal there. This was done—at least, part of it was done—when he was alive.”

John pauses, gauging Sherlock’s reaction. The detective is watching him impassively, his face devoid of emotion, but the doctor has not forgotten that this is not just another body, not just another victim. “Sorry. Are you okay?” he asks gently. “Hearing this, I mean?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Sherlock’s voice, like his face, is a blank slate, a closed door. The rest of his body, however, is not so controlled, hands fisted on his hips in agitation, his chest thrust forward in a show of unconscious bravado.

“You’re not as good an actor as you imagine yourself, you know. You cared about him.”

“I don’t—” The detective must be analysing his own body language, because he cuts himself short. John sees him visibly relax his hands, rolling his shoulders forward. He perches on the arm of the sofa, his feet on the cushions. “I’m fine.”

“I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”

“Have you seen it yet?” Sherlock’s gaze indicates the image in John’s hand.

“Seen what?”

“Look, John. Really look.”

“I’m trying—”

“Burned flesh? Heart taken out? Remind you of anything?”

Sherlock is maddening, wanting John to be something he isn’t, wanting him to see…to see…oh.

I will burn the heart out of you. “Moriarty,” John murmurs.

“Yes,” confirms the detective. He glances back at the wall. “Which means this death was specifically meant as a message to me. Moran believes I killed Moriarty. I took something he valued—he took something of mine in return.”

“Believes you killed Moriarty? You didn’t?”

Sherlock waves a hand absently. “Suicide. I may have…tipped the scales, as it were.”

“Christ.” John sets the photo aside, leaning back against the cushions. “So this is why you came back? Didn’t you think it might be a trap? Lure you here with this murder, then kill you? You said Moran was smart.”

The detective’s gaze slowly pulls away from the images, looking at John with genuine surprise. “No,” he says softly. “I only just learned about Victor—about the murder—today.”

“Today? Jesus, Sherlock. How are you…how can you look at these?” He gestures to the wall.

“It’s a body, John. Why should it be any different than any other case?”

“Because—” John makes himself take a breath, reminds himself that Sherlock and his bloody Asperger’s are rather talentless when it comes to the art of expressing emotion. “Because he was someone you cared about. And you feel it, Sherlock. Don’t pretend you don’t. This isn’t just another case for you, no matter how much you want it to be. It’s natural, it’s downright normal of you to be bothered. When people you care about die, it’s…it’s not…”

And hell, what he wouldn’t give for a share of the detective’s emotional detachment right about now, because he has, quite by accident, bumbled into a veritable minefield of subtext. Something is choking him, a hard knot in his throat that his voice has to strain against. “Most people find it upsetting,” he finally finishes, his voice raw with the effort. He leans forward, elbows on knees, to avoid looking at Sherlock.

“John…” The detective slips smoothly off the arm of the sofa, his long legs folding underneath him so that he is kneeling on the seat, sitting back on his heels. John tenses—they are not really any closer than they were a moment ago, but the shift in position makes the space between them seem smaller.

He turns his head. “Sorry.”

“You say that so often.”

“Yeah, well, one of us ought to.”

That silences the detective, buys John a moment to work on swallowing the lump in his throat. When he feels in control of his voice again, he asks, “Why did you come back? If not because of the murder, then…why?”

Sherlock does not answer right away. Eventually John risks a glance at him. The detective is studying him with wide eyes, the irises a cautious, foggy blue. Then they darken, and Sherlock looks away.

“I was gone too long,” he says at last.

John huffs a sigh that is no less exasperated for its softness. “That’s not an answer.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth tugs down in a frown. “There were things I couldn’t manage while in hiding. Things I had to take care of.”

“God, really?” John pushes himself up from the sofa, rounding on the detective. “It would kill you, wouldn’t it? To just give one straight answer. Just say one thing that doesn’t sound like a bloody sphinx.”

“You don’t want to know—”

“Stop telling me what I want, and what I feel, and what I bloody well can and cannot do! You don’t get to just—god, just sweep back in and take over my whole life! Why do you suddenly care about protecting me?”

Sherlock shrinks back, wilting under the heat of John’s anger, but John can’t stop himself. There are tears pricking the backs of his eyes, his whole face flushed with emotion.

“Three years, Sherlock, I’ve been stuck in this…this hell, of believing you were gone. And now you care about hurting my feelings? Now you care about saving my life? Why? Why now?”

“Because I was losing you!” The words slip from Sherlock’s mouth as if by accident, the detective’s hands reaching toward John of their own accord. In the deafening silence that follows, the bow of his lips pinches itself shut, a cage belatedly locking behind the escaped words.

“You were…” John is still breathless from the aftermath of his rage. “You were losing me?”

The detective’s mouth stays firmly shut, and he wraps his arms around his knees defensively.

“Sherlock?” John steps closer to the sofa so the other man is forced to look up at him. And he does look up, as if he’s unable to stop himself, his eyes finding John’s and holding them. John can see the rise and fall of his chest underneath his shirt, can read anxiety in the quick, shallow breaths.

“You were forgetting,” the detective whispers.

John shakes his head, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “That’s not fair,” he says. “I spent three years doing nothing but remembering. The first few months, I could hardly stop a nosebleed without having flashbacks. I’d see you in crowds, I’d hear you calling for me in the middle of the night.”

The late afternoon sun streaming through the windows finds Sherlock’s eyes, turns them a fierce absinthe green. The light catches the red notes in his dark hair and paints his pale skin golden. For a moment, he looks every inch the spirit John still fears he may be.

He laughs, and there is no humour in it. “It took nine months before I could even attempt to date, before I had even a shred of myself to offer to someone else. Two years and a bit before someone would put up with me for very long. And three years—three years to decide I couldn’t let you own me anymore.” Sherlock’s hands are rising again, stealing toward John as he speaks. They wave slowly back and forth, pale scraps of seaweed caught in shifting currents of dust motes. John can see them searching for him, and he steps back, just out of reach.

His voice when he speaks is cold. “How long did it take you?”

“Me?” Sherlock seems genuinely confused.

“How many days—hours? minutes?—went by before you could stop thinking about me?”

The detective’s hands waver, fall back to his sides. “That isn’t—John, that’s—” His legs unfold in his agitation, his feet hitting the floor with a dull thump. “You know I don’t work like that,” he finally manages.

And yes, John does know, but that doesn’t make it okay. In fact, it makes it very not okay, that he could spend so long caring so much, while Sherlock can simply close some mental door and ignore what’s on the other side.

So he simply states, “And you know that I do.”

A long silence, where John can see Sherlock’s mind spinning frantically, trying to read him, trying to deduce some clue that will tell him the right thing to say. But there are no clues, because John honestly doesn’t know what he wants to hear.

John rubs a hand across his eyes, exhaustion making his limbs feel heavy. “I’m going to take a shower,” the doctor says at last. He trudges toward the stairs, pausing briefly at the bottom to turn back. “Oh, and Sherlock?”

Hope like light suffuses the detective’s face when John looks at him, and the doctor tries very hard not to simply collapse under the weight of his self-loathing. He is constantly, always, maybe for the rest of his life, failing someone. Sherlock, then Mary, now Sherlock again.

“Don’t forget to ask Mrs. Hudson about the groceries,” he says. He looks away before disappointment snuffs out the light in Sherlock’s eyes.

***
John tilts his head back, clutching his phone, his feet moving of their own accord. It’s that old pull, the one he knows so well by now: Sherlock in danger, Sherlock about to something irreparably foolish, and John has to stop it, has to fix it.

“No! Stay exactly where you are! Don’t move.” The detective’s voice loud in his ear, his arm, on the rooftop high above, rising to warn the doctor away. John stumbles to a halt, his body torn between the need to protect and the need to obey.

“Alright,” he tells Sherlock, straining for calm against a rising tide of panic.

“Keep your eyes fixed on me.” As if John could look away. “Please, will you do this for me?”

“Do what?”

“This phone call, it’s…it’s my note. That’s what people do, isn’t it? Leave a note.”

John throat clenches, his heart freezing in his chest. His voice is more sob than statement. “Leave a note when?”

“Goodbye, John.”

“No, don’t—” But there is a click, and Sherlock is gone. On the roof, John sees him toss his phone carelessly aside, the phone that is his research tool, his favoured means of communication, his life, and that more than anything convinces John that this is not some elaborate, ill-timed joke.

Sherlock’s arms are flung wide, his coat billowing behind him like wings, and John has time to think how theatrical, how cruel, how perfectly Sherlock this whole thing is. And then Sherlock is falling, and John thinks nothing for a while.

John sits bolt upright, surfacing from his dream as from a great depth, gasping greedily for air. He flounders, struggling between dream and reality, the tears on his cheeks cold, like damp pavement, like Sherlock’s skin as he gropes for a pulse—

“John!”

The mattress gives as another weight joins his on the bed, and there are hands on his face. The voice is so near, so familiar—black coffee, dark chocolate—Goodbye, John.

“John, look at me.”

The doctor opens his eyes to see Sherlock kneeling over him, his hands holding John’s head, his eyes colourless in the dark room. John grips the detective’s forearms, his fingers unconsciously wrapping around his wrists, finding the pulse there. His lungs ache as they struggle to resume a regular pattern of breathing. Finding Sherlock here, alive, should be reassuring, but he’s so…close.

“The hell—are you—doing in here?” he manages between gulps of air.

Sherlock’s brow wrinkles. “You called for me,” he says.

“I didn’t—Sherlock, I was asleep.” John shakes his head, slapping at the detective’s hands, which remain stubbornly locked in place. It’s really not making breathing any easier.

“Dreaming,” Sherlock says. It’s not a question.

“Brilliant,” John mutters, rolling his eyes. “People dream while they’re asleep. Sherlock Holmes, everyone.”

“Dreaming about me,” Sherlock presses, either ignoring the sarcasm or missing it entirely. “About my—” He hesitates, looking uncertain.

“Suicide,” John offers, just as Sherlock finishes, “—fall.”

They are both quiet. Sherlock finally releases John’s head, and his lungs relax immediately.

“You have them often?” the detective asks at last.

John rolls onto his side, facing away from him. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Are they always—like that?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” The doctor rubs at his chest under the sheet. “My therapist calls it central sleep apnoea presenting with sleep paralysis.” He huffs a laugh. “Fancy name for having a nightmare and forgetting to breathe.”

Behind him, Sherlock sighs. “Molly said you had dreams, but I didn’t know…”

John’s whole body tenses. “Sorry, Molly said?” He rolls over, sitting up to look at the detective. “And just when did she say this?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. He didn’t spend eighteen months with the world’s only consulting detective without brushing up a bit on his deductive reasoning. Not even Sherlock can fake a death certificate—it takes a coroner to do that. And lucky for them, they know a coroner—one who’s rather massively in love with Sherlock, at that. Molly would do anything he asked of her: forge legal documents, give him a place to stay—even lie to John Watson’s face for three years.

John closes his eyes. It hurts that Molly would lie to him, but he knows firsthand the power of Sherlock in making people do things they might not otherwise do. What hurts more…

“She knew,” he says. “The whole time. Christ, Sherlock. You told Molly, and you couldn’t tell me?” His voice is low, wounded.

“John…” Sherlock sits perfectly still—either trying not to move toward him, or trying not to run away.

John leans back against the headboard. “I get it. I do. You needed her. I just…” He stops, because he can’t make himself say what comes next. You needed her, but I needed you.

“John.” The mattress dips again as Sherlock moves—toward him. Panic swells in John’s chest, and he’d back away if he weren’t already backed up against the headboard. The detective leans forward slowly, his legs folded beside John’s, his head bowing until it touches the doctor’s chest. The panic loosens its grip on his heart, and John thinks he might laugh, except it isn’t really funny: Sherlock is no master of physical expressions of emotion, but somehow the awkward pose conveys his sentiment perfectly.

“John, I’m sorry.”

The baritone voice vibrates through his chest as Sherlock speaks, mixing with the thrum of his heartbeat, and John doesn’t need to see the detective’s face to know he’s not lying this time. His arms hover uncertainly at Sherlock’s sides—if someone hugs you, you hug them back, but John has no idea what the appropriate response is for someone pressing their forehead against your chest.

The doctor feels Sherlock starting to tense as he remains still, apparently interpreting his lack of response as lack of acceptance. He forces himself to relax. “It’s fine,” he says. And he wasn’t sure until he said it, but it’s true. The ache is still there, but this is Sherlock, and staying angry with him for being Sherlock is like being angry at water for being wet.

“I didn’t know—” the detective begins.

“It’s fine,” John repeats. He laughs a little. “I know how you work, remember?”

Sherlock’s forehead presses against him harder, and John laughs again. “Ow! That hurts, you annoying bastard.”

The detective pulls back. “Sorry.”

John slides back beneath the sheet, turning away from him again. “Let’s not overdo it with the new vocabulary, yeah?”

He hears Sherlock’s soft laughter behind him and feels the bed shift as the detective stands. By the time the door closes behind him, John is already asleep again. This time, he doesn’t dream.
***

1. The Script. Science & Faith. Sony Music Entertainment UK, 2011.
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