beyond the gravestones (sherlock/johnlock fanfic)

Chapter 22

Sherlock cautiously walked to the door and paused for a minute, listening. John had stayed outside for a while, sometimes banging on the door and yelling, sometimes knocking and pleading (Sherlock could only guess how much that last one had hurt his pride). He'd tried to distract himself by updating his ash index, but he'd invariably ended up reading John's blog, at which point he slammed the laptop shut and resigned himself to curling up in a ball. John had eventually stopped knocking and walked away, and Sherlock had heard him go downstairs. He might have heard the front door open, but he couldn't be sure.

He unlocked his door and peeked out. The kitchen was empty, the flat oppressively silent, and he was forcibly reminded of John's wedding and the loneliness it had entailed.

Perhaps that was better, he thought. At least John was happy. Now he's sad and angry and I'm the reason for it.

The thought made his gut twist painfully and he dropped into his armchair. He checked his phone to several texts from Mycroft, detailing the angry messages he'd received from John in the past hour. Sherlock couldn't stop his mouth from lifting into a smile at the screenshots. John had used some very expressive phrases, including moron and heartless and if you don't tell Sherlock that you were bullshitting with that 'caring is not an advantage' stuff, I'll break your umbrella.

Apart from that, there were several missed calls from John and a text saying 'call me'. For a few seconds, Sherlock's fingers hovered over the keypad, and he tapped out 'please come back'. There was a moment when he imagined pressing send, then John would come back and they'd hug and he'd explain everything.

He erased the message and switched off his phone.

They're just emotions. Chemicals in the brain which can be controlled if need be.

But he'd studied enough chemistry and biology to know otherwise.

He tuned his violin, but ended up playing such a mournful melody that he depressed himself further. Flinging it down on the armchair in disgust, he picked up a pile of post-its, intending to update his case notes. But his brain was too muddled, and even thinking about Rosie getting kidnapped was painful. He made himself some tea, then realized he'd made two cups out of habit. Slamming the cups down in frustration, he grudgingly admitted that he couldn't tune his emotions out this time.

One day, he thought helplessly. You get one day to wallow around like a lovesick fool.

The lights seemed too bright, so he switched them off and curled up on the sofa. His arm brushed against something soft, warm and instantly recognizable, and he pulled it out with a sinking feeling. It was one of those ridiculous jumpers, the ones which John somehow managed to look endearing in. He ran his fingers over the knitting pattern and recognized it as the one John had worn to their first case. They'd both been so alone and averse to offers of help, but so entirely willing to throw their lot in with each other. He still didn't know what had gone through his head when he saw John for the first time and decided, that's him, that's my new flatmate. He definitely hadn't expected to find a companion, a friend, and a lover.

How could I have expected it? I make enemies on a daily basis. Nobody who comes in contact with me can possibly be safe. My love only endangers people and turns them into weapons - against myself.

He hugged the jumper to his chest and wishing that he had had the foresight to store away just one dose of morphine, resigned himself to a night of misery.

***

For the most part, single parenthood hadn't been all that hard on John. Rosie had a lot of doting godparents and a loving aunt, all ready to take care of her at a moment's notice. Once Sherlock got the hang of what he called the 'baby business', he had been a huge help. John hadn't expected him to be so patient or so good with Rosie. In fact, even saying he was a single parent felt immoral. Sherlock had been there all along.