New circumstances
Jun. 9th, 2011 11:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
solrosanNote: First non-academic thing I’ve written in English for years that wasn’t a translation from Swedish, so I apologise if the language is a bit off. Also, I have no idea how to do with the ratings, Sweden stopped doing this all together on January 1 this year and even before that we didn’t do it much…so please help me with that.
Summary: Sherlock comes to visit John even though John told him not to bother if he didn’t get himself clean over two years ago.
Beta-thanks: Huge thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
albalark for the spelling- and grammar check, the suggestions, but mostly for the punctuation (or commauation?) lesson.
It was freezing. As if most of England had been cheated out of that global warming thing that everyone seemed so worried about. Al Gore didn’t know what he was talking about, John noted while walking home from the bus-stop, hands deep down in his pockets.
As soon as he turned the corner to the street where he lived he saw someone sitting on the doorstep outside his flat. He wasn’t expecting company so the first thing that jumped into his head was a wish that it wouldn’t be a dead hobo. A few steps later he was sure that wasn’t the case and he would have gotten a slightly bad conscience for that thought if he hadn’t thought he recognised the man.
But it couldn’t be.
Was it…?
“Sherlock?” he asked in disbelief as the other man looked up. Even though Sherlock – of course it was Sherlock, John would recognise him anywhere – was looking almost hypothermic, John just stopped on the spot, staring.
“Why didn’t you call me?” Sherlock asked, shivering. John wondered how long he had been sitting there, and why he had done it. There were better, warmer, places to wait. The question didn’t leave him with a lot of time to ponder over Sherlock’s choice of waiting stop; it was filled with the deepest sorrow and agony John had ever heard from Sherlock.
John was dumbstruck.
“Or text me? Or e-mail me?” Sherlock continued when he got no reply, not moving anything in the slightest other than his lips and John actually thought for a moment that he had been frozen solid. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
When it finally dawned on John what Sherlock was talking about, he felt the now so familiar grip around his intestines. Really John, still? Would you really start to cry in the middle of the street? No, not anymore, no. He couldn’t allow himself to do that and he fought it hard for a moment, denying Sherlock an answer a little longer.
“You’re going to get ill,” John said, moving the last steps towards his front door – and Sherlock. “Let’s go inside. I can make some tea….”
Sherlock got up on his feet; John was surprised he didn’t hear ice cracking in the process and they entered John’s flat.
John placed his keys in the seashell on the bureau to the left, but after that he stopped.
“How did you find out?” he asked. That question, or questions of that kind, had been frequently asked by John during the duration of their relationship. Most of the time it had been asked fascinated, amazed and some times even annoyed, but this time it was hollow. As it by itself was an echo.
When a question like that was asked Sherlock often gave John an indulgent smile, almost as if he wanted to pet John on the head and tell him that he was such a clever idiot. Sometimes it was met with frustration because there was no time to (or just no fun in) explaining. Yet other times a question like that would just be ignored, but it had never before been answered with:
“Mycroft told me.”
The honesty and lack of venom in Sherlock’s voice at a confession like that made John turn around and they looked at each other for the longest time while the colour returned to Sherlock’s face. It felt like John should be at least a bit upset over the fact that Sherlock’s older brother obviously had him under surveillance, but after the first couple of interactions with Mycroft John had come to suspect nothing less and accepted that there was nothing to do about it. Life often became much simpler when one didn’t fight unbeatable forces.
The only question was why this time. John and Sherlock hadn’t lived together for the last six years and there were two since they had even laid eyes on each other. Or at least since John last saw Sherlock. It was hard to say if it was mutual. Honestly, John didn’t care what reason Mycroft might have had. At least not now.
“Are you clean?” John asked weary but tried to sound authoritarian.
“In your definition of the word, no,” Sherlock answered and John sighed, considering for a split second to force him out of the flat again, but seeing how long Sherlock had been sitting outside earlier John had no hope that he would leave.
“And in your definition then?”
“No,” Sherlock answered after some hesitation.
“Are you high right now?” John demanded in the same weary voice as before.
“No,” Sherlock claimed and John scrutinized him for a long time before he believed him, or gave up trying to figure him out, then went to the kitchen mumble about putting on that tea he had been speaking of.
“Is that why you didn’t call me?” Sherlock asked from the doorway. John placed two mugs on the table once he put on the pot. There was no good answer to that question; at least not one good enough to satisfy Sherlock. Sherlock’s more and more extensive drug use was part of the reason, yes, but the answer was far from as simple as that.
Six years ago John had left Baker Street to move in with Mary and as a result, so had Sherlock since he couldn’t afford the rent without John. Mycroft had offered to pitch in but Sherlock had refused, to the surprise of neither Mycroft nor John. Besides the change of location for the both of them, not much had changed at first; John had continued to tag along, Sherlock had continued to interfere in anything and everything. Not even after John and Mary married had there been a great change of lifestyle. Looking back, John wondered how Mary had ever been able to forgive either of them for going after a serial killer during the honeymoon.
It had most likely been because they didn’t live together anymore that John had missed the signs of Sherlock’s increased drug use. At least John hoped he would have caught it sooner if they were still under the same roof, but when he finally had seen the signs he had ignored them. Not wanting to see them and, to be fair, Sherlock had been functioning as well as ever until three years ago when he had stopped taking cases. The reason for this was still unclear for John, but with a loving nudge from Mary he had joined forces with Mycroft and staged intervention after intervention. Without result.
For almost a year they had struggled, John in his way and Mycroft in his, one no more successful than the other. The attempts they had made together were different only because they had amused Sherlock instead of annoying him. Then, two years ago, John had put down an ultimatum: his company or the drugs. When he had made it he had not planned to enforce it, but when Sherlock had called him on it in a heartbeat (what had John expected?), John had felt compelled to prove him wrong, forbidding him to contact him until he had cleaned up.
It had never happened. Sherlock was too proud to go where he wasn’t wanted and John, convinced by Mary, stood his ground on this one even though, from time to time, it had been almost impossible. To be honest, John was a bit hurt that Sherlock had chosen the drugs over him, especially since he would have believed an untruthful promise to stop using. Sherlock must have known that, but had still chosen honesty.
So six months ago, when Mary had gotten the cancer notice, Sherlock had not even been near John’s mind. Kidney cancer. When they had found it, it had already been too late and in the end there had been hardly any organ inside John’s wife that wasn’t infested with metastasises. Unable to do anything to help, John had been beside her bed every second, almost dying himself in the process, every day getting closer to killing her with his own hands just to end her suffering. It had been over before he had gotten the courage to do it.
Five weeks ago. Mary had died five weeks ago. Lestrade, and some other people from the Yard who John had kept in contact with even after he stopped being the blogger of the world’s only consulting detective, had made an appearance at the funeral. Seeing them had actually made him think of calling Sherlock, but it had only been a passing thought. If Sherlock had managed to become clean and not contacted John, he obviously did not want to resume their friendship. If Sherlock was not clean yet though, what said that it would even be a good thing to get in touch with him again? Not to mention, why would Sherlock care about John in his grief when John hadn’t stood by Sherlock during hard times?
How would he boil all of that down to a yes-or-no-answer to give Sherlock?
“Still sugar in your tea?” he said instead, already on his way to get some. If he just let the question slide Sherlock might deduce it himself. It would be so much easier if he did.
“Yes please,” Sherlock said politely and sat down at the table. He looked terrible (John had been hearing that about himself a lot lately too so maybe he wasn’t the best to judge?), he was skinny and so thin that a whiff of the wind easily would blow him off a bridge. The circles under his eyes told stories about insomnia and the once so thick hair seemed thin and dead. Clean though. Actually, all of Sherlock looked remarkably clean; there wasn’t even much dirt on his shoes. Why did it not go beyond the surface?
They drank the tea in silence, John even did his best not to look at Sherlock, but he was pretty sure Sherlock was scrutinising him.
“John…I’m sorry…”
The softness in Sherlock’s voice made John look up from the now-empty mug. There was softness in the face as well, almost in the whole being.
“For everything.” Sherlock continued making John’s eyes tear up and flood over.
He did nothing to try to hide it, Sherlock had most likely seen him cry more than most people, and he had even seen Sherlock cry twice. Between them tears had never been something needed to be hidden and these last weeks John had started to cry over seemingly random and small things: a TV-commercial about dental sticks for dogs, a chicken curry sandwich, the arrival of the mail…. This was neither random nor small. This was…John had no idea what this was. Not to mention that Sherlock reached out his almost claw-like thin hand and touched his arm. Not even when they had lived together had they comforted each other with physical contact.
“Is there anything I can do?” Sherlock wondered.
The most natural answer was no, not just because there actually wasn’t anything Sherlock could do to but also because John didn’t feel he had the right to ask for anything. John almost used that answer, the polite and tragic answer – not be a burden and not have anything to be helped with – but he hesitated and took Sherlock’s hand instead.
“Get clean. My definition of clean.” he answered, looking into Sherlock’s eyes in which he saw confusion, he wasn’t used to seeing confusion of that kind there.
“Okay,” Sherlock answered after what looked like a short debate with himself. John blinked. What? Just like that? After all the fights and arguments they’d had?
“Really?” he whispered as if he thought the sound of his voice would scare away the promise.
“Yes. If it would make you feel better.”
The sincerity in Sherlock’s voice made John sob and he nodded. Yes, it would make him feel better, not concerning Mary’s death, but about life in general.
“Then you have my word,” Sherlock said, sounding very ceremonial. John wasn’t sure he believed him, but he was still in mild shock that Sherlock was even there and really wanted to believe him…so he decided to do so.
“Do…do you think you need help?” John asked, wiping his eyes.
“No, if I do I’ll call Mycroft,” Sherlock made a small frown, “He’ll be more than delighted.”
“He cares about you,” John said as a low echo from the past. How many times hadn’t they told Sherlock how much they cared and how much they wanted him to quit abusing himself?
“I care about you,” Sherlock replied, making it sound like a contradiction, a way to prove John wrong. John had no idea how that would make any sense, but Sherlock looked somewhat like an insulted five-year-old when he said it.
John hesitated; he didn’t know what to say even if it felt as if the correct response to that was that he, of course, cared about Sherlock as well. He had cared so much for Sherlock. Sherlock had been one of the few people in the world that John would have given his life to protect. But would he still? Did he still care like he used to? It felt like decades had passed instead of just years. Nothing was the same in his life anymore, so why would this be?
He saw a soft tremble in the one of Sherlock’s hands that he wasn’t holding; the early stages of withdrawal. At least that much he knew was true then: Sherlock was not high right now. As soon as Sherlock noticed that John had spotted this he clenched his fist to make it less obvious, but John reached for that hand as well, all of a sudden knowing the answers to all his questions. He still cared and in the middle of his sorrow and the despair he had been living with the last weeks, it suddenly felt nice to care…maybe even to have a problem to fix, to take care of instead of just grieving.
God…did he see Sherlock as a project? Well, maybe he had always been just that, trying to get him eat, trying to get him to sleep, trying to get him to just keep his mouth shut from time to time.
“I…guess I’ve got things to do,” Sherlock said when he realised that both of his hands shook more than he could control, trying to make it sound matter-of-fact but just succeeding with detached.
“Yea…” John agreed and let go of his hands even though he didn’t really want to. It was nice to have another kind of physical contact than a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Should I call you a taxi?”
“No…it’s…” Sherlock shook his head and got up his phone, “I’ll just text Mycroft…he could just as well start being of use right away.”
“Tell him thanks from me,” John asked and smiled faintly, “I appreciate that you came….”
“Are you going to be all right by yourself?” Sherlock wondered giving him a concerned glance while texting.
“Yea,” John answered and sounded much more confident than he felt, but that was his standard answer for that question. It was what everyone wanted to hear and somewhere deep down he might actually believe it too, but it was hard to convince himself during the long nights alone in his and Mary’s bed. “You just…try to take care of yourself…”
“Is it…” Sherlock broke off when he got a text to his phone and didn’t look up after reading it, “Can I contact you again if I get clean?”
“Yes, yes of course,” John nodded and got on his feet at the same time as Sherlock to walk him to the door. He almost said that Sherlock could contact him either way, but somehow he didn’t see that that would help either of them. “And if you need any help…that’s okay too, you know.”
“You can call me whenever,” Sherlock promised, as if trying to assure that if John got widowed again he would call Sherlock. John tried to smile, but it was hard so instead he hugged Sherlock. It wasn’t their first hug, but Sherlock still seemed confused and John hurt when he felt the skeleton-like body under the clothes.
“Thank you for coming here,” John murmured, voice getting thicker with tears, “Please get better…I want you in my life Sherlock, I do, I….”
“I will,” Sherlock said as they let go, “and then I’ll text you.”
John smiled, wanting to believe him so badly that once again, he did. When he just minutes later saw Sherlock getting into the black car Mycroft had most likely sent, he wondered though if he actually ever would get a text from Sherlock.
(continuing in Brother of addicts)
Summary: Sherlock comes to visit John even though John told him not to bother if he didn’t get himself clean over two years ago.
Beta-thanks: Huge thanks to
albalark for the spelling- and grammar check, the suggestions, but mostly for the punctuation (or commauation?) lesson. It was freezing. As if most of England had been cheated out of that global warming thing that everyone seemed so worried about. Al Gore didn’t know what he was talking about, John noted while walking home from the bus-stop, hands deep down in his pockets.
As soon as he turned the corner to the street where he lived he saw someone sitting on the doorstep outside his flat. He wasn’t expecting company so the first thing that jumped into his head was a wish that it wouldn’t be a dead hobo. A few steps later he was sure that wasn’t the case and he would have gotten a slightly bad conscience for that thought if he hadn’t thought he recognised the man.
But it couldn’t be.
Was it…?
“Sherlock?” he asked in disbelief as the other man looked up. Even though Sherlock – of course it was Sherlock, John would recognise him anywhere – was looking almost hypothermic, John just stopped on the spot, staring.
“Why didn’t you call me?” Sherlock asked, shivering. John wondered how long he had been sitting there, and why he had done it. There were better, warmer, places to wait. The question didn’t leave him with a lot of time to ponder over Sherlock’s choice of waiting stop; it was filled with the deepest sorrow and agony John had ever heard from Sherlock.
John was dumbstruck.
“Or text me? Or e-mail me?” Sherlock continued when he got no reply, not moving anything in the slightest other than his lips and John actually thought for a moment that he had been frozen solid. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
When it finally dawned on John what Sherlock was talking about, he felt the now so familiar grip around his intestines. Really John, still? Would you really start to cry in the middle of the street? No, not anymore, no. He couldn’t allow himself to do that and he fought it hard for a moment, denying Sherlock an answer a little longer.
“You’re going to get ill,” John said, moving the last steps towards his front door – and Sherlock. “Let’s go inside. I can make some tea….”
Sherlock got up on his feet; John was surprised he didn’t hear ice cracking in the process and they entered John’s flat.
John placed his keys in the seashell on the bureau to the left, but after that he stopped.
“How did you find out?” he asked. That question, or questions of that kind, had been frequently asked by John during the duration of their relationship. Most of the time it had been asked fascinated, amazed and some times even annoyed, but this time it was hollow. As it by itself was an echo.
When a question like that was asked Sherlock often gave John an indulgent smile, almost as if he wanted to pet John on the head and tell him that he was such a clever idiot. Sometimes it was met with frustration because there was no time to (or just no fun in) explaining. Yet other times a question like that would just be ignored, but it had never before been answered with:
“Mycroft told me.”
The honesty and lack of venom in Sherlock’s voice at a confession like that made John turn around and they looked at each other for the longest time while the colour returned to Sherlock’s face. It felt like John should be at least a bit upset over the fact that Sherlock’s older brother obviously had him under surveillance, but after the first couple of interactions with Mycroft John had come to suspect nothing less and accepted that there was nothing to do about it. Life often became much simpler when one didn’t fight unbeatable forces.
The only question was why this time. John and Sherlock hadn’t lived together for the last six years and there were two since they had even laid eyes on each other. Or at least since John last saw Sherlock. It was hard to say if it was mutual. Honestly, John didn’t care what reason Mycroft might have had. At least not now.
“Are you clean?” John asked weary but tried to sound authoritarian.
“In your definition of the word, no,” Sherlock answered and John sighed, considering for a split second to force him out of the flat again, but seeing how long Sherlock had been sitting outside earlier John had no hope that he would leave.
“And in your definition then?”
“No,” Sherlock answered after some hesitation.
“Are you high right now?” John demanded in the same weary voice as before.
“No,” Sherlock claimed and John scrutinized him for a long time before he believed him, or gave up trying to figure him out, then went to the kitchen mumble about putting on that tea he had been speaking of.
“Is that why you didn’t call me?” Sherlock asked from the doorway. John placed two mugs on the table once he put on the pot. There was no good answer to that question; at least not one good enough to satisfy Sherlock. Sherlock’s more and more extensive drug use was part of the reason, yes, but the answer was far from as simple as that.
Six years ago John had left Baker Street to move in with Mary and as a result, so had Sherlock since he couldn’t afford the rent without John. Mycroft had offered to pitch in but Sherlock had refused, to the surprise of neither Mycroft nor John. Besides the change of location for the both of them, not much had changed at first; John had continued to tag along, Sherlock had continued to interfere in anything and everything. Not even after John and Mary married had there been a great change of lifestyle. Looking back, John wondered how Mary had ever been able to forgive either of them for going after a serial killer during the honeymoon.
It had most likely been because they didn’t live together anymore that John had missed the signs of Sherlock’s increased drug use. At least John hoped he would have caught it sooner if they were still under the same roof, but when he finally had seen the signs he had ignored them. Not wanting to see them and, to be fair, Sherlock had been functioning as well as ever until three years ago when he had stopped taking cases. The reason for this was still unclear for John, but with a loving nudge from Mary he had joined forces with Mycroft and staged intervention after intervention. Without result.
For almost a year they had struggled, John in his way and Mycroft in his, one no more successful than the other. The attempts they had made together were different only because they had amused Sherlock instead of annoying him. Then, two years ago, John had put down an ultimatum: his company or the drugs. When he had made it he had not planned to enforce it, but when Sherlock had called him on it in a heartbeat (what had John expected?), John had felt compelled to prove him wrong, forbidding him to contact him until he had cleaned up.
It had never happened. Sherlock was too proud to go where he wasn’t wanted and John, convinced by Mary, stood his ground on this one even though, from time to time, it had been almost impossible. To be honest, John was a bit hurt that Sherlock had chosen the drugs over him, especially since he would have believed an untruthful promise to stop using. Sherlock must have known that, but had still chosen honesty.
So six months ago, when Mary had gotten the cancer notice, Sherlock had not even been near John’s mind. Kidney cancer. When they had found it, it had already been too late and in the end there had been hardly any organ inside John’s wife that wasn’t infested with metastasises. Unable to do anything to help, John had been beside her bed every second, almost dying himself in the process, every day getting closer to killing her with his own hands just to end her suffering. It had been over before he had gotten the courage to do it.
Five weeks ago. Mary had died five weeks ago. Lestrade, and some other people from the Yard who John had kept in contact with even after he stopped being the blogger of the world’s only consulting detective, had made an appearance at the funeral. Seeing them had actually made him think of calling Sherlock, but it had only been a passing thought. If Sherlock had managed to become clean and not contacted John, he obviously did not want to resume their friendship. If Sherlock was not clean yet though, what said that it would even be a good thing to get in touch with him again? Not to mention, why would Sherlock care about John in his grief when John hadn’t stood by Sherlock during hard times?
How would he boil all of that down to a yes-or-no-answer to give Sherlock?
“Still sugar in your tea?” he said instead, already on his way to get some. If he just let the question slide Sherlock might deduce it himself. It would be so much easier if he did.
“Yes please,” Sherlock said politely and sat down at the table. He looked terrible (John had been hearing that about himself a lot lately too so maybe he wasn’t the best to judge?), he was skinny and so thin that a whiff of the wind easily would blow him off a bridge. The circles under his eyes told stories about insomnia and the once so thick hair seemed thin and dead. Clean though. Actually, all of Sherlock looked remarkably clean; there wasn’t even much dirt on his shoes. Why did it not go beyond the surface?
They drank the tea in silence, John even did his best not to look at Sherlock, but he was pretty sure Sherlock was scrutinising him.
“John…I’m sorry…”
The softness in Sherlock’s voice made John look up from the now-empty mug. There was softness in the face as well, almost in the whole being.
“For everything.” Sherlock continued making John’s eyes tear up and flood over.
He did nothing to try to hide it, Sherlock had most likely seen him cry more than most people, and he had even seen Sherlock cry twice. Between them tears had never been something needed to be hidden and these last weeks John had started to cry over seemingly random and small things: a TV-commercial about dental sticks for dogs, a chicken curry sandwich, the arrival of the mail…. This was neither random nor small. This was…John had no idea what this was. Not to mention that Sherlock reached out his almost claw-like thin hand and touched his arm. Not even when they had lived together had they comforted each other with physical contact.
“Is there anything I can do?” Sherlock wondered.
The most natural answer was no, not just because there actually wasn’t anything Sherlock could do to but also because John didn’t feel he had the right to ask for anything. John almost used that answer, the polite and tragic answer – not be a burden and not have anything to be helped with – but he hesitated and took Sherlock’s hand instead.
“Get clean. My definition of clean.” he answered, looking into Sherlock’s eyes in which he saw confusion, he wasn’t used to seeing confusion of that kind there.
“Okay,” Sherlock answered after what looked like a short debate with himself. John blinked. What? Just like that? After all the fights and arguments they’d had?
“Really?” he whispered as if he thought the sound of his voice would scare away the promise.
“Yes. If it would make you feel better.”
The sincerity in Sherlock’s voice made John sob and he nodded. Yes, it would make him feel better, not concerning Mary’s death, but about life in general.
“Then you have my word,” Sherlock said, sounding very ceremonial. John wasn’t sure he believed him, but he was still in mild shock that Sherlock was even there and really wanted to believe him…so he decided to do so.
“Do…do you think you need help?” John asked, wiping his eyes.
“No, if I do I’ll call Mycroft,” Sherlock made a small frown, “He’ll be more than delighted.”
“He cares about you,” John said as a low echo from the past. How many times hadn’t they told Sherlock how much they cared and how much they wanted him to quit abusing himself?
“I care about you,” Sherlock replied, making it sound like a contradiction, a way to prove John wrong. John had no idea how that would make any sense, but Sherlock looked somewhat like an insulted five-year-old when he said it.
John hesitated; he didn’t know what to say even if it felt as if the correct response to that was that he, of course, cared about Sherlock as well. He had cared so much for Sherlock. Sherlock had been one of the few people in the world that John would have given his life to protect. But would he still? Did he still care like he used to? It felt like decades had passed instead of just years. Nothing was the same in his life anymore, so why would this be?
He saw a soft tremble in the one of Sherlock’s hands that he wasn’t holding; the early stages of withdrawal. At least that much he knew was true then: Sherlock was not high right now. As soon as Sherlock noticed that John had spotted this he clenched his fist to make it less obvious, but John reached for that hand as well, all of a sudden knowing the answers to all his questions. He still cared and in the middle of his sorrow and the despair he had been living with the last weeks, it suddenly felt nice to care…maybe even to have a problem to fix, to take care of instead of just grieving.
God…did he see Sherlock as a project? Well, maybe he had always been just that, trying to get him eat, trying to get him to sleep, trying to get him to just keep his mouth shut from time to time.
“I…guess I’ve got things to do,” Sherlock said when he realised that both of his hands shook more than he could control, trying to make it sound matter-of-fact but just succeeding with detached.
“Yea…” John agreed and let go of his hands even though he didn’t really want to. It was nice to have another kind of physical contact than a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Should I call you a taxi?”
“No…it’s…” Sherlock shook his head and got up his phone, “I’ll just text Mycroft…he could just as well start being of use right away.”
“Tell him thanks from me,” John asked and smiled faintly, “I appreciate that you came….”
“Are you going to be all right by yourself?” Sherlock wondered giving him a concerned glance while texting.
“Yea,” John answered and sounded much more confident than he felt, but that was his standard answer for that question. It was what everyone wanted to hear and somewhere deep down he might actually believe it too, but it was hard to convince himself during the long nights alone in his and Mary’s bed. “You just…try to take care of yourself…”
“Is it…” Sherlock broke off when he got a text to his phone and didn’t look up after reading it, “Can I contact you again if I get clean?”
“Yes, yes of course,” John nodded and got on his feet at the same time as Sherlock to walk him to the door. He almost said that Sherlock could contact him either way, but somehow he didn’t see that that would help either of them. “And if you need any help…that’s okay too, you know.”
“You can call me whenever,” Sherlock promised, as if trying to assure that if John got widowed again he would call Sherlock. John tried to smile, but it was hard so instead he hugged Sherlock. It wasn’t their first hug, but Sherlock still seemed confused and John hurt when he felt the skeleton-like body under the clothes.
“Thank you for coming here,” John murmured, voice getting thicker with tears, “Please get better…I want you in my life Sherlock, I do, I….”
“I will,” Sherlock said as they let go, “and then I’ll text you.”
John smiled, wanting to believe him so badly that once again, he did. When he just minutes later saw Sherlock getting into the black car Mycroft had most likely sent, he wondered though if he actually ever would get a text from Sherlock.
(continuing in Brother of addicts)
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-06-10 02:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-10 09:17 pm (UTC)But how knows when it comes to Sherlock?
no subject
Date: 2011-06-10 02:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-10 09:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-10 03:34 am (UTC)I would put the rating at PG-13 or Teen because of the subject matter.
no subject
Date: 2011-06-10 09:18 pm (UTC)And thank you! I'll keep that in mind for next time!
no subject
Date: 2011-06-10 05:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-10 09:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-10 06:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-10 09:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-10 10:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-10 09:32 pm (UTC)Försök få ihop idéerna till en hel story, det här är by far den bästa ego-boosten jag haft på sjukt länge ;) Tack igen för kommentaren :D
no subject
Date: 2011-06-11 04:37 am (UTC)Al Gore didn’t know what he was talking about John noted Comma needed between 'about' and 'John'.
slight bad conscience 'slight' should probably be 'slightly', since you are modifying 'bad'.
t hypothermic John just stop on the spot, staring. I would have put a period after 'hypothermic' and begun a new sentence with 'John'. 'Stop' should be 'stopped'.
besides his lips. 'Other than' would be a better choice than 'besides'.
cleaver idiot 'Cleaver' should be 'clever'.
I'd be happy to do the rest, if you like - I have taught English as a second language and I can't seem to help myself! ::g:: Just PM me and let me know.