Work Text:
It's not a good day.
It's not a good day, and Sherlock cannot pinpoint the why of it. The day had begun in a normal fashion, John pressing a soft kiss to his bare shoulder blade as he rolled out of bed for a shift at the clinic and rustling around the wardrobe and bathroom. If Sherlock had been bothered to concentrate he could have deduced which jumper John had chosen for the day, but instead he had sprawled across the warm space where John's scent clung to the sheets and basked in the soft golden gold that emanated from behind the frosted glass of the bathroom. Half-asleep and rumpled, he had felt John look fondly at him from the doorway before leaving for work, and it was all the more precious for its normality. No, that wasn't the reason.
Ennui, perhaps. But he had solved a rather spectacular case not two days before, during which he and John had chased a knife-wielding art thief down a narrow alley while Lestrade yelled angrily from ten yards behind and which had concluded with a very satisfying arrest and an even more satisfying night in their bed, sweat-slick and panting and sated. The contentment should carry through for at another day, sometimes more. And ennui isn't the right term for it in the first place.
Sherlock may not know the why of it, but he knows the feeling intimately. It's not a strop, although they both manifest in Sherlock's conversion to a silent silk-covered lump on the couch. But this is different, this is an ache emanating from the round scar centered directly above his vena cava and a psychosomatic itch hovering over the scars on his back, this is an oppressive weight pulling him down into the mattress. It's tiring, on days like this, and living is a heavier burden. If Sherlock was inclined to metaphor he might say that the world around him turns grey, but that would be utterly inaccurate. The colors around him are as saturated as ever, plus a little--the brightness of the wall seems overdone, and the contrast between a shadow on the wall and the light alongside it is too sharp.
On these days, he is trapped inside his own head; a feedback loop of failure and weakness and mistakes playing endlessly. The Fall, and John's voice breaking as he gasped his name. A cellar in Serbia and a lead pipe. Mycroft's face, too expressionless, as a nameless medic had treated his numerous injuries. John's face at the Landmark Hotel--indescribably idiotic, really, to wear a disguise; to expect that John would want him. John, dancing with Mary at his wedding because he never wanted you. John, at the tarmac after an overdose, looking as though his heart had just dropped into his stomach as he scanned a list of deadly chemicals. John, again, always, an endless Möbius strip of disappointed looks etched onto his lovely, tired face.
Sherlock knows, rationally, of the effect of mood congruent memory. That memories associated with a particular mood are recalled when said mood is experienced; i.e., when one is happy one easily remembers happy memories. The opposite is also true, of course. But just because he knows this does not make the influx of failures and mistakes easier to bear, and so he falls back on what he knows: he pushes it away. To succumb would be to add another failure to the list, and that would be unacceptable.
He gets up. He makes a cup of weak tea and sits in John's upholstered armchair, legs folded up neatly to his chest, and holds his mug in both hands to appreciate the warmth against the palms of his hands. Eyes closed against the weak sunlight, he sits and feels vaguely proud of himself for effort that it took and then feels disgusted all over again.
An indeterminate amount of time later, the sound of a familiar tread on the stairs permeates his stillness. The sixteenth step creaks, the door hinges emit a high-pitched sound, and warm hands curl over Sherlock's and gently pry the stone-cold tea from his hands.
Sherlock looks up to see John, who has placed the tea onto the desk in lieu of throwing it out in the sink and washing the mug, there's a deduction to be made there, and who is now looking down at him. Meeting his eyes, Sherlock sees an inexplicable look of softness settle across his face, tinged with a bit of worry. The worry is controlled though, in the same way that John had once looked at soldiers bleeding out on the sand in a foreign country and replaced his fear with resolve and determination, and the paradoxical softness and resolve makes Sherlock fall in love with John all over again as he stares up at John's lovely, dear face.
"Hey," John says quietly, his hands reaching down to entwine his fingers with Sherlock's. "Roberts was able to come back earlier than planned, so I didn't have to stay the full shift. Tell me, where have you gone?"
Sherlock blinks. "I've been here."
John smiles warmly. "Yes. But you're somewhere in your head, and it looks like you've been there for a bit. Care to tell me where?"
Sherlock doesn't know how to describe it--words are imperfect, they either exaggerate grotesquely or fail to convey any meaning whatsoever. So he just shrugs, and John seems to understand.
"Okay." He hesitates, searches through tactics, decides. "What can I do?"
They're so simple, those four words, but they make the start of tears prickle in the back of Sherlock's throat. Pressing his lips together at the frailty of his transport, he shrugs again and prays that John won't mistake it for indifference.
John's fingers pull at his and he lets go, thinking that John means to pull away, but instead John's grip tightens and Sherlock finds himself standing. A bare inch separates them, and what Sherlock wants to do is bury his face in the crook of John's neck and breathe in his familiar scent of tea and antiseptic and musk, but that simple inch feels insurmountable and--
And now John is pulling at him again, tugging gently but insistently, leading him towards their bedroom. The bedroom is dim, pale English sun just barely bleeding through the curtains, and John guides him to the bed and indicates that he should lay down. Sherlock lets his blue dressing gown slip from his shoulders and puddle on the floor and proceeds to undress until he stands in just his black pants. He looks at John uncertainly.
"Beautiful," John murmurs. "Lie down, love."
He does, and John joins him a moment later and curls around Sherlock's back. Protective, loving. And it's still not quite right, John's vest scrapes against a knife scar on his back that, while fully healed, seems to be psychosomatically sensitive today. He reaches behind and tugs awkwardly at the hem of John's vest. John shucks it, dropping it carelessly on the floor beside him before pressing himself around Sherlock's back once more.
It feels better, this time. Skin against skin, John's breath hot upon the nape of his neck, John's arm curled over Sherlock's side. It's pure comfort, and Sherlock wants to press back into it, lose himself in it.
It's hateful. He isn't worth being loved or cherished, and sooner or later John will realize that and leave, leave him with memories of being lived and that will make it hurt all the more. He could barely survived leaving John at the tarmac--had not intended to survive, had wanted the last word on his lips to be John and not a twisted scream at the hands of Eastern European thugs--and that was before he knew the taste of John's mouth on his, before he knew that being loved by John Watson felt like a baptism, like John's inherent goodness was washing him clean.
John presses a kiss to the nape of his neck and Sherlock winces, just a little. The kindness feels like a brand against his skin.
John notices. Of course he does, and he tenses--not pulling away, not yet, but alert to danger. "Sherlock," he whispers, and doesn't seem sure of how to continue.
"Why?" Sherlock whispers back, shoulders curling in on himself.
"What do you mean?" John asks quietly.
"Just," Sherlock flounders for words, "why--this." Were he sitting up, he would have swept an arm out grandly to indicate the entirely of this, but he stays burrowed into the bed, afraid of the answer.
"Why am I doing this?
"Yes. No. You're here. Why?"
John doesn't answer, but the tension in his muscles releases, just a bit, and he drapes himself even more firmly around Sherlock. He grabs Sherlock's hand again, nudges his fingers until they reluctantly entwine with his own.
"Oh, Sherlock. I'm here because I love you, and because you're the most important person in my life and I would do anything, anything, for you. And I'm guessing that's the part you don't get, yeah?" John props himself up on his right elbow to see Sherlock's face better.
As usual, John has gotten to the heart of the matter far more concisely than Sherlock. But he's afraid to acknowledge the truth of what John has said, so he shuts his eyes tighter.
"Let me tell you a story," John says softly, voice hushed. "Once upon a time a lonely and broken man met a brilliant madman who made him come alive again. And that man fell in love with the genius at first sight, just a little, and then again more when he made his limp disappear, and again when he thought the genius was going to die because of a cabbie, and again when they walked away together giggling and discussing good Chinese restaurants. And he fell in love again and again--in a planetarium and a modern art museum and a pool and an inn and a hospital and a wedding and a tarmac and at Baker Street--a little more each time until it was undeniable and the madman and the lonely man came together for good. And the rest of the story doesn't matter."
Sherlock scoffs, weakly. "How can it not matter?"
"It does, some," John acknowledges. "It's our story and it forged us in fire, and so it matters because it's us. It's our nightmares and our fears and our shame and our hurt, and we wouldn't be the same without everything that has happened to us. But it doesn't matter because even after everything I love you and you love me. And that's just as real and true, and it will last far, far longer than the rest of the story."
John hesitates for a moment before adding, "And it's what we fought for. Even when I didn't know it, I think we were both fighting to become what we are now. And it's a shame to let our triumph be swept away in our past."
Sherlock opens his eyes to find John looking down at him, and if he notices that Sherlock's eyes are a bit wet he doesn't mention it. "But, all of the times I hurt you--" he starts.
"Don't matter," John says firmly. "I've hurt you, too. We can play this game all day but it's pointless, really, because it's over and can't change anything. It's done. We've broken the scale, you and I; the things we've done are too heavy to measure and so we just have to feel our way into it. I love you. And you love me, yeah?"
"Yes," Sherlock answers, quickly, ardently. "I--I always have. And will."
"Okay." John smiles for a moment, startlingly incandescent. He squeezes Sherlock's hand a little tighter. "And as to why I'm here, beyond the fact that I love you and promise to always, always be here for you--I've had days like this too. Mostly before I met you, when I was newly invalided out with a bum shoulder and a mindfuck of a leg. And I remember, just, how much I wanted someone there. To sit in the dark with me, if need be, and wait. You know that story about the guy who's stuck in a hole? A priest passes by and throws down a prayer, and a doctor passes by and throws down a prescription, and they do fuck-all to help. And then a friend passes by and jumps down into the hole with him and says 'I've been here before, and I know the way out.' So. This is me saying that I know what this feels like, and even if I can't lead you out, I will be with you anyway."
John moves away from Sherlock and he feels suddenly bereft, but then John coaxes Sherlock into facing him. Their legs tangle together and John's eyes meet his, a hand caressing his cheek. He turns his face into the warmth, savoring the feel of John's calluses on his skin. "So," John says, his breath ghosting over Sherlock's lips, "sometimes there are days like this. And I will be here to remind you that not every day will be like this. I will remind you that scars heal and fade, and that you are a better person than you will ever give yourself credit for, and that I love you. And that tomorrow may bring a horribly twisted serial killer or a locked room murder or just a quiet day here in 221B with mundane chores and paying bills and curry in the evening, but that tomorrow will always end with the two of us against the rest of the world."
"John," Sherlock says, and stops. His voice is shaky and tears leak out against his will.
"Oh, love," John says quietly, reaching for him and pulling him close. "I know. I know."
Sherlock buries his face into the crook of John's neck while John places gentle kisses on his temple. And the kindness still stings, just a little, but it's okay. He knows, knows in a way he didn't an hour ago, just how deep John's affections run, and it's inexplicably terrifying to realize that someone sees in him things that he never saw in himself. He has always been prepared for others to see the worst in him--the cold man who delights in solving clever murders, the disappointing sibling, the horrible friend. The sociopath. But John sees the best in him more clearly than Sherlock sees it himself. It's terrifying to love and be loved in such a way, Sherlock is discovering.
It's worth it.