Work Text:
Author’s Note: Pronouns in italics (except for those in the flashback) are meant to indicate/refer to the caller. Otherwise, it’s all related to John Watson himself.
English is not my native language, so corrections are greatly appreciated.
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“Hello, John.”
“…”
“John.”
“…”
“Come on, John, say something. I can hear you breathing. Obviously, you can hear me, so it’s about time you said something.”
“What you do want?” Rage clogs up his throat, strangling him, reducing his voice to almost-whisper. “How… how did you find me?”
All these years, years of silence, of quiet filled with endless guesses, indignation, questions he never got to ask, answers he never got to hear; years of elusive hope that he got over it, let it go, cooled down, stopped hurting… and look at him, the past comes rushing back and washing over him, and all it takes is one tiny sound of the voice he once used to love and half-forgot by now. It knocks the air out of his lungs and thoughts out of his mind. Unfair, ill-placed, painful reflex.
“Oh, this one is easy. I have never truly let you out of my sight.”
And there's that stupid habit of his again, ignoring the questions he deems not worthy answering. It’s familiar and predictable – had always been, really – but it grates on his nerves all the same. Even now.
It’s getting harder to breathe. Fury washes over him in bloody red waves. Suffocates him.
“But– But you– It was you to–”
“I know, John.”
“Then, why are you–"
“I had my reasons.”
There is something about the slightest tinge in that low interrupting voice, something that could be easily taken as a hint of– regret? bitterness? repentance? – but believing such a grand manipulator is a mistake he used to make far too often.
“Oh, I don’t doubt that.” Poisoned, his words hit like a harsh slap. “It’s a pity though you didn’t bother articulating them for me. Oh but wait, you actually never did.”
“I made a mistake back then.” The words are so quiet they almost don’t exist.
Oh sure, him admitting his mistakes… he’d rather die. What to say about offering an apology; this is just unheard of.
“What, you want me to sympathize with you now?” He can be ruthless too.
“…”
“Well, good, now that we’ve cleared things up–”
“Wait, John. My, what a short temper, just like before. Have you been this explosive all your life? Dear God..."
“I’m going to ask you one last time. What. Do you. Want.”
“Do I really need a reason to call you?” Tiny teasing, mocking undertones dance in his innocent voice. “Aren't we friends after all, John? Close, very close friends.”
That’s a low blow. Quite like him, actually.
Inside, he vibrates with a desire to lash back, but his voice stays calm and steady when he says, “We were. You decided you didn’t need that. What the hell, you… you just went and cut it all on your own!”
“Oh John. Why, always so emotional. Easy, easy now.” And suddenly, his voice sounds harsher, gaining oh so familiar intimacy, “Hush, John.”
“Hush, John." A sweet pain he's been craving for so long, soft hot lips on his mouth. Bright watchful eyes above him – and affection, and astonishment, and contentment, and gratitude there – and a quiet long kiss he melts into. Shattering, overwhelming tenderness, and, for the first time in his life, he wants, he yearns to lose himself in him completely. “Shh, it’s fine now, I’ve got you, you’re fine, it’s over now.”
“Good Lord, what a surprise,” languorous, smug satisfaction seeps into his voice. “Who would have thought, after all I’ve done, you are still–”
“Still what?” The words come out in an alarmed, warning roar.
“Still mine, John. Your reaction is invaluable. You give yourself away completely.”
Fury recedes like ebbing tide. Madness dissipates like foam on the tips of melting waves.
“Are you laughing?” Puzzlement and irritation on the other end interweave intricately. “Did I say something funny? …Damn it, John, what are you laughing at there?”
“Ha-ha… haa. Oh dear me. Hilarious. So this is why you are calling me, isn’t it? Couldn’t hold back anymore? I wonder why now, though. Why not earlier? There had been others, you know. Before him.”
“Others.” Vague bitterness sets off a scornful sniff. “‘Others’ didn’t stand a single chance. What you have with him, it’s… different.” His voice hitches for a heartbeat, no longer. No one else would have noticed.
‘Different’. What a weird synonym for ‘love’.
“And so you… Right.”
Serenity, clarity, and steeling strength descend upon him all of a sudden. The heavy burden, an unbearable weight he had been carrying on his shoulders all these years is suddenly gone, smashed to pieces, granting him freedom at last.
“John–“
“No, seriously, look… do you really have not a slightest idea about me, even after all these years?”
“Oh, I’ve studied you very well. Once you give your heart away you become utterly devoted and blindly faithful. Ready to go through fire and water for the sake of the one you love. Foolish and irrational behaviour, although I have to admit I find it partly fascinating. As much as I find so your persistent consistency.”
“Not bad.” What’s the point in denying the obvious? “However, you're too quick to jump to conclusions.”
“…Oh please. You can’t be serious. No, really? To love again? To trust someone else? To confide yourself to another person? After all you’ve been through in the past?”
“And whose fault is that that I’ve got all this past now, tell me, won’t you?”
“Oh come on, John, can’t you see? You can't have it with him, it’s impossible.”
“Not less than it was with you.”
“He wouldn’t be able to appreciate your feelings properly.”
“Yeah, well, it won’t be too different then. You two have surprisingly much in common.”
“He would leave you too had he decided his too strong attachment became an unaffordable weakness. Vulnerability. A cage.”
“Well, you’ve got nothing to worry about, then, have you?”
“…”
“You know, it baffles me how you being the genius you are overlooked such a simple thing. I don’t care if he lies to me, ignores me or hurts me. I’m doing this not for the sake of reciprocity. This is just me, me loving him, can’t you see? I love him for him. I just… can’t not to.”
“I… know what it feels like, John.”
Something inside his chest jerks towards these small, reserved words, this untypical, strange tone, but the moment fades, leaving him with just one possible reply, “Thank you.” And he could never be more sincere in his life.
“John. Look, if–”
“No. Don’t. Thank you, but – no. And… don’t call me anymore, Jim.”