Work Text:
I write you this time,
this last breath of mine,
to tell you
I’d do it again
You can take my hand,
or my head, or my heart
You’re worthy
of wasting my time
But know old friend,
no knife is the sharpest
no object cuts deep
as your words
I write you this time,
my final breath is mine,
But I’ll bleed out
Forever yours—I Write You This Time, TBB47644
When John's hands closed around his throat, it was all Sherlock could do to not break down.
It was quite surprising really, how Sherlock wasn't able to predict it. Any other situation and it might have been hilarious. As it were though, it shocked him to the core, because while Sherlock could usually deduce if someone was about to take a hit at him (more-so after the past few years), for some reason, despite all the signs, perhaps he had hoped John would have pulled him into a hug instead.
There was something to be said about the way Sherlock had catalogued all of John's tells; arranged by object, part of body, situation, and frequency, and so it was nigh on impossible for Sherlock to not be able to predict John's reactions, for as inexperienced as he might be with the emotional side of humanity, it did leave quantifiable signs for Sherlock to understand. Thus he had not—could not—forget what he knew about one of, if not the most important person in his life.
He had seen John angry before (clenching and unclenching of fists and jaw, pursing of lips, deep breaths), frustrated (pursed lips and eyebrows, looking around and up as if asking for help and/or patience), ready to fight (stiffness in his face, holding himself loose, eyes darting over the other's for weak-points, feet planted and sure, hands by his side, ready), fighting (remarkable, breathtaking), but Sherlock had never seen him near tears, grieving—except maybe at his grave, but he was far too away to observe properly, or when he was sprawled on the ground and there was anguish in John's voice as he tried to search for a pulse and it was both Sherlock's regret and gratitude that he didn't look at John's face then—so maybe he wished that's what this was instead. His friend, his best friend, happy to see him, maybe some grief over the memory, expected to see John look at him in shock, yes, like he did, confused, but what he did not expect was to be strangled to the ground, wounds ripping open as his back hit the floor, John's weight on him.
Sherlock lay there and let John lay all his grievances on him, barely making a sound as his back throbbed because if he let out a huff of pain he might have started sobbing instead. Perhaps it was a good thing John tackled him to the ground; it kept him from registering the pain in his heart, the burn in his throat not from the pressure of John's hands but—John's hands around his throat…!
?
When had this happened? When had it come to this? How had Sherlock miscalculated so badly? Did he ruin their relationship beyond repair? Was this what he deserved? How did he fix it? Was there anything left to be fixed? Would John ever believe him again? Trust him? Laugh with him, joke with him, run around at dawn with him? Could Sherlock ever hope for a chance?
It hurt.
It hurt all over and Sherlock could not tell how long it was before the waiters ran over to separate them; his internal clock seemed to be malfunctioning. John—John, John, John, it all comes back to John!—had always urged him to pay more heed to the feelings of others, to look past the physical signs of their emotions from a cold, detached point and let their tales touch his heart. Apparently, it would help him understand their motives and urgency much better, but Sherlock rebuked the thought; what need had he to learn, or rather feel, how a murderer felt when they committed their crime, of passion or greed or boredom, whatever! Emotion was useless enough as is and Sherlock was not bound by the constraints of his transport, was free as much as he could be free of it. What use was it to feel the sadness and worry that clouds the judgement of a mother for her son, a man for his wife, a brother for his sister, or indeed a lecher for his money—yes what use was it for him to cloud his judgement, abandon his post above the petty emotions and compromise his Work? Observe where there was nothing to see, and see but not observe?
Sherlock found it quite ridiculous of John to make such a request of him: it was a bit not good. Hence, it came as a surprise to have had his body and mind betray him at that instant, heavy with emotions, positively choking with them. He could not breathe and he could not tell why, only that he couldn’t, and that it was not because of John Watson’s fingers digging in near his arrhythmic, quick-rabbit pulse—or rather, not due to the damage it was doing to his physical self. John hadn’t grabbed him too hard, and it was fine, he deserved it, he craved it: the touch of a friend. It was equally as enticing as the aroma of food in the air, and Sherlock had not had need of either for a long time now. Hadn’t had them available when he needed them for a while, at least not the good type. But it was becoming difficult to tell himself that; over the roar in his ears and stinging pain in his eyes he couldn’t hear a word being said—not his own, not John’s, not the patrons’ or the waiter’s or—caring is not an advantage—but Sherlock did not care.
They had been kicked out of the restaurant. Sherlock’s mouth was bleeding. Now, in the cafe, Sherlock tried to explain, but John would not have it. Difficult thing, caring, it didn’t lend itself credit, nor seem obvious to those it was for. How did Sherlock explain that it was all for them? How did he do it when in saving them he had hurt them? All Sherlock had were cold facts and flat jokes, and neither of those were accepted by a grieving man, neither of those provided comfort, but he tried still, to act like the human he’s been told he is, said—mouth filled with blood, throat bruised, and back throbbing—seriously? It’s not a joke or anything, you’re really keeping it? Gestured to John’s moustache. Tried for a laugh but it came out wet. What he really meant was: it’s not a joke or anything. Not a joke that I was away, or that I am now back. God knew it was the most serious Sherlock had ever been in his life, the most human Sherlock had ever felt, as he looked at John looking ridiculous, upset and lips pursed, bushy upper lip resting weird. But if John wanted to keep it, he’d say it’s great, he’d learn to like it, even when he preferred his doctors clean shaven.
Perhaps the acting didn’t work; the heaviness in his body was like tonnes of metal. He felt like iron caught rust and left under the same dripping source, corroding further, with each drop, each splash, each word and hit. He was a machine with sparking circuitry, running around in circles with a lost sense of direction, red blooming in his vision and warning signs blaring in his head. Trying to defuse the situation and keep John from shouting had him grab Sherlock by his lapels. (That got all of them kicked out of the cafe). Reminding John, requesting him to agree to the thrill he felt when on a case with Sherlock had him pulling Sherlock forward—finally! some sense; a hug, a friendly thump on the back, a squeezing of his arms in familiarity (as Sherlock tried when he was thrown to the ground, hands hovering near John’s elbow, to comfort him and break his fall)—and headbutting him in the nose. Crack.
I don’t understand, he said to the air, to himself, to Mary, standing outside the Kebab shop, head tilted back to keep the blood from running down his chin and on to the precious coat of his he’d only got to wear after years. I said I’m sorry. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?
Years. He’d not been spoken to or treated much kindly in years, aside from a few unique situations. He was resigned to it. Of course. Of course, that is all he deserves. Not loving touch. No, of course not. How stupid of him. Really, he should have expected it. He would reiterate it to himself until it was painted in his blood on the walls of his mind palace, all the blood he spilled today, and all that he spilled the past few years, bottled and labelled, measured and kept neatly on a shelf in the room with memories he’s locked away. Of friends and near-friends and maybe-something-mores. Of what happened when he was caught in the snare of emotion’s web. Him, the world’s only consulting detective, who had taken down the spider’s web, felt like a fly caught and tangled, twisted, mangled, every time John punched him or tackled him to the ground or grabbed him by his collar. Each one a shock bigger, and in some ways smaller, than the one before.
You don’t know anything about human nature, do you?
Didn’t he? Not still? Not even now?
Nature? No. Human? ... No.
No, that’s right, he'd rather be a machine for they had no need of morality, nothing like not good or disapproval or emotions or need to understand human nature.
Romantic. Liar. The words popped up in his mind alongside many others as gazed at Mary. What a conundrum. Complementary qualities even. Fickle, all this emotion.
Was Sherlock a liar? A machine didn’t lie. Or feel. But he did. What did that mean: the pain?
He watched the taxi drive away as he debated all this.
/
It was no surprise he turned to cocaine again. No matter the reasons or justifications he gave to himself or others.
/
It was still a surprise when John pushed him into the wall, still a shock when he punched him, threw him to the ground, kicked him over and over and over again. It shouldn't be. But it still hurt when John looked at him with hatred in his eyes. He deserved it. It made sense. It did. It really did. He felt human when he said, I killed his wife. Felt a machine when John spat, yes you did. It hurt, but it shouldn't. He was not human.
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold
—The Second Coming, William Butler Yeats