sherlock holmes unsent text messages

day twelve

It rains today. It’s still winter, but not cold enough to form snow. So, instead, the heavens above cry out and rain litters the London streets. It’s the day after Valentine’s Day. Sherlock and John did not celebrate - they’re simply not the type.

Sherlock stands facing the window, curtains separated so he can peer out to the street below. London is both sad and beautiful during a rain shower. He balances his violin over his shoulder and plays a simplistic song that bellows throughout the flat. John’s in the shower and Sherlock plays this song for no one at all. It is not John’s song and simply something he composed somewhere in between his travels. It’s not that it doesn’t matter, he’s simply misplaced it in his mind palace and he doesn’t quite have the need to detail out where, when, and why he composed such a piece. So he plays because even though they have nothing on and it’s raining and he should be bored, he finds comfort in this.

It’s not been easy nor has it been perfect but this is what he has pursued for over a year and a half. He’s wanted this moment - one of many - and now he is allowed to have it. He enjoys this.

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day one

They kiss until their lips are swollen and the only thing they can taste as deep as their molars is each other. They taste of tea (black) and toast (strawberry jam) and something that cannot be defined in any dictionary found in London (probably the world). They make home to the sofa, one atop the other as the day carries out and they speak of nothing whatsoever. Sherlock hasn’t the strength or the mindset to tell his story just quite yet and John isn’t sure he can handle hearing it because all he can focus on at this very moment is that he is allowed to share a kip with Sherlock Holmes and that means more than something he could ever describe, even if he wanted to. He folds Sherlock, for that very fact, safely into his arms and whispers only his breath against the younger’s forehead. Sherlock lets him too. It should alarm either of them with how easy and natural this offer of affection is, but much like the days that turned into months, things changed on the axis of their foundation, and in turn, there they were.

It was once again, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson; not a torn off fragment of who they were prior to the storm that flooded their lives away.

Sherlock kisses gently and John does the same. Sherlock is not shy in his actions because he knows he is lucky enough to have them. He’s not a man to believe in guesses or luck or anything of that nature but he will not be idiotic enough in these moments to doubt anything - not when he feels John Watson’s heartbeat against his ear. He knows that this unlike him in most cases - that he’s never been one to seem the romantic of sorts, but John’s hand is heavy on his back and he feels the pads of each finger trail down his shoulder blade and who is he to say no? Not just to himself, denying such pleasure, but what sort of man is he to say no to his best friend that he’s missed more than words can describe?

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waitingat221b:

John Watson wanted answers. With eighteen months of lies and deceit, an explanation was owed to him at the very least. John wasn’t a hateful man, in fact many would say John Watson had a big heart. But John was very much capable of holding grudges. He rarely ever gave his full trust in people. It takes quite a special person for John to trust and confide in. He could count with his fingers the number of people he held in such esteem. It was a defense mechanism he had picked up while growing up the way he did. He came back to 221B to try and make sense of the life he left behind. When he found out that Sherlock was alive, he was beyond livid. It was an anger of circumstance. For eighteen months he lived in the reality that Sherlock Holmes was dead. Everyday John had to get up from bed and condition his mind that his best friend was dead and no longer coming back. John expected he would have relapses. Even now, being in inside the flat brought back memories that would rather be forgotten. It didn’t help matters either that John had spent a lot of his time talking to an imaginary Sherlock Holmes his mind had conjured up. He knew that the Sherlock Holmes before him now was the real one. No figment of John’s imagination could even compare. But one does not simply walk away from hell, especially if it was a hell like John’s had been. It wasn’t that easy. 

He came to 221b for answers but the demand for such answers and further accusations that almost fell to his lips vanished in one single act by Sherlock Holmes. The stream of words halted as Sherlock brought up his hand and placed it behind John’s head. John felt lightheaded as Sherlock’s slender hands caressed him tenderly. His mind was laced with confusion at the actions of the consulting detective. Usually, John’s mind was always a step behind Sherlock’s (it was miles behind even) and now wasn’t an exception. His eyes fluttered close as he felt Sherlock’s soft lips press into his own. John got lost in the moment, forgetting whatever thoughts had plagued his mind moments before. There was something about human contact that allowed ideas to be communicated more thoroughly and effectively then words ever could. And one thought came to mind, during this very moment. Despite John’s confused state one thing was evident to him: Sherlock Holmes loved him so.

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Sherlock was weary, at first, of John’s reaction. This was not the same as kissing Victor or bedding Irene. This was a completely different situation - this was John. No, this was not the same John from over nineteen months ago - but the person, the character was still the same. Sherlock saw John, a bit broken around the edges (much like himself) but with the same structure that he friended at the beginning. He was a solider and a doctor and a man who pointed a gun at another and shot fire to save Sherlock’s life. He was a man who could laugh and make others laugh when they hadn’t laughed in ages. He was a man who understood and was patient, albeit hot-tempered from time to time, and he was a man whom Sherlock had missed very much. 

And when Sherlock heard the return, that John had missed him just the same, he felt that familiar warm feeling flood his chest. Of course it was something that had existed before - despite his title of a sociopath. He felt joy and happiness despite his many years of quite the opposite, and he wasn’t one to deny it’s allowance within the walls of his world. But this feeling, the admission from John, was one that was categorized and neatly placed in the line of other things that made Sherlock feel such a level of euphoria. He almost felt foolish in the smile that was cracked when John’s body trapped itself against his chest. He hadn’t the mindset to enclose the solider in his hold, but for once, his mind stopped working.

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waitingat221b:

John’s eyes widened in shock as he felt Sherlock caress his cheek, the warmth seemingly spreading from the consulting detective’s fingertips and making its way to John’s heart. His heart beat faster with each passing moment. The younger man’s gaze held him in a hypnotic state. John’s own brown eyes locked into place with Sherlock’s blue eyes. He saw that the other’s eyes held more than it’s usual mystery. Now it held depths of pain and suffering that John himself often saw when he looked at his own reflection.

The consulting detective, John noticed, didn’t all that good. Compared to a month ago, his appearance seemed to be worse. His long dark curls remained unkempt and reached his shoulders. His eyes had dark bags underneath them, signifying that Sherlock didn’t sleep all that much. His check bones were more prominent than ever, showing just how much weight the younger man had lost. The doctor in John Watson also noted traces of Cocaine abuse, with the consulting detective’s bloodshot eyes and somewhat runny nose. John was conflicted. He tried to quell his first instinct which was to nurse Sherlock and force him to eat something just like old times. He reminded himself that things weren’t the same anymore and that they can’t simply jump back into the routine they once had.

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Nineteen months really wasn’t a long time if you looked at it from the perspective that, unless something tragic happens (like falling from a building), you lead a much longer life. However, for Sherlock Holmes, when you have counted every week, day, hour, and minute in between in regards to those nineteen months, they become something more. Sherlock had already lived beyond his life expectancy (mostly due to drugs, but considering the fact he ran from one chaotic scene to the next, that didn’t help either) so anything extra in his mind, wasn’t really icing on the cake as it is said, but rather, just more time for him to spend on Earth solving mysteries and unfolding science. Of course, that all changed to an extent when John stumbled into his life. John was unexpected yet wanted, from the exact moment he walked into Bart’s. And that was still the case now.

And so, those nineteen months aside, Sherlock still wanted John. He wanted John for those nineteen months and now, somehow, bitter sweetness put aside, he felt as if he was owed those nineteen months back. Perhaps John was owed more than him - then again, Sherlock was the selfish one. He was not selfish in this moment - watching as John compassionately spilled his feelings and thoughts and emotions and things that Sherlock would never toy with if he had a choice. Though, he had a choice tonight. He had a choice to continue to ask to see John. He had a choice in how his own feelings were handled. He had a choice for putting himself in this place - standing (less than a meter apart) from John Watson.

And had a choice when he decided to take everything into his own hands.

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waitingat221b:

221B Baker Street, Westminster London

- Coming Home -

Time ebbed away as John Watson watched London pass him by. The distinct buildings and cobbled stone streets all coalesced into a blur of colors and shapes. The busy London streets was left behind as the cab rushed through the city, towards a destination he knew well: Home. John rested his forehead against the cool glass pane that separated him from the rest of the world.

Time was never a concept John bothered with. To him there was simply one day after the next. Significant milestones littered his life here and there: time he entered medical school, time he finished his training at Bart’s, time he enlisted in the army, time he got shot, time he got sent back to London. Months and years didn’t matter all that much to him. Not until two years and ten months ago at least. Without even realizing it, John had categorized his life in a matter of months and years: there was the time before Sherlock Holmes, the time with Sherlock Holmes and the time without Sherlock Holmes. The time without Sherlock Holmes stood out amongst the rest. His memories of that time were more vivid than the others. It was also during that time that John Watson found out that there were worse hells than war.

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Sherlock came early. He never was a patient man, but in these particular moments, he can be defined as just that. He sat in his chair - the one perched and faced across from John’s own, with idle hands set on the armrests. He had not been home in a very long time and it still did not feel like home, but he felt, instead, as if he was opening the door to 221B for the very first time. A door is just that - a door, but a John (a John Watson) was the actual home. 

He had arrived roughly two hours earlier, cloaked in his usual coat and scarf to cover from the faint mid-winter air that settled against the end of January. He had told Mycroft, quietly in the sitting room that he was returning home. Mycroft sat there, slack jawed and almost comatose to what Sherlock had said. Sherlock did not press the conversation and left as quickly as he had come into Mycroft’s life after his fall. He should have felt guilty, in a sense, because in all honesty, everyone knew which brother was the one who was actually alone. And now he was again. Sherlock was not going to come back - not after this, not after John. Once had been enough and 221B was too close to let slide through his fingers.

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Mycroft gives him cases. They’re not the most interesting in the world, but they keep Sherlock’s mind occupied enough so that it doesn’t begin to stray into the depths that do exist out there. It’s a land field out there honestly, and John’s just so far away. There are gaps in time when Sherlock doesn’t text his best friend and then there are moments when the blackness of the void begins to seep in and Sherlock opens his mouth and never lets it shut. There are many things he wants to tell John, things that are much less organized such as the state of his heart, but they are things that he knows and understands and wants John to understand too. But Mycroft tries to avoid allowing his younger brother to sink to those levels because he knows what Sherlock will do if left stranded for too long.

Sherlock feels crushed when John tells him not now because when will it ever be the right time? He’s been waiting nineteen months thus far and February is creeping right around the corner and it claws at Sherlock’s mind to know that while he exists in the same world that holds John Watson, he is not allowed to be a part of it. He thinks, minutely, that perhaps everyone is right - that this really isn’t his area - and that John just needs time. But when those hours turn into days and days fill into weeks, he becomes claustrophobic of how little time he has left. He wants to spend it all with John because even though it’s almost ridiculous, he knows how he feels and what he’s done and how he’d do it all over again for this one person. It is a lot and says a lot and he just wants John to understand.

It would almost be too much if there were no cases, but there’s just enough to keep the cocaine at bay and the narcotics hidden just a mile ahead of the consulting detective’s sanity.

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I am tired, John.

I’d like to return to 221B. With you, preferably.

With you, as a requirement.

John. I did this all for you. Why can’t you see that?

John.

Sherlock travels to Oxford for the funeral. He hasn’t been here since the time he was trying to pick apart the bits of Moriarty’s web that never really existed. It probably should irritate him - all that work that went unnecessary, but the effort to do so, to be irritated, just isn’t in him right now. He’s stated before, to himself - to John - that he’s tired. And he still is. There had been a common goal for him through all his travels for the last - nearly, now - nineteen months, and still, it has not come to fruition. He knew that there were so many variables to the situation and that John’s brain allowed for more processes than just cause and effect. But he also had allowed his mind to dwindle into the lake of thoughts such as hope and love and possibilities. He didn’t put much effort in these areas, but he did put some. And for Sherlock Holmes, that’s saying quite a bit.

But regardless of how he feels now, he promised a childhood friend (he titles that heavily and with uncertainty) that he would attend a funeral. It wasn’t so much of a promise but there were two kisses involved (and two administered by said friend on Sherlock’s cheeks) so there’s some kind of weight to his offer to come to Oxford. Plus, as it was admitted then, on New Years Eve, Victor’s mother did tend to Sherlock fairly kindly when he was a young child. Well, a young pirate. When they played pirates out in the fields, that’s when Sherlock would need the most band-aids and she would have them by the handful.

Sherlock’s not a man with a deep understanding of how social extremities work, but he regards Victor’s mother with a shield of respect and that’s enough to allow him this visit here to Oxford.

He will not say that he’s mostly here to see Victor. Because Sherlock tends to hide the truth, especially when he’s so good at lying. At least about sentimental things.

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