Chapter 6: Stupid Analogies

Summary:

It is easier not to talk about things. The important things, at least. Something about gift apples—or was it horses?—stupid analogies, Sherlock thinks. When you find yourself suddenly getting what you want, do you ask why or how?

The first three or four times, having John along on cases proved to be quite refreshing and illuminating. John was a comforting, quiet presence at his side. It was John, after all, who pointed out the missing button from a certain librarian's shirt (quite new, obviously met someone and was planning to go out on a date, only to meet her untimely end at the hands of a bitter undergrad) and the sliced-off human testicle dangling from a fisherman's hook (don't ask), which led to the expedient conclusion of cases. He had quite the knack for identifying things missing or in places where they should not be. It was not unlike having a teacher or a mentor along, patiently guiding you through your deductions and walking you through your conclusions. He lays down questions at every crime scene almost by rote: and where did he go? And what did he do? And what can we conclude about the unmended hemline of her favorite dress? Sherlock remembers one of his favorite books as a child, an early scholarly treatise from which he had learnt the basics of the science of deduction. He felt as if he were four years old again, or five, sitting near the toasty warmth of the fireplace in the library, curled up in his blanket on the couch, and John in front of him, reading this book aloud to him, a steady, reliable guide. It seemed as though nothing had changed after all.

Nothing had changed indeed. John was as cautious and risk-averse as ever. He would vehemently refuse to allow Sherlock to take any risks as well. He would simply shake his head, a severe look on his face, and cross his arms on his chest. This works the first few times because Sherlock, after all, is still afraid, still very much learning to proceed with caution on balancing this peculiar arrangement, even as the constant headshakes of disapproval and even the gratingly repetitive guidance through his deductions appear to him as more condescending than encouraging.

There comes a day, eventually, when he can no longer keep silence, when the constant hand-holding stops being a comfort and evolves into a nuisance. It does not help that he is still getting strange looks from people when he enters the crime scene, skull in hand. One would think they would be used to it by now. As if he couldn't help it, Anderson mutters beneath his breath about loose nuts and insane asylums and wonder how the Met could have sunk so low. Sherlock ignores him and proceeds up the attic. He sees the man run along the alley and is just about to jump from the third story to the roof below when a soft, familiar voice stops him.

"Sherlock."

"We have to catch him!" he answers impatiently.

"So call the inspector. Tell him where he went. You can extrapolate from here, can't you? What are mobile phones and constables and their cars for?"

"It's much faster this way."

"It isn't and you know it. You just want to be the hero, don't you? Solve the puzzle for yourself? Just ask for the help that you need and let the police do their job."

"They don't half know how to do their jobs. Now come along, we're wasting time!"

John stood his ground. "If you go, you leave that behind," he said, pointing to the skull at Sherlock's hand.

"Why?"

John sighs, the weary, indulgent sigh of a parent who is about to explain an oft-repeated rule. "Because, it isn't safe. You know this. Remember what happened last time?"

Sherlock cannot help it. Cannot help but finally lash out, after all this time of keeping it inside. "Which last time? Are you referring to the times when I got into accidents as a child? Because if you noticed, I am a grown man. You can't leave and come back decades later and expect to keep taking care of the same child you abandoned years ago."

He wants John to be angry, to match his escalated tone word for word. That was never John's style, however. He looks back at Sherlock, irritatingly calm, and says, "If you wish to keep pursuing that criminal, you best hurry. But kindly leave that behind."

Going into one of his moods again, is he? Well, Sherlock thought savagely, let's see how he enjoys being the one left behind this time.

About a week passes before John comes back. While this also coincides with DI Lestrade delivering some items he left behind in his hurry to chase after the criminal, Sherlock still counts John's momentary absence for what it is. A stew. A sulk.

John sits in the red armchair by the window and stares calmly back at Sherlock. Sherlock relents.

They go back to the old, stiflingly neutral territory. After all, it is easier not to talk about things. The important things, at least. Something about gift apples—or was it horses?—stupid analogies, Sherlock thinks. When you find yourself suddenly getting what you want, what you have wanted and wished for and made unbelievable promises to unknown mystical beings for, when you finally get it—do you ask why or how?

They never talk about why John left. And if or when he intends to leave again. Sherlock is still too afraid to ask, too afraid of what the answer will be.

Naturally, he refuses to tell anyone about John. No matter how many times Lestrade raises his eyebrows at the skull. No matter how many looks, curious and timid, Molly sneaks at it in the lab. Not even to Mycroft. Especially not to Mycroft.

But Mycroft, the nosy git, finds out anyway.

His brother's subsequent visit is short and to the point.

"Brother dear," he says in the tone he takes when he is trying to soften a blow, "You cannot seriously believe that this trinket of yours has brought you back your old… friend."

Sherlock ignores him, choosing instead to continue staring at the mouldy grey ceiling, occasionally sneaking glances at the experiment he had just put on hold. Mycroft always insisted on 'having a proper civilized conversation,' which meant that whenever he came round, Sherlock had to stop whatever else he had been doing and either sit or lie in a chair while Mycroft either gave a sermon or tried to interrogate.

"Sherlock. Surely by now you realize you are simply too old for this."

Whatever he had to say, Sherlock had already anticipated and prepared to ignore. He tried not to look at the direction of the skull, perched in the corner of the windowsill. That was another thing he had to deal with altogether. But later.

"You should be grateful I do not intend to report any of this to Mummy."

An effective hit, and Sherlock snaps to attention and sits up. "Go ahead," he sneers. "Apart of spying on people, that was the only thing you were ever really good at. This is not any of your business, Mycroft."

"Why don't we—"

"—and don't you dare suggest I get any 'help' for this. I have had enough of your kindnesses. I am not a child anymore."

The stern look his brother was giving him turned into a sad one. "My point precisely." He stands up and leaves, but not without a cursory nod to the skull by the windowsill.

"He's probably right, you know. Maybe you are too old for this."

"Shut up."

"If you'd just—"

"Shut up!" Sherlock bolted from his seat, suddenly looming over John. "You—you left me, for years and years—even when—especially when I really needed you. You owe me. You owe me this so shut. Up."

John frowns, "I thought it might help, my being here again, but clearly it has not." He takes silent, measured steps toward the door. Sherlock thunders after him.

"Where do you think you're going? Do you intend to keep doing this? You cannot keep disappearing when the conversation becomes too uncomfortable for you!" Sherlock keeps shouting even when he can see neither John nor his silhouette down the stairs. "Well if you were going to keep doing this, you shouldn't have bothered coming back at all!"

No more denial. No more bargaining. Sherlock jumps straight to anger. What was the point of all of this—of John returning, of the awkward balancing act and walking on eggshells—for things to simply come to such a head?

Well, frankly, he was tired of it. Who was this now-stranger anyway, that Sherlock had to bend over backwards to accommodate him and his moods, his feelings, whatever his conditions were for staying? Of what use was it to Sherlock to allow this to go further, to allow childish sentiment to cloud his judgement and make him keep doing ridiculous things. Skulls in crime scenes indeed.

He looks around the cramped, stuffy, hateful flat, pacing, throwing around whatever is in reach, looking for something big enough to destroy.

The half-abandoned experiment looks gleaming and attractive. Sherlock approaches with eyes lit up in manic glee.

Little more than an hour later, Sherlock sits on the pavement, fingers steepled under this chin. No one in the busy, harried throng of residents of Montague Street—neither the ones reeling from the unexpected fire nor those simply looking over the gossip, seemed to notice the man sitting calmly in front of this place he would clearly not miss, eyes ablaze with cold triumph, watching everything burn.