Give Me Love

________

oo

January 17th, 2012

from the Journal of John Watson

oo

The first time I met Sherlock Holmes, he was working. He was always working.

He worked and worked until it became part of his identity. He was remarkable. He was untouchable. No matter where he went, what he did, it was always work. Work had always been the primary thing; the goal, the undercurrent in everything he does.

I suppose it's only fitting that he died at the hands of it.

________

Sherlock stared at his brother. "He what?"

Mycroft sniffed, looking a little ashamed in spite of himself. "John seems to have - disappeared." He scratched the bald crown of his head absently. "One minute, my man was watching him. John went out to get milk. The next - he had vanished. Almost as if by - " He stopped himself abruptly.

Sherlock had begun to pace. He was like a terrier of a man, broken and open, as he stood in Mycroft's meeting room. His eyes were tight around the corners, his lips pressed tightly together, and his face was pale, even more so than usual. It was like he was trying to hold in the emotion that was threatening to overwhelm him, the emotion that would undoubtedly show that he was not untouchable, perhaps even verging on vulnerable.

He would never admit to vulnerability, Mycroft knew. But he could see it in Sherlock's movements, the carelessness with which he moved, like he was in a dream, that this would never become reality.

"John could not -" Sherlock paused. "Is he dead, Mycroft? Do not lie to me. You wouldn't like my reaction to such an act at all."

Mycroft regarded his brother with raised eyebrows. "I wouldn't think of it," he said dryly. "I - do not know whether John Watson is dead or not." He paused, and then added, looking - to Sherlock - a mix of rueful and constipated, "I am sorry, brother." And then, just because this was his brother, for God's sake, "Now you know how it feels to be the one left alone, I suppose."

Sherlock met his cool gaze with a furious one of his own, and then, not even bothering to reply, he stormed out, his coattail flying up behind him with a flourish.

________

oo

February 6th, 2012

from the Journal of John Watson

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I've never claimed to be particularly deep on the philosophy front. I do not usually spend my days wondering why we are really here, at all. I do not claim to be wise, or brave, or individual. But I will say this one thing:

Wherever we may go when we die, whether there is a black pit of nothingness or fields of gold or a new life, it cannot possibly hurt as much as it feels to be the ones left behind. Funerals are not for the dead; they are for the mourners. Tears are not for the lost ones; they are for relief. Cruel nightmares do not bring the deceased back; they only succeed in haunting the living.

Wherever Sherlock is, whether he's alive or dead or lost somewhere between, the ones left behind are the ones who have to deal with the most pain. I am the one who has to wake up every morning without Sherlock's musings coming from the living room; I am the one who turns around to say, 'Sherlock, can you get the milk?' only to find myself talking to an empty room.

I don't know if it's his death that haunts me, or the not knowing. Not knowing whether he's truly alive or dead. Unsure whether it's a fluke. Always hoping it's not. Always knowing it probably isn't.

________

"He thought you were dead."

"I know, but - " Sherlock knew how to do many things, but deal with his best friend's enraged and protective sister was certainly not one of them. Not one bit.

"You left my brother, for - for God only knows how long, thinking you were bloody well dead! Do you know how wrecked he was over your death? How many times I went over there just to get him out of bed? John - "

Sherlock decided the Sherlock-bashing had gone on long enough. "Is missing," he said curtly.

"What?" Harry's eyes widened. She blinked. And then blinked again. She opened her mouth to say something, and then closed it again. Open. Close. Blink. Open. Close. Blink - "Is he dead?" she asked bluntly.

Sherlock closed his eyes resignedly. "I don't know," he said roughly.

"You don't know?" Harry spat. "You seem to know everything else. My brother believed in you, you know, even when you lied to him, saying that your stupid talents were fake, and then jumped off a building. He never got anything for it, never got any mercy from the loss, but he never stopped believing in Sherlock goddamn Holmes." Her voice was drenched with sarcasm. Then she said abruptly, "You don't deserve him."

"I know."

"You never did."

"I know."

"You won't find him. John, I mean." Harry paused. "Not unless he wants to be found, anyway."

Sherlock looked up sharply. "Do you know something I don't?" he said, sounding rather agitated about the mere idea of such a thing. "Because, if you do - "

Harry sounded almost amused when she said, "When we were children, John always hid when mum and dad fought, to get away from the shouting. He had the best hiding places. He'd let me hide with him, sometimes, and we'd stay there, entangled in each other, until the house was silent. Or we'd play Hide and Seek - well, when we weren't fighting, anyway - and he'd always win. Always." She laughed a little.

She stared off into space for a moment, before turning back to Sherlock and curling her lip in distaste. "That's what this is, you see, Mr Holmes. One big game of Hide and Seek. You can spend years running after somebody, only to come up with nothing. John would know that best, wouldn't he?" She smiled bitterly.

Sherlock couldn't see how this helped the situation whatsoever - except to make him feel even more helpless. Sherlock Holmes did not like to feel helpless. It was not a - familiar feeling to him. "What do I do then?" he forced out through gritted teeth.

"You find John," Harry said mildly. "When he's done sorting out his problems. You know," she added conversationally, "if my brother gets hurt, I swear to fucking God, I will kill you for all that you have done."

And then she spins on her heel, retreating into the house, and slamming the door shut in Sherlock's face.

________

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April 10th, 2012

from the Journal of John Watson

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He's everywhere I go. I can't stand it. In the news, on newspapers, his name falling of the lips of strangers. London reminds me so much of him, and it's going to drive me mad.

The other day I dreamed that me and Harry were children again, playing hide and seek. She was wearing the new pink flower dress she received for her birthday, and I was dressed up smartly, in a suit that almost drowned me at the age of eight. I walked up to her, smiling, and said, "Come find me."

And then I ran, and ran, and ran, and suddenly I was in a warehouse and I knew Sherlock was here but I just couldn't find him. The soft sound of my feet against concrete was almost comforting against the yelling of Sherlock, where are you? and please, you can't just leave me. Please.

Almost.

________

I can't just wait around doing nothing. - SH

Do whatever u have been doing 4 the last 2 years then. HW

Destroying Moriarty's men? There are no imminent risks. I was going to tell John when we were absolutely sure, in a couple of weeks - SH

Harriet. - SH

Ms Watson. - SH

Please stop ignoring me.- SH

What do I do? - SH

W/E. Idc. HW

Your use of acronyms is most enlightening. - SH

Where could he have gone? - SH

Canada, maybe? - SH

Or the Caribbean? - SH

What about Switzerland? - SH

New Zealand? - SH

Wait for him to contact you. HW

And if he's dead? - SH

He's not. HW

How do you know? - SH

I just do. Go away. HW

________

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November 15th, 2012

from the Journal of John Watson

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I went to the top of the building today - stood where he had stood. I don't think if I ever planned on jumping. I don't know. I stood there and stared out across the sea of faces. Nobody noticed me. Nobody even looked up.

That's the problem with people, you know; they spend their whole lives looking at the dirt, instead of looking up. They'd rather be invisible.

I can't say I blame them.

________

Sherlock somehow found himself at Baker Street. John had continued to live here after he'd - 'died' - and Sherlock had just wanted to yell at him Don't. Leave. Make a new life for yourself. It will just hurt more.

But then, Sherlock wasn't really sure about that, either. Would it really have made any difference?

He didn't know.

He hated that he didn't know.

He was sitting in one of the armchairs, staring up at the ceiling. His phone lay in his limp hand. The chairs were almost exactly the same, save for the occasional small tear and patch of dirt. He could see why John would have wanted to stay here. Baker Street was ageless. Nothing ever changed here. It was separate from the world - it was their place.

Sherlock picked up his phone, keying in three letters.

Where are you? SH

The reply was almost instantaneous.

You lied to me.

Sherlock closed his eyes tight, and then opened them again. With embarrassingly shaking hands, he typed:

To save you. SH

You could have given me a sign.

and then, two seconds later:

But you didn't.

and:

Not even once.

Sherlock leaned back in the armchair, swallowing painfully. His fingers seemed to move without his permission.

I'm sorry, John.

Good.

Will you come home now?

No.

________

oo

January 17th, 2013

from the Journal of John Watson

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The anniversary of Sherlock's death came and went. I stayed inside 221B and stared at the ceiling all day. Mrs Hudson came in and told me I should move out, if it will make it hurt any less. I told her I couldn't bear to. She smiled a little and said she was glad. And then she left.

________

"Mycroft? Did you track the location of the mobile?"

Sherlock's brother looked aggrieved. He, like Sherlock,wasn't used to getting what he wanted with a click of his fingers. "No." He sighed. "We keep getting mixed signals - one minute it's in Mexico, the next it's in Cornwall, the next Essex. Right now, we're in New Zealand."

Sherlock rested his face in his hands. "I knew it was a bad idea to - get - friends." He spat out 'friends' like it was a bad word.

"You don't mean that," Mycroft said bluntly, taking a delicate sip of his tea.

Sherlock decided not to even grace that comment with a reply.

________

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March 4th, 2013

from the Journal of John Watson

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Harry split up with Clara. Again. We've gotten - well, we've gotten a little closer since - Sherlock. Not closer in a family-everything-is-wonderful way, exactly, but more in a bonding-over-experience way. She comes over and we drink until we can't walk and then talk about nothing and everything. It's nice. It reminds me that things can change.

It also reminds me that I have nothing to lose anymore.

________

I missed you. All the time, I thought about you. SH

Go on. JW

I hated it. Being away from you. Leaving everything. SH

Will you come home now? Please, John. SH

No. Not yet.

and then, almost as an afterthought:

No leaving severed heads in the fridge, Sherlock.

Don't forget the groceries, either. You have to eat, too.

I survived 3 years without you, John. I know. SH

We both know you got one of Mycroft's minions to do it.

I really did miss you, John.

Me too.

________

oo

December 25th, 2013

from the Journal of John Watson

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I went into his room, today. I sat on his bed and stared at the ceiling and wondered what the hell that smell was. I found a suspicious mass of purple liquid beneath the bedside table, and laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

________

"Will you leave me alone?" She blew a piece of hair away from her face. He leaned against the doorframe. It was an odd sight, the sleep-deprived supposedly revived genius and the heartbroken alcoholic. It was a good thing he liked odd things.

Sherlock suppressed a pout. "I'm bored."

"Go fall off another building, then."

Ouch, that was a low blow.

He decided that he liked Harriet Watson.

There were a few moments of silence. He didn't move. Neither did she.

"I'm back with Clara," Harry said suddenly, like this was the best news Sherlock had heard all day. At his blank look, she added, like he was an idiot, "My girlfriend."

"Ah," he said, and stared.

She stared back at him - and then began to laugh, great, heaving chuckles that shook her whole frame. "It really is true," she murmured, half to herself. "You two are perfect for each other."

"What?"

She smirked at him, looking too amused, and then, once again, slammed the door shut in his face.

________

oo

September 19th, 2014

from the Journal of John Watson

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I apologise if I'm not writing as much. I am busy with - well, work. It's easier to immerse oneself in work, I find, that to face one's problems.

I just realised that I'm apologising to a damned book. I'm getting almost as bad as Sherlock at conversing with inanimate objects.

Harry came over today, and she listened as I told her all about Sherlock, and she was only a little bit drunk - but then, so was I. I listened as she rambled on about Clara and then we sat in companionable silence.

"You know," she said abruptly. "You two really were perfect for each other. It's almost sickening. You balanced each other out. You were, like, I don't know, the ying to his yang."

We stared at each other for a few moments. And then we burst into half-crazed, half-broken laughter.

________

Don't forget to pay the gas bills. JW

And water.

John. How am I supposed to do this? SH

John, why does it keep coming up with 'your account has been locked'? SH

John. Come home. SH

No. Not yet.

________

I thought about you every second of every day while I was gone? SH

I wrote you a violin piece? SH

You're the best friend I've ever had? SH

Mycroft's chairs never did get any more comfy. In fact, they tended to be even more uncomfortable when you were sending sappy texts. Sherlock wasn't sure if that was a psychological thing, or if Mycroft programmed them that way.

Probably the latter.

Sherlock, I'm the only-

WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME? SH

The truth, Sherlock.

What?

That I spent every second of everyday thinking about you and that there were times when Mycroft had to lock me in my bloody room because I wanted to go home to you, even though it would have put you in imminent danger and that I-

Yes?

Apologies. Word limit.

That I hate it, because it's so damned weak, but, by God, John Watson, I'm in love with you?

The reply didn't come for a whole half an hour.

And when it did, Sherlock - literally - leaped from Mycroft's Chair of Death with joy.

You know where I am.

Come find me.

and then,

Oh, and don't forget the milk.

________

oo

January 17th, 2015

from the Journal of John Watson

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Mycroft rang my mobile today. He said, 'I must confess to you - I am most apologetic for the last three years, John.'

And then he hung up.

And I knew what he meant. I don't know how. God, it was crazy. But I knew.

I went to Harry's house and told her I'm going away for a while. She must have seen something in my face, in my expression, because she nodded and let me go. Just before I left, she said, "But, John - you can't hide forever."

And I nodded. Because it was true.

Even Sherlock knew that, apparently.

________

John heard the quick, brisk footsteps outside before he heard the door bang open with a thud. He'd been waiting for a surprisingly long time - almost half an hour, pratically an impossibility by Sherlock's standards - but he was happy to just sit in one of the comfortable chairs of Baker Street and relax. Going from motel to motel got rather uncomfortable after a while, and besides, there was no place that quite compared to home.

John smiled a little when he heard the door open, and clambered to his feet. Sherlock stood there, hair pointing in random directions, eyes shadowed. John leaned against the wall, trying to keep his voice casual as he said, "Did you get the milk?"

Sherlock attacked him. Literally. He threw himself at John, knocking him into the back wall and wrapping his arms around the other man. John was surprised to see that Sherlock's eyes were suspiciously shiny. He knew that his own cheeks were wet. Sherlock pulled back, and then dove in again, this time pressing his lips against John's, easing them apart, letting his hands snake their way up to wrap around John's neck.

John laughed, feeling like his heart might overflow with joy. "I love you, too, you know," he said softly, his lips close to Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock's only reply was to bury his face in John's shoulder.

They stood like that for a while, two desperate men separated by things that didn't matter, not now, two desperate men falling apart together, and it didn't matter because, God, they were together, something John had believed they never would be again.

Finally, he said, "No, seriously. Did you get the milk? Because I want a cup of tea."

Looking infinitely proud of himself, Sherlock reached behind him to pick up something that had fallen behind him when he saw John. He held it between them, like a trophy.

In his hand was a carton of milk.

John laughed. "You idiot," he said fondly, and there, in the arms of Sherlock Holmes, in the small, homely apartment of number 221B, Baker Street, it felt like neither of them had ever even left.