Sherlock sobs into John’s shoulder, unable to control himself.
“It’s just a scratch,” John repeats helplessly.
If only Sherlock could explain that these pathetic, uncontrollable tears are shed not for the stupid scratch he’d obtained during another unsanctioned experiment, but for all the other times when it hurt and John wasn’t around—and for the future times when John will be away again.
Please, please, let him stay some more. If only for a short while.
If Mycroft were around, he would have noticed Sherlock’s deception right away, but Mycroft only comes now and then to play a game of Operation with his mentally sick brother and talk to John in a hushed voice—and thus considers his brotherly duty fulfilled. Until Mycroft appears on the scene again, Sherlock can still have John all to himself. He knows it’s cheating—and John will discover the truth some day, one way or another. But he’ll leave anyway, won’t he, now that Sherlock is able to cope on his own.
It’s such a devastating prospect, coping on his own.
If Sherlock could miraculously turn things back, he would have selfishly preferred to return to what he’d had just a few days ago. An eternal childhood with John by his side.
Sherlock has never thought that he’d want something like this, and so desperately, like his life will be dull and meaningless otherwise. When John leaves, he’ll have to fill his head with puzzles, lots and lots of them, in order to forget what he’d suddenly found and then lost: the feeling of being loved—not because he deserved it, not because he was bright and elegant and enigmatic, and also good at solving crimes, but for no reason at all. He’d felt enveloped in affection and cared for, but it had to come to an end sooner or later. Only children can have that. John must have found temporary oblivion in looking after him so devotedly, but it’s time for him to start his own life anew.
“John,” Sherlock mutters into the soft wool of John’s worn-out jumper.
“Hm?”
“It’s me. The real me.” And he adds hastily before the courage leaves him, “Since Friday. I’m sorry. I just… I just wanted you to stay.”
He pauses in horror, waiting for John to push him away, repulsed at the thought that he’s been listening to the wailing of a grown-up man, not a boy. Rationally, Sherlock knows that he should back off, give John some space, but his fingers dig into John’s jumper despite his will. He can’t let go. Just a few seconds more. Just a few seconds until he sees John’s face, angry, indignant.
It feels like an unexpected, undeserved bliss when he realizes that John’s hand continues stroking his tousled hair. “Shh, it’s all right,” John says. His voice is a bit shaky, like he’s fighting tears too. “It’s all right now. I’m here.”
Fill: Little Liar (2/2)
“It’s just a scratch,” John repeats helplessly.
If only Sherlock could explain that these pathetic, uncontrollable tears are shed not for the stupid scratch he’d obtained during another unsanctioned experiment, but for all the other times when it hurt and John wasn’t around—and for the future times when John will be away again.
Please, please, let him stay some more. If only for a short while.
If Mycroft were around, he would have noticed Sherlock’s deception right away, but Mycroft only comes now and then to play a game of Operation with his mentally sick brother and talk to John in a hushed voice—and thus considers his brotherly duty fulfilled. Until Mycroft appears on the scene again, Sherlock can still have John all to himself. He knows it’s cheating—and John will discover the truth some day, one way or another. But he’ll leave anyway, won’t he, now that Sherlock is able to cope on his own.
It’s such a devastating prospect, coping on his own.
If Sherlock could miraculously turn things back, he would have selfishly preferred to return to what he’d had just a few days ago. An eternal childhood with John by his side.
Sherlock has never thought that he’d want something like this, and so desperately, like his life will be dull and meaningless otherwise. When John leaves, he’ll have to fill his head with puzzles, lots and lots of them, in order to forget what he’d suddenly found and then lost: the feeling of being loved—not because he deserved it, not because he was bright and elegant and enigmatic, and also good at solving crimes, but for no reason at all. He’d felt enveloped in affection and cared for, but it had to come to an end sooner or later. Only children can have that. John must have found temporary oblivion in looking after him so devotedly, but it’s time for him to start his own life anew.
“John,” Sherlock mutters into the soft wool of John’s worn-out jumper.
“Hm?”
“It’s me. The real me.” And he adds hastily before the courage leaves him, “Since Friday. I’m sorry. I just… I just wanted you to stay.”
He pauses in horror, waiting for John to push him away, repulsed at the thought that he’s been listening to the wailing of a grown-up man, not a boy. Rationally, Sherlock knows that he should back off, give John some space, but his fingers dig into John’s jumper despite his will. He can’t let go. Just a few seconds more. Just a few seconds until he sees John’s face, angry, indignant.
It feels like an unexpected, undeserved bliss when he realizes that John’s hand continues stroking his tousled hair. “Shh, it’s all right,” John says. His voice is a bit shaky, like he’s fighting tears too. “It’s all right now. I’m here.”