AN: Forgot to mention that the inspiration for this story came after reading 'The Everthere' by hbomb90 on LiveJournal. For all of you that has acquired a miscommunication kink, that is a story for you. Both stories (the one I mentioned and mine) start with the one of the boys starting dating and the other being oblivious. Betas are still marinka and Swissmarg. Thank you!
Btw, the 221b I posted earlier, 'The Chase in the Underground' is a shorter version converted of a scene from the third chapter, so what you are going to read here is longer. I hope not too tedious.
Also – sorry it took me so long. RL is as hectic as always.
And now onward for the last chapter. :)
CHAPTER 3
…Or where it is going…
When Sherlock finally uncurls on the sofa the next day, his limbs feel awkward and it is getting dark again. He recalls Mrs Hudson coming twice trying to rouse him, but he paid her no mind. Now, though, he needs something to drink.
The next several hours he spends with his violin, and this time Mrs Hudson has to make three trips up to remind him that discordant notes are not music. The last time she also complains about her hip. It's at this point that Sherlock remembers to send Lestrade the text about the culprit.
Sherlock puts his violin away. His plan has crashed. Spectacularly. He knew that John would not react favourably to Sherlock displaying his feelings, but he never expected him to tear out of the flat as if devils were on his heels. Right now Sherlock isn't at all sure if he'll ever see John again. Certainly he'll never move back in. And suddenly Sherlock cannot stand staying here a minute longer – the hiding place John doesn't know about is mocking him full of false promises of oblivion. The solution would only take him… But no, he cannot fall back on that. Never on that.
There's only one obvious choice for now. Bart's.
oOo
"Sherlock!" he hears several hours later.
He doesn't answer nor look at Molly; his eyes are still glued to the microscope eyepiece.
She sighs. "It's past ten, Sherlock. I need to go home."
Sherlock grunts.
"And lock up." There's a pause. "Now?"
He knows that that's as assertive as Molly's going to get and he doesn't care. He grabs another sample.
"I'm calling John," she mutters.
"No!" Sherlock startles the both of them. "Fine. Fine, I'm going."
He gets his coat on before reaching the lifts.
It's chilly outside, but it doesn't register until much later. He moves through the streets telling himself he's on recon and recruiting, and actually does find out some potentially interesting information about a couple of people he likes to keep his eye on. At some point he notices that the pubs have probably been closed for a while and as he considers the average all-nighters disgusting, he keeps on walking.
Suddenly he finds himself outside of a stately white house with pillars, sharp-tipped fence and a top-notch security system. He debates trying to pick the lock, but in the end decides to ring the doorbell.
Mycroft, when he opens, looks vaguely worried. "Sherlock?"
"Were you asleep? I rang twice."
Mycroft's face turns into his default polite expression and he steps aside to let Sherlock in. "It's half four."
Sherlock isn't surprised. "You've got a spare room, I presume."
"Fire, explosion or flood?" Mycroft inquires with mild curiosity, moving up the stairs.
"You may stop the pretense. We both know that if anything happened at the flat you'd already know."
"Is everything all right with John?" Mycroft asks, his tone deceptively indifferent.
"Third from the left?" Sherlock gestures towards the door.
Mycroft nods and offers, "If you need anything…," but Sherlock steps into the guest room and closes the door.
The next day Sherlock only exits his room once he's sure Mycroft has left for work, and the house just before his brother's anticipated return. He spends the evening at a restaurant where he knows he can have some semblance of privacy.
At dusk, he returns to Baker Street. The windows are dim and stairs creak piteously. He walks up and is almost into his room when there's a noise. Sherlock raises his head.
"You've always had a knack for surprising me," he states.
John stands. "I'm sorry for intruding," he says politely. "It's late. I'll come back tomorrow."
"You know I won't sleep anyway." Sherlock puts the overhead lights on and John blinks.
"Oh? A case?"
Sherlock snorts bitterly. "Not really. How long-" He interrupts himself and makes himself glance at the form of his ex-flatmate. "You could have texted."
"I did."
"Oh." Sherlock takes out his phone. Six messages, three of them from John. "Sorry," he mutters, scrolling through them. He cancels the silent mode.
John clears his throat. "I actually came to apologise."
Sherlock doesn't answer. Apologise. That doesn't make sense.
"Yes, I…" John answers the unspoken question. "I left rather abruptly the other evening." He clears his throat again to elaborate, but Sherlock's had enough.
"Yes, well. That's fine. You were upset and so was I," he says briskly, busying himself with taking the coat off. "I understand. Was there anything else?" He strives for a polite tone, but he wants John gone. If he's not going to move back in, then Sherlock won't be staying either. He's going to gather his essentials and stay at a hotel for a few days. Or possibly some cheap bedsit, which is more in his price range at the moment. Or crash at Molly's - she wouldn't kick him out, would she?
In his peripheral vision he can see John swallowing rather painfully, and irrationally he feels something grip and squeeze his heart.
"Anatomically impossible," he mutters half-angrily.
"Sorry?"
Sherlock shakes his head to clear it. "It is I who should be apologising." His voice is strong but he cannot look at John. "I seem to be constantly intruding where I'm not wanted." He sees John's head tilt and eyebrows furrow. "I'm going to move out of here. So if you wish, you may move back in. Find another…" The idea of John living with anyone else is unbearable. "However, if you should decide to… move in with Mary. I… ask you to- Not here."
A part of him is appalled at his inability of formulating a sentence, but most of his brain seems to be otherwise occupied. Finally, Sherlock knows it's over. There's not a chance John will ever consent to share his living space with him now that he knows Sherlock is still in love with him.
"I… All right."
John's voice is tentative, and in the hope there will no additional questions Sherlock just nods. He's going to start packing as soon as John's out. He's-
"Why?"
Sherlock's gaze snaps at John. "Pardon?"
"I don't understand. Why would you move out? Because if it' about living alone... You can probably find someone else-"
"Right." It comes out more aggressively than he likes and he moves to the window to stare out of it. Maybe if he ignores him, John will just leave.
"But you love this flat!"
Apparently not. Sherlock tries to regulate his breathing, he closes his eyes, ignores the suffocating ball of dry heat for two seconds, but the pressure is too much, too much-too much-too-
"And I- I… feel like that about you too, but can't have you either," he says, breathing rapidly. He leans his head on the arm propped on the window frame. "In my mind you still live here. I cannot sit in either armchair, because in mine I can see you not sitting across from me, and in yours the whole perspective is just wrong. The post-its on the desk, see? You left them and they are not there because I rarely clean. I haven't been able to move anything you've left or even moved, John." He huffs, frustrated. "I know it's a stage of grief, you don't have to point it out, thank you." He swallows, his mouth set into a bitter grimace. "Sometimes I open the fridge to put something in there, and it bloody hurts, because I suddenly remember that you're not going to grumble about it, and sometimes I buy milk, though I never drink it." He pauses, and continues more calmly, "So you see, I cannot stay here."
Then Sherlock makes the mistake of turning around to lean on the windowsill. John is still standing in the same spot – frozen, looking at him, anguished, torn by some kind of inner doubt and all Sherlock can think is, I did that.
And then to Sherlock's utter shock John has tears in his eyes.
"You shouldn't say things like that. It might make one think…" John chokes out. "I don't understand. Is this some kind of experiment? A test? What? What exactly are you saying?"
A sudden bout of frustration mixed with hot searing anger spikes through Sherlock and he shouts, "Stop it! Stop. It. Now! This 'I don't understand' business. What is this complicated matter that you constantly fail to comprehend? Do you even know what love feels like?" He starts pacing. "I thought I was supposed to be emotionally stilted, not you! And stop looking so tortured!" he accuses, flailing with his hands wildly. "You know what it does to me, seeing you in so much pain because of me? I- I… God, John! I… How can you be hurt? That is what I don't understand. How can you be this hurt when it's me constantly being rejected!"
And Sherlock is so much out of his depth here because he has no idea how he manages to make John go from hurt to this angry so quickly.
"You utter bastard!" John hisses. "You're so… so. Selfish! You're so bloody self-absorbed that there is absolutely no way you know anything about love." He almost spits the word. "So if you would be so kind… and stopped talking about things you know nothing about."
For a moment the only thing Sherlock can do is to stare. Then his mouth twists. Forgetting his coat, he storms out of the flat and onto the street. He doesn't see the people or cars or buildings, he just pushes himself through the mass of something to get away, away, away.
oOo
Sherlock finally recognises his own idiocy somewhere between the trickling cold rain finding its way through his suit jacket and biting cold wind turning his bones numb. When a random duck from Regent's Park crosses his way, quacking at him accusingly, Sherlock decides to go back home. The chances of John still being there are slim and he can't turn up at his brother's twice. Not in his current state.
When he is out of the Park's gates a sleek black sedan stops at the kerb right in front of him. The door opens and he gets into the car. This is one of the rare instances when he's glad about Mycroft's aversion to legwork.
"Baker Street first. I need to change," he tells the driver.
But his ride does not turn towards his flat nor does it take him to any of Mycroft's workplaces. Instead, they pull up at the same private house where he spent the night previously. Brow furrowed, he gets out of the car.
"I've drawn you a bath upstairs. Your things are going to be here in an hour," is all his brother tells him when he opens his door.
Soaking in the tub, Sherlock cannot suppress the melancholy feeling that he's six again. He remembers playing where he shouldn't, stumbling on some loose boards and falling, remembers getting caught in the attic by his older brother because he couldn't stop crying, and Mycroft then applying a plaster to his banged-up knee instead of turning him in.
A part of him thinks that he should feel humiliated, but he doesn't, because it turns out to be natural to be taken care of by your big brother when you really need it and he's not trying to make you feel like an idiot.
"What did John tell you?" Sherlock asks later as they are sitting at the kitchen table with two cups of tea in front of them.
"Just that you might need a place to stay."
Sherlock nods. He doesn't have any illusions about Mycroft not knowing more than what he's been told, though.
"Are you going to tell me more?" the big brother enquires, his voice free of the usual patronising tone.
"Do I really need to? You have us under surveillance, don't you?"
Mycroft's facial expression doesn't change much, but Sherlock still sees Mycroft trying to hide his bewildered hurt. It seems surprisingly genuine.
"Just the outside. You don't think I've been actually listening in, do you?"
"Of course not," he amends. "But I don't think you have to." He leaves it at that and it's only several hours of violin playing later that they talk again.
oOo
Sent:
05:24 28/7/12 John Watson
Even if I am selfish, I do know about love. - SH
oOo
On the third day of his stay Sherlock has 'the talk' he's been anticipating.
"First, there is one thing I need you to know, Sherlock. Despite what you might think about me, I do care about your wellbeing. You're my little brother and since we didn't have that much of a father… You know I've always taken care of you and even when it has been in ways you have not appreciated, I've always done what I thought best."
Sherlock is so thrown off by his brother's startlingly honest expression that the only things that spring to mind are sarcastic comments, but luckily Mycroft continues before he can say anything.
"I know I've made mistakes and for them – whether you believe me or not - I am sorry. But you must admit that at least some of my reactions have been a direct result of your own actions. However… Right now, in spite of desperately wanting to tell you off for being the most pig-headed man amongst all the brilliant people I currently have the honour of knowing, I will not do so."
Sherlock blinks and waits. Mycroft sighs.
"I know it hasn't been exactly plain sailing for you; certainly not in your childhood and it seems that not recently either, but I would like to help you if you let me." He pauses. "First, is there anything, anything at all, you would like to talk to about?"
Sherlock stares at his brother intently, looking for clues to some kind of double meaning, but there is no hint of the usual mocking or attempts at manipulation. The apparent brotherly concern is baffling. Sherlock frowns, thinks of formulating a question, but then just shakes his head.
Mycroft answers Sherlock's searching gaze with his own and after a moment nods. "My second question is if there is anything practical that I can actually help with."
"It's strange seeing you so straightforward," Sherlock replies when feels that his brain is back again at its full capacity. "Are you sure you're all right?"
Mycroft's seriousness in tempered with slight amusement. "Yes, I'm pretty sure that I am. Thank you for your concern. And what about you?"
Sherlock's lips curl upwards. "Ah! There he is!"
"That you never fail to ignore plain inquiries and generally react favourably only to not so subtle manipulation is not my failing." There's a pause, but when Sherlock just keeps smiling at him, Mycroft continues, "Do you need me to be more subtle right now?"
"No." He doesn't say that Mycroft's uncharacteristic candour feels strangely comforting.
Mycroft nods. "So. Either then?" he asks after a while.
Sherlock turns serious. "No, thank you."
It is tempting to tell Mycroft about John's irrational behaviour, but his brother is only a third party to the situation. Uncharacteristically, his brother doesn't push for confessions.
"Fine. Allow me to impart a piece of advice then." Mycroft pauses and Sherlock already knows that he won't like what he's going to hear. "The advice is this - you should under no circumstances let your fear of intimacy interfere with what you have with John Watson."
Sherlock almost exhales in frustration, but refrains. There is nothing he wishes more than to tell Mycroft how inappropriate his advice is or how typical it is of him to simply assume that Sherlock is the one at fault again, or even just to say what an utter, complete crap he's spouting, but what comes out instead is a cold, "Yes, thank you."
"All right." His brother seems to have expected his reaction, and as Sherlock opens his mouth for a harsh retort, Mycroft interrupts him. "I have a case for you."
Surprised, Sherlock hears him out without saying a word and for almost six days and a half, he works. When he returns from Germany, he visits Lestrade and goes over several cases that had turned cold during his absence. This time around he can actually feel the pitying stares, and he still keeps checking his phone, although he knows that if John hasn't answered yet, there's little chance he will do so without further prompting.
oOo
Sent:
22:26 5/8/12 John Watson
I wish you'd explain it to me so that I could understand - SH
Sent:
01:13 6/8/12 John Watson
I've analysed the situation from all the angles I can think of and I'm still not seeing what exactly you are angry about. - SH
Sent:
01:32 6/8/12 John Watson
I know how slow you are at typing and you are not that slow. - SH
Sent:
01:35 6/8/12 John Watson
Just realised how late it was. Talk to you tomorrow? - SH
Sent:
14:31 6/8/12 John Watson
You've still not replied. Still angry or just thinking? I know you don't have a shift right now. - SH
Sent:
16:54 6/8/12 John Watson
You're a fair person, so I know you'd have already contacted me if you felt you were wrong. So I have to be, but I just don't see it. What did I say? I will apologise if you just explain it to me. - SH
Sent:
18:03 6/8/12 John Watson
John?
Sent:
02:24 7/8/12 John Watson
Either you're being unreasonable or I'm being absolutely dim, and we both know the latter is not possible. – SH
Sent:
02:26 7/8/12 John Watson
Are you drinking with Harry? - SH
Sent:
03:03 7/8/12 John Watson
It's late again. Though it seems it doesn't matter, you've either blocked me or turn your phone off every time I start texting. Talk to you tomorrow? - SH
Sent:
13:12 7/8/12 John Watson
I'm contemplating asking Molly for advice on it. – SH
13:13 7/8/12 John Watson
I'll have to tell her everything, you realise. - SH
Sent:
13:19 7/8/12 John Watson
Do you want me to ask Molly? Or Lestrade perhaps? - SH
Sent:
13:20 7/8/12 John Watson
Mycroft? - SH
Sent:
14:07 7/8/12 John Watson
If you don't get in touch before tomorrow, I'm talking to Molly. – SH
Sent:
18:44 7/8/12 John Watson
And I know you don't have a shift until Monday. - SH
oOo
Sherlock stops, panting. Hears distant footsteps and freezes. The footsteps come closer. Closer. Now they are somewhere farther back at the previous juncture, just behind him. Sherlock would prefer to run, but the other man has a gun and he will hear. Sherlock hasn't acquired a weapon for himself yet, because John was always there with him before to share the thrill of the chase. But now John's not here. And no gun and the echo of the heavy steps are quite close now.
Sherlock holds his breath.
Beep.
'Shit!' he thinks, but his assailant doesn't seem to have heard and Sherlock can't afford rustling in his coat to turn the phone off. The footsteps are just around the corner. Perhaps Sherlock has fooled him and he'll turn left now instead of right? But then he hears the second sets of footsteps. They are far off still, but there are two pursuers and two tunnels; would the other man have a gun too?
"You've seen him?" Sherlock hears just around the corner.
There's an answer in the negative, and Sherlock presses himself even deeper into the alcove. He wishes he'd contacted John for this particular adventure. He'd have come if Sherlock had said that he needed him. Probably.
And then there's a train. Finally! Sherlock runs in the wake of it to the next juncture and amid the lingering noise to the next, but the noise fades too soon and he can still hear the men running. They have fallen behind, though, and one set of footsteps is quickly fading away, but Sherlock hides in another alcove just in case.
It takes him two more trains to lose his pursuers altogether and reach a station to take a tube home.
He fishes out his mobile.
Received:
14:04 8/8/12 John Watson
All right. Let's talk. I can come over now if you like. - John
Sherlock grips the handrail as he stands in the shaking tube car.
Fine. You're fine. Everything's fine. Breathe. Just breathe.
Sent:
14:17 8/8/12 John Watson
I'll be there in twenty. – SH
When he arrives at Baker Street, John is standing at the flat door.
"You still have the keys," Sherlock can't help but snap.
"Yes, but it seemed kind of presumptuous-"
"All right. Fine." Sherlock strides up the stairs, into the room, removes his coat and sits on the sofa. "Well?"
John blinks. "Are you all right? You look…"
"I'm fine. Explain."
John nods and sits in his customary armchair. Seeing John there warms Sherlock, but then he remembers that it's no more than temporary charity and the suffocating feeling of resentment returns.
John opens his mouth. Closes it. "You're angry," he says then.
"Astute. You surprise me." He raises his eyebrows.
"I don't think I've ever seen you angry with me before. Is it because I ignored you for two days?"
"Two and a half." Sherlock grinds his teeth. "Now. I believe that you are here to explain to me, why my feelings mean less than yours."
John's eyes widen and for a second he's simply gaping. "I don't think I've ever even alluded to anything like that."
"Then I must have misunderstood. I remember telling you how I felt about staying in this place, and you accusing me of trying to experiment on you and then calling me selfish." John had also said that Sherlock didn't know what love was, but despite how much it had hurt at the time, he doesn't think that the words were meant as anything else than an angry insult.
"That's not- I was confused. You don't usually show how you feel and… I don't think that your feelings are less important, just that... They are different." Sherlock opens his mouth but John shakes his head. "Not important. That's not why I called you selfish." He visibly braces himself. "I called you selfish because as I understood at the time – and I might be wrong here, but that was how it sounded to me – it sounded as if you were implying that our current situation was hurting you more than it did me."
"But I did mean that. Do you disagree?" Sherlock asks, but then the knife is driven home because suddenly he understands, and it's all he can do not to double over in pain. This is not what he'd been expecting. Nothing even close.
"Are you all right?" he hears. Sherlock swallows, not looking at John. "Fine," he says after a long moment. "Fine. I understand perfectly now. Thank you for explaining."
It's an effort to stand up, pick up his coat and put it on. Every movement seems to hurt. He still cannot look at John.
"Sherlock? You look grey. What is it?"
Sherlock's at the door, but somehow John's already there. He reaches to touch Sherlock's cheek.
"Don't!" Sherlock staggers back. "What do you think you're doing? Don't you dare touch me!" He goes for the other door through the kitchen, but John is there too.
"Wait! Sherlock, what's wrong? Oh, sodding-"
Somehow Sherlock is being manhandled back on the sofa. He feels dizzy and sick and hot. John is sitting near him on the sofa, not touching him, with a mix of frustration and concern all over his face. Sherlock looks away.
"Thank you for everything, John. It's probably best if you leave."
John grabs his hand.
"You don't mean just for right now, do you?" He sounds a bit desperate and a tiny part of Sherlock revels in satisfaction. "Is this a goodbye, Sherlock? After all we've been through together you're finally making me go?"
Sherlock feels past crying, but has to swallow back a sob anyway. "You just practically told me that you don't think I am even capable of any deep feeling. Of love. If you really meant that… Then I don't blame you for moving out."
"Oh. But…" John sounds confused. "I didn't really mean it like that. It's just that. In this situation here, I don't think-"
"You don't think." Sherlock does the impossible and looks his former flatmate right in the eye. "You don't think I can love you? How is that any better?"
"I suppose it isn't, but… But you have to admit that what you are calling love right now is probably a bit closer to friendship than what-"
"Friendship? You're calling it friendship! If that's what you really think then I don't see the problem at all – if we both have friendly feelings for each other, where's the disparity that was supposed to be hurting you?"
Sherlock jumps up and starts pacing.
"Where do you get off telling me I cannot possibly be in love with you, when that first time we talked about it, you claimed to have noticed that my feelings for you had changed several months ago? Even before I knew!" He turns to look at John, who's now staring at him, mouth slightly open. "You were the one that used the word 'love' to describe my condition. You were the one that gave a name to my overwhelming need for you." His mouth twists and he turns away. "And I didn't mind. I told you I didn't. It was never about you loving me back. I know I'm not very… And I don't expect you to start now either, so..." He shrugs, helpless.
John seems to be frozen as if something about Sherlock loving him is clearly too horrible to contemplate. It hurts, by God it hurts, but Sherlock's been delicate long enough and now it's time to get it all out.
"I told you I was perfectly happy with being your friend. And I had stopped disrupting your dates. Mostly. When I saw that it really bothered you." He shrugs and has to swallow because now comes the hard part. "And I still don't understand… What is so terrible about me loving you that you had to move out?"
He shuts up, but not because he's finally made his case, but because now John seems to have reached some kind of conclusion and is looking at Sherlock with a face full of pure horror.
"You… love me?" John chokes as if it's such a shocking revelation.
"Yes, of course," Sherlock barks impatiently. "You already know that. You said you couldn't live with the disparity, remember?"
Slowly, so very slowly John's head moves towards the window, but his eyes do not leave Sherlock's. Then equally slowly his head moves all the way back to the left, and only when the movement continues to the right again, Sherlock realises that John is actually shaking his head.
"Noo…" John draws the word out. "No." His head stops moving to stare at Sherlock as if he's never seen him before.
"No?" He frowns because John's eyes have started glowing with awe and happiness and it makes even less sense than everything else.
"No." John's headshake is normal now. "What you are actually telling me right now is that when I talked to you about the 'disparity' you thought I was talking about you being in love with me?"
Sherlock blinks and suddenly the gears in his brain halt and start turning the other way. New route. Impossible route. Impossible truth. Wonderful truth. Obvious solution. His eyes widen.
"I'm such an idiot," he whispers his voice full of wonder.
"No, I am the idiot," John says. "You are socially challenged." He stands abruptly. "I should have…"
"Talked more plainly. Yes." Sherlock is grinning now, wanting to step closer, but being for some reason unable to.
"I was trying to be delicate," John explains, stands up, but is also apparently stuck where he is. "Well, in all honesty, you could have talked straight too. You usually do."
"I was caught unawares. You said you were leaving me." He can't stop grinning.
"Right. And I thought that you were just a brain with a transport." John stuffs his hands in his pockets.
Sherlock winces. "Yes, that's the usual spiel I give when people are coming on to me."
"But I wasn't coming on to you!" John exclaims indignantly.
"You weren't?"
"No!" John's answer is quite emphatic and Sherlock wonders how he always keeps misreading him.
Then he feels John's arm snake around Sherlock's waist and he's drawn closer. John stops smiling quite so wide and looks him in the eye, then at his lips. "I'm going to kiss you now, is that okay?"
Sherlock blinks. "I… don't know." Thankfully, John seems to be done with being delicate and leans in. Sherlock's heart beat picks up even more as John's lips touch the corner of his mouth.
It's… different, better, exhilarating and for the first time in his life Sherlock understands what the exchange of saliva is actually supposed to achieve, and then for a while there's no thinking at all.
The End
You can hear the wind, but you don't know where it comes from or where it is going.
-John 3:8
AN: Thank you for reading. I hope no one is disappointed.