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staycalmstaycalmstaycalm.
He blew air in and out of his cheeks, trying to force off the world that pressed too close for comfort. I find it difficult, he had said. The walls of the tube car were fuzzy, sliding in and out of focus. John blinked. A breeze of sand whipped across his cheeks, burrowing in the sharp bristles of his hair. Another blink. The harsh sunlit sky burned, scarring his vision with blinding streaks, then faded. The air was tight, hot — too hot. I find it difficult, this sort of stuff. He clenched his teeth, gave his head a stern shake as if to throw out the memories that threatened to choke him. Not here. Not now.
He met Sherlock's eyes. They were going to die. Sherlock and John were going to die. Sherlock and John and dozens of politicians and God knows who else. Sherlock's face floated before him, unusually passive with quiet desperation. I can't do it, John.
Fuck.
His fists curled, his shoulders squared, bracing against the inevitable. He tried to inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, fighting to breathe. It felt like an iron hand gripped his throat, choking him. He pushed against the sensation, trying to reclaim some of his breath.
Fuck!
He was lost. Shouts rang in his ears. Boots thumped rhythmically into the distance. Please God, let me live. Please.
The glow of the timer danced, ticking down obediently. Red. Blink. Red. Blink. Red. His vision pulsed, flickered. Stop it now. Come on, stop it. Acquiescence beckoned, tendrils of remembrance pulling him back. His eyelids slammed shut eagerly, his chest rose sharply and-
Release. His mind flooded with light.
guns ghosts gurneys bombs bullets blood leg live limp
Watson, Watson, John Hamish Watson
run and stumble touch and go up and over
a burst of pain that alights by his clavicle and burrows into him, an explosion, the hiss of a sparkler too near, the waves of petrol that engulf him-
John was thrust back into the present. His eyes squinted, opened in confusion, still dazzled by flecks of the Afghan landscape. His legs went weak, and he clutched the poles near him to protect himself from the bitter reality that he returned to. Reluctantly, his head lifted and his vision took purchase, bringing the dark-haired man before him into focus. The remnants melted away, distant, going, gone. The man was laughing. No, Sherlock was laughing. A rush of air filled John's lungs and he hungrily plucked fresh breaths out of the brisk air before him. He was safe, he was here, he was fine because Sherlock was laughing.
At first John thought it was a bet-he-wasn't-a-very-good-cabbie kind of laugh. But, unlike bet he wasn't a very good cabbie, John hadn't said anything remotely funny. In fact, as the situation clicked back into place, he knew it was far from a light-hearted predicament. So, what? His thoughts whirred slowly into motion, like a waterwheel through molasses. Then it was a people-will-talk kind of giggle, that nervous outburst after trauma, that relief of we're safe, that broken tension of things past. But the eyes weren't right, the contortions around the mouth weren't right. Something was very wrong.
A blinking movement caught his wandering attention and his gaze slipped over. 1:29- 28- 29- 28- 29- 28-
Comprehension slowly washed over him and settled uncomfortably in his chest.
I thought we were dead, I thought my fiancé would have to live without me, I thought these were my last words so I tried to make them last. The real please god let me live. Except it was of course I forgive you because they'd put up a bloody good fight hadn't they, and it was time to accept defeat, accept that it was yes now. I thought, I thought, I thought. I thought I was somewhere else Sherlock because it's difficult for me Sherlock. It's difficult, except while you observe instead of look, you fail to listen instead of hear. I thought we were going to die and countless others with us because neither of us knew what to do with a bloody bomb. For all the lives I saved, that would have been no use because I wasn't in bomb disposal. I went in to heal but should have tried to fix. I thought I had failed to save them. Failed to save us.
He could have said all that, but he didn't. Instead he just choked out, 'You-' and stopped short. There were no words to describe it.
John's ears passed on snippets of sound, your face, and had you and- things broke into pieces after that because he was very, very, very angry.
His body tensed against the icy silence, his eyes hardened into a steely look. He felt, as the expression goes, chilled to the bone. Because for all that Sherlock had ever done to him, John never expected something like this. He was just- just a game to be played by Sherlock, to be toyed around with. Just a fucking jester to laugh at.
Finally, Sherlock's laughter eased and he noticed. Noticed the expression - or lack thereof - on his blogger's face. Sherlock's own expression slacked and fell off. Not good?
John wondered if this was what shock really felt like, or if this was what not-taking-any-more-of-Sherlock's-shit felt like, or something else entirely. Fuck. He couldn't think straight; his thoughts were still a jumbled haze of gunpowder, treason, plot. t-t-t-t, t-t-t-t, t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t. Echoes pounded in his skull, an insistent reminder of his past.
At last, something pierces his stupor: a hesitant word, filled to the brim with uncertainty. 'John?'
A word tinged with the beginnings of remorse, shaking with a plea for understanding. For forgiveness. Ha.
'What's wrong?'
John dared to look him in the eyes and saw nothing but a heartless man whom he thought was his friend. If John could, he would laugh now. Best and wisest man- best and wisest- bestandwisest bestandwise- He wished he could take back that praise now, clutch them close to his chest and take them back with him to not-221B so he would never, ever be betrayed again by the- the selfish man before him. The man who suddenly looked very small and sorry. But two minutes ago, that very man looked just as small and sorry and yet. And yet. Lies. Manipulation. Fury took hold of John by the shoulders and spun him around.
'John, wait-'
He didn't wait. Instead, he let himself be led away by his heart, his closely-held heart, which pulled him north, far from the man John thought he knew. Now John knew he was stupid, foolish to think he would mean anything to Sherlock Holmes, as stupid and foolish as the very Holmes treated John to be. The man who, John thought, cared for his wellbeing. The man who demanded Are you okay?
Sherlock, by the pool, with the Browning L9A1. In this new light, what remained now of that memory was Sherlock craving assurance that he did no wrong, to free him of the guilt that he might have put another human into danger. Because the great Sherlock Holmes could do no wrong, except when he does, and does catastrophically. Selfish.
He was so intent on just getting out that he failed to catch the rustle of coat and the billow of a sleeve raised to catch him. A tug on his coat. He bristled with irritation and shrugged it off violently. A startled shuffle of shoes flashed behind him. John pushed his way through the gap in the doors, ignoring the stab in his shoulder as he grazed past. Another plea came out, but he pressed onwards, landing on the ground with a short exhale, so overwhelmed that he barely caught himself from lunging into the live tracks. He heard no more rustles and deduced — yes, John could do it too — that Sherlock was not about to follow him.
The silence was deafening, broken only by the occasional whine of wind in the tunnels, reminding John that he had somewhere else to be. A warm flat, with no place for Sherlock Holmes. Good riddance.
And, because the occasion warranted some finality, he said: 'Goodbye, Sherlock'. His voice shook, but with anger, not sorrow.
With that, he marched home, the lonely beam of his flashlight his only companion.
If Sherlock looked small before, he is but a speck of dust now.