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“Sherrrrrlooockkkk.” You’re slouched in your chair, where you finally settled after your breakdown. I had to lure you with scotch.
It’s the fifth time you’ve said my name in two minutes. Are you just happy you can say it again, or are you trying to ask me something but are too drunk to remember you’ve said my name already? It’s hard to tell with you. I can read most people in a matter of minutes, but not you. Especially not drunk you. Drunk you never says or does what I expect.
You’re beyond drunk at this point. That bottle was mostly full when you started. It’s over half gone now. You must have exceptional metabolism, for a man your size to still even be slightly coherent. Well, still upright at least. Well, mostly upright…ish. I should probably take the bottle away from you. It would not do for you to get alcohol poisoning now. We can’t risk a visit to A&E, even with Moran being an idiot.
You’re muttering to yourself. I can’t stop my smile. You’re here. You’re home. You’re my home. I could stare at you for days. I’ve already been staring far too long. You’re distracting me. But I can’t help it. You say my name, and I just have to look at your face. To see that you can see me. No more having your eyes glide past mine with no recognition. You see me now. I’m real to you again.
I’m still not sure how you missed my clues. You should have had at least an inkling of my return. Even you aren’t that unobservant. It’s something else then. Denial? Yes, denial makes sense. As distasteful as it is to admit it, Mycroft might have been right. Bloody Mycroft. Don’t tell him I said he was right. I forced you to hope, and you had to deny it or it would drive you mad. That almost makes me feel a bit better. The knowledge that even a tiny spark of hope that I’m still alive was too much for you to take. You didn’t want to be crushed if that hope turned out to be false. I must be somewhat special to you then.
How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth? But no, it seems you still haven’t gotten that one through your thick skull.
Seriously? I’m pretty sure that idea is beyond Drunky McShitfaced here even when he’s not completely inebriated.
Ugh. The John that took over my mind palace while I was away from you. I thought I deleted him. I don’t need him anymore.
Well, apparently you do, because I’m still here. Hi.
He waves at me from the crouched position where he appears to be checking on his doppelganger. No. He is your doppelganger.
We’re twinsies, I get it. I like seeing you confused.
I’m not confused.
“Love it when you talk to me for hours.” Who are you talking to? I only barely catch the words, you’re speaking so softly. Are you dreaming? No, your eyes are open, and you’re not snoring. I’m not speaking, so you can’t be talking about me. Right?
You’re the only other person in the room, mate. Well, the only one he can see, at least. Your doppelganger, still trying to horn in.
Go away.
“Beautiful hands,” you mutter. You are indeed staring at my hands. I know you’re fascinated by them. You talked about them often enough in your book and in the Strand stories. Are they really beautiful? I think my fingers are too long. Makes for good violin playing, but I don’t find them nearly as interesting as you apparently do. You’re gazing at them as if they’re the best thing you’ve ever seen. I should put you to bed. You’ll get a crick in your neck if you fall asleep in your chair. Well, let me see how cogent you are. You keep saying my name. Will you acknowledge me?
“Yes, John.” I hold in a laugh. Your gaze has finally swung from my hands to my face. Good. You aren’t too far gone. Well, I say that, but I’m not sure you realize you’re mumbling. Again.
What? Something about breaking the things you love. Not sure where that came from, but it seems to be true. I think I might have broken you. I’ve never seen you drink this much. Not even after my fall. You were a zombie then, no alcohol needed. I’m not quite sure how my love broke you. It was my love that kept you alive. And if anyone was broken by the separation, wouldn’t it be me, the lover?
I thought you were fine, after the fall. Sad, yes, but surviving. I worried in the beginning, when you were in that sad, grey flat, but then you started writing again. You met Mary. You got on with life. A completely different life than ours was, but a life nonetheless. I thought you were happy.
Of course, I also thought you’d realized I had come back, but I was wrong about that, too. How is it that so much of myself is focused on you, but you make the least sense to me of any person I’ve met? Is my love clouding the view? Of course. I’ve always known that sentiment obscures. Here’s the proof. If I knew what was good for me, I’d clean up this mess with Moran, then do a runner. But I can’t do that. If my fall broke you this much last time, what would happen if I left you a second time?
I can’t stop thinking about your face after you punched me. Still aching by the way, thanks for that. I would’ve taken a thousand punches if it would have made you feel better. I never want to see that look on your face again. Anger and pain and helplessness and loss.
No, I won’t think about it. I’d finish off that Scotch if I didn’t still have work to do. Not that it would help. It’s obviously not helped you. I mean, the look is gone. You’re being a bit silly now, but I know the pain is still there. Hiding. Will you punch me again, when you’re sober? I’ll let you. I meant it. A thousand times, if that’s what it takes. I want you to be happy again. Tell me how to make you happy, John.
“Strong,” you mutter. Who? Me? You? The scotch? Probably the scotch. “Hit you. Lifetime ago. I’d rather kiss you.”
Wait. What? Who are you talking to? Are you having an imaginary conversation with Mary? You broke it off with her. Have you forgotten, in your inebriated state? Please don’t go back to Mary. I know I said I would be fine seeing you once a month, but I lied. I’m a liar, you know that. Now that you’re back in my life, in our sitting room, you can’t leave. Please.
“Tooooo many cloooooothes.”
Oh no. You’re not one of those people who streaks when they get drunk, are you? I don’t remember hearing anything about that before. No, you’re not trying to remove any of your own, though you are rubbing pretty hard at a splotch of Scotch you spilled on your jeans earlier.
I mean you, Sherlock.
No. Of course not. You’re not even cognizant enough to realize I’m in the room.
Are you kidding? I’ve been staring at your lips for at least a minute now, and I’m pretty sure the look on my face is one reserved for starving people.
“Too far.”
See? I’m staring straight at you. Look at my face.
But. You don’t. You’ve never. I’m a machine to you, not the object of your affection. Yes, your book and story dedications were always “To S, with love,” but that’s because I’m your best friend and the stories are about me. Your love for me is platonic.
But now that I’m letting myself look, letting myself observe, there is no denying your expression. It’s…lustful. No. Yes. Yes, lustful, but more than that. Longing? A little bit of heartbreak? Has it always been there? Did sentiment obscure that look from me?
No, I’m pretty sure it’s a new look.
You fell in love with me after I died? I’m not sure how to feel about that.
The doppelganger shrugs and pats your head. Or least I didn’t realize my feelings for what they were until after.
No. You’re just confused. You’ve conflated affection with romance.
I couldn’t kiss Jennifer. I left Mary, even though I didn’t know you were alive. Why is it so hard to believe I might be in love with you? You wanted me to be happy. Maybe you make me happy.
I make you miserable. Look at you, drunk off your ass and mumbling. You broke a plate. You punched me. You were devastated.
I’m processing. Give me a little time. The man I love just came back from the dead.
Love? No. You couldn’t. You’re not gay.
My one exception. You’re bigger than life. I adore you. It makes sense that you’d be the one busting down my limitations.
Really?
“Why so many phones?” It’s loud, much louder than your earlier mutterings. So yes, you didn’t realize you were voicing your thoughts earlier. Now you’re attempting a conversation with me.
Do you really want to kiss me? Take my clothes off? Your doppelganger was right, you were looking straight at me when you said it. The idea is…heady. It’s burrowing in my brain, and I can’t stop the images it conjures. Me? Could you possibly want me? Really?
“His things, my things, all mixed together,” you mumble in a singsong voice. Have you forgotten about the phones already? Do I need to answer you? Yes, I should. I need to gauge your cognizance. Maybe it will help me make some sense of this…
You giggle. God, I haven’t heard that sound in…too long. It’s one of my favorites, you know, along with my name on your lips. I will never grow tired of hearing either. Never. It will always make me smile.
Your face is awash with emotions. You go from happy to sad to silly to thoughtful and at least three other emotions I can’t read in the space of a moment. What is going through your head? I wish I knew. I want to know if what you said earlier is…could you possibly feel for me what I feel for you? Tell me, John. I need to know.
“I’ve assumed a few identities,” I blurt out. Why am I saying this? Phones, right. “The reported arrests weren’t the only ones. There were others, ones the press never found out about. Secretive, there isn’t even any paperwork on them. Bordering on illegal, of course, but that’s Mycroft’s business.” Bloody Mycroft. “So there are elements of the network that Moran doesn’t realize are no longer active.” I tap one of the phones. “It’s useful.”
There. That was a lot of information. Could you follow it? If you can, then maybe…just maybe.
“That’s good,” you slur. “Yeah, that’s. I mean. That’s good, yeah. Well done.”
Okay, not a ringing endorsement for sobriety, but I can’t help but let a smile slip through. You’re adorable like this, you really are. I never thought I would fall for someone adorable—well, I never thought I’d fall for someone full stop—but if I did fall, I thought it would be for someone like Irene or a less psychopathic Moriarty. But you are nothing like either of them. You’re warm and caring, where they were cold and calculating. Where I am cold and calculating. What do you see in me? You should be with someone who can show affection. Well, at least we’re both addicted to danger. We’re not complete opposites, you and I.
Oh yes, can’t forget the danger. We’re in danger now. You came to me, and the danger followed. Or maybe you followed the danger? It’s hard to tell, when you’re this close. Still, Moran is nothing compared to Moriarty. He’s an idiot. You are smarter than he is. Much smarter.
“He thinks he has a wider reach than he does,” I explain to you distractedly. Why is Moran not texting? He’s been silent most of the evening. I just want this to be over with. I want our life to go back to the way it was.
Exactly the way it was? Your doppelganger taunts.
If I’m being realistic, yes. I don’t think I can believe your drunken mumblings. But if I could have my greatest wish? Then no, I want more than we had before.
The doppelganger rolls his eyes. Why do you never listen to me? You didn’t believe it when I said I didn’t realize you were alive, but I proved you wrong. Listen to me now. I’m in love with you. It’s all over my face!
Why are you still here? Go away. I can’t sit here anymore. This room is too small.
“He’s flying nearly blind at this point. Perhaps a little too blind.” I get up, glance at you, to gauge your reaction, then walk to the window. The van is parked outside, just as I ordered. We took out most of the explosives from the boiler, only the minimum were moved to the van. Will Moran use them? We need him to, to help us track him. Nothing else has worked. I can’t stop looking at the van. Watching you stand right next to it this morning nearly gave me a heart attack. I didn’t like you being so close, even though the explosive range will surely be small. Mycroft’s men couldn’t give me an accurate range. They’d better know what they’re doing.
“Dangerous,” you say. Yes, the van is still dangerous, but Mycroft is keeping people away. “Standing by the window there, come away from there. What if he...”
I glance at you, then back out the window. Do you know what’s in the van? I haven’t said anything. I’m sure Mrs. Hudson didn’t say anything either, though I wasn’t following your conversation in the kitchen this afternoon. But no, I don’t think she mentioned it. And you mentioned the window, but not the van. You must be worried about snipers. No, John, there’s none of that here. Mycroft made sure of that. Bloody Mycroft. I can’t wait to have him off my back.
“He can’t come anywhere near here, I told you. This is a safehouse. You barely made it, and you were expected.” I turn away from the window. I’m worrying you. “He’s not here. He’s definitely not here.”
“Do you know where he is?”
Oh, so you really are following this conversation. You look slightly more awake now, your eyes are tracking. You watch me walk across the sitting room.
If I knew were Moran was, he’d be dead. He would’ve been dead long ago. I did not spend three years of our life closing down a criminal ring because I thought it’d be fun. “Well….Yes. Roughly.” The words are bitter as they leave my mouth. I’m not certain. The feeling is hateful.
You nod. You understand. You know that I don’t know, but you love me anyway. Everyone else just loves me when I’m solving crimes and beating the bad guys. But not you. I think you’d love me if I never solved another puzzle in my life. I’ve always known that. Did you just conflate your adoration and platonic affection with romantic love? Or did your feelings change? Could you love me, the way I love you?
I can’t think about this right now. I turn on the telly.
ooOOoo
You’ve been snoring in your chair for nearly an hour. I should put you to bed. I’m not sure you can handle the stairs, and there’s no way I’m carrying your dead weight myself. I could leave you where you are. You’ll wake up eventually and stumble your way upstairs. But then your neck will bother you for days, and I want you as comfortable as possible in this prison we’re in.
I could put you on the floor, stick a pillow under your head. No, that’ll make your back ache. Getting old is hard, isn’t it? Age happened to us both over the last three years. More grey hairs, more wrinkles, joints that ache more often than they used to. What do I look like to you? Where you surprised at the changes or did you expect them? I saw you often while I was away, but you never saw me. It must have been a jolt. The grey hair, at least, is noticeable.
Maybe I’ll put you on the sofa. It’s more comfortable than the chair or floor. It’s not your favorite place to sleep, but it’s better than the alternatives.
You could put me in your bed. Or are you ignoring that option? What are you afraid of? Your doppelganger is mocking me. Why is he still here?
Shut up.
Oh, don’t be that way, Sherlock. You know you want me in your bed. Now’s your chance.
No. That wouldn’t be fair. You’re not awake.
Jesus Christ, Sherlock, I’m not telling you to ravish me. It’s not like you use your bed that much anyway. You can kip on the sofa if you’re going to play the noble card. Stop being an idiot.
He’s…right. Yeah, I can put you in my bed, then take the sofa myself if I get tired.
And so I turn on the sitting room light, call your name. I get you awake enough to walk, then guide you to my room. You’re not coherent, but you are amusing. You’re talking about me being a woman and beds in kitchens and sleeping in the bathtub.
I take off your shoes and socks—you abhor sleeping in socks—but leave you otherwise dressed. You’ll be thrown off enough waking up in my room, I don’t want you worrying I experimented on you in the night.
Hahahaha.
Not like that, you idiot. Are you twelve?
“What was in that Scotch?” you ask blearily.
I laugh. You must not realize how much of it you drank. “Exactly what you’d expect to be in a bottle of Scotch. Scotch.”
I can take off your jumper, right? You’ll be more comfortable without it. I’ll leave your vest on, though.
I get you under the covers and settled. You’re almost asleep again already. I don’t want to leave you, but I have work still to do. I need to stay focused now.
“Don’t leave me,” you mumble into the pillow. Do you mean me? Why can’t I read you? How is that simultaneously annoying and thrilling? I sit on the bed for a while longer. You’re rubbing my leg, down by my knee. You don’t mean anything by it. Sleepy and drunk people are highly fascinated with touch, with texture. It doesn’t mean anything.
I still can’t believe you’re home again. With me. And, despite the punch you landed earlier, I think you mean to stay. That makes me happy. Please stay, John.
I eventually tear myself away from your side. “Goodnight, John.” I stand up and leave my room, leaving the door open a crack so I can hear you if you need me.
I work for a while. Send a few texts, a few emails. Check in with Mycroft. Bloody Mycroft. This better be over soon. It’s hateful having my brother standing over my shoulder, questioning my every action and ordering where I can (the flat) and can’t (everywhere else) go. At least I’m not alone. If John and Mrs. Hudson weren’t here, I’d go mad, I’m sure of it. John hates being cooped up as much as I do, but he handles it better. He handles me better, too.
That man has the patience of a saint to put up with me. I’ve been alive (to him) for less than twelve hours, and now we’re stuck here, waiting for Moran to try to kill us, me stalking around the flat in my usual horrible mood. And yet, he’s still here. He’s patient when I ignore him, he makes the beds and dinner, he checks in on Mrs. Hudson. By all rights, he should have taken one look at me, clocked me a good one, and left again. While I don’t think Mary is right for him, she’s a better alternative to me, isn’t she?
You should go, John, while you still can. Mycroft will get you out (bloody Mycroft). You can start a new life somewhere else. Don’t let your danger addiction and affection for me persuade you to stay. Oh, God, what am I saying? Please don’t leave me, John. I’d die if you left me. I want to see your face every morning and evening. I want to hear you slowly typing out my stories. I want you to make me tea and not complain when I don’t drink it. I want your smell to permeate 221B again. I won’t mind when you get angry and shove another knife through a board game. I’ll let you throw out my experiments when they start to turn. Well…within reason. Just please, don’t leave me.
I realize now that I’m standing in the middle of the sitting room, staring at my bedroom door. I’m tired. I didn’t sleep much this past week. The past three years. I should just kip on the sofa. I’ve done it many times before, it won’t bother me. My back is better off than yours. For now at least.
But my bed calls like a siren’s song. You call to me, too. Would it be so bad, if we slept together? It’s not like we’ve never done it before. Various trips out of town sometimes require it. For some reason, you always offer to sleep on the floor, as if you’re worried for my reputation. I know you’d never touch me. I want you to, but you won’t. Or will you? This evening has me confused.
I do want you. Use that great bloody brain of yours, will you? I. Want. You. Come to bed, Sherlock. You can prudely keep to your own side. Just come sleep with me. I’ve missed you.
I waver for a few more minutes, but cave in. It’s just sleep. I’m tired, and I’ve missed you. I won’t bother you, I promise. If you ask tomorrow, I can tell you that. It’s true enough.
I step into the room as quietly as possible. Take off my shoes. Find pajama bottoms and a shirt. Slip into bed. I lay on my back, prim and proper.
You stir. How did I wake you? You should be soundly asleep for at least another two hours before the alcohol wakes you up.
“Alright?” you mumble. My breath catches. Are you going to ask me what you’re doing here? What I’m doing here? You might not know where you are. Maybe you think I’m Mary. You are used to sleeping with her, after all.
“Alright,” I manage. Please don’t be angry, John. I won’t ask you to want me to be here, just don’t make me leave. I don’t know that I could, now that I’m here, watching your sleepy face.
“Something happen?”
“No.” I let out the breath I’ve been holding. Good. You know who you’re talking to, where you are. You’re okay with it. Of course you are. This is nothing. It’s just two flatmates sleeping in the same bed because it’s easiest. “Well. Something, somewhere, yes, I think so. Something must have happened. I’m just not entirely sure what.” Why am I rambling? You don’t care. You’re mostly asleep.
“What time is it?”
“Nearly three.”
“Oh.”
“Sleep,” I tell you. I can’t look at you anymore. It’s too tempting. I turn my back on you and try to follow my own command.
ooOOoo
Where did the heat go? It was nice. I like to sleep with the window open, but I also like the heat. It’s comforting. But it’s gone now. Where did it go? The duvet is gone. Did we kick it off the bed? We. Where’s John? He was right next to me and now…
Oh, he sat up to push the duvet off. Of course, he hates being hot when he sleeps. We have little in common already, why should our sleeping habits match up? He lies back down next to me.
I can’t seem to shake the sleep away, and I find myself inching toward John’s heat before I realize it. Too late to stop now. Might as well be comfortable if I’m going to do stupid things. Do you realize I’m awake, John? I think you’d forgive the actions of sleep. If you ask me in the morning, I can truthfully say that I naturally gravitate toward heat in my sleep. I keep my breathing even. I’m good at feigning sleep.
Wait. What are you…? You’re pulling me even closer, leaning your forehead against the back of my neck and putting your arm over my waist. That’s purposeful, isn’t it? You’re awake. I can tell from your breathing. But you could still be drunk, I suppose. Is it just like before, when you were saying things? You might not mean them. Impaired judgment from alcohol.
God, I want to believe you mean to do this. It’s getting more difficult to feign sleep. I have to fight not to turn around in your arms and pull you even closer. To kiss your neck. Your eyes. Your cheeks. Your lips. To burrow myself into your skin and never come out. Let’s just stay here, shall we? Forget about Moran and exploding vans and snipers. Mrs. Hudson would bring us food, wouldn’t she? She’s so happy to have us back, I think she means to “not be our housekeeper” for weeks. Maybe even months.
But no, in the morning, you’ll pull away. Get embarrassed or apologize. Let’s make a pact, John. I won’t talk about it if you won’t. We’ll just have tonight. We can pretend that we each just missed our best friend, can’t we? I know you see me as more innocent than I actually am. Just because I don’t have real world experience doesn’t mean that I don’t realize that spooning your flatmate isn’t something that’s done by most people. But when have we ever been most people? We’re us. The rules are different. We can do whatever we want, can’t we?
You drag your hand up my torso, settling it on my chest, and I have to fight not to move. Why are you doing this, John? What does it mean? Could you maybe, possibly, love me? Or are you just checking to see that I’m breathing? That I’m real.
I give in to one tiny urge and place my arm over yours, holding your hand loosely in mine. People in their sleep do such things, don’t they? I’ve never slept in a bed with anyone but you and Mycroft, did you know that? Bloody Mycroft. That was a horrible experience I’d rather forget. Mummy wanted to go camping, of all things.
But you, I love sleeping with you. I love the sound of your breathing and the way you mutter when you’re dreaming. I love your heat and the way you smell. Your presence makes me calm. I feel safe. You are my home, John.