Chapter Text
Normally, John was awake before his alarm chirped. Repetitive night terrors coupled with an ever-changing sleep schedule made it difficult to sleep at the best of times, and impossible at the worst. But, he always set his alarm just in case. On a few occasions, when he had finally fallen asleep after a long battle with insomnia, his alarm startling him awake made sure to nip that in the bud.
So when he woke up to a soft ringing on his bedside table, he was confused. When he realized it was his phone alarm, he rubbed his eyes… Then he became confused again when he noticed he didn’t have the urge to chuck his phone at the nearest wall.
A body moved next to him in the bed, and he looked over in the darkness. A familiar face and build met his eyes.
Those beautiful silver-blue eyes. They pierced through the darkness, reminding him of his flashback, and John had the stray thought that he never expected to appreciate a flashback occurring before. And in public, of all places.
“As much as I’d love to sleep for the next three years,” John leaned over and kissed Sherlock’s cheek, “I’ve got work.” He sat up with a groan.
Sherlock grumbled and wrapped his arms around John’s waist, causing the doctor to laugh softly. The sound was thick and low, and Sherlock wanted to hear it again.
“Feel free to sleep in.” John reached over and grabbed his phone, turning off the alarm. “I don’t mind if you stay after I leave.”
“What’s the point of staying if you’re not here?” Sherlock sulked, letting his arms be removed by John’s hands as the blonde freed himself.
“Well, to sleep in I assume.” John teased, looking over his shoulder. Sherlock rolled his eyes, disappointed as John got out of bed. The doctor grabbed a pair of scrubs from his closet and went to the bathroom. The sound of water hitting tile soon followed.
The background noise, coupled with Sherlock’s half-awake status, led the man to fall under the waves of sleep yet again.
The next time he woke up, daylight streamed through John’s bedroom window. Groggily, he reached for the body that had been lying next to him in his dream. He furrowed his brows and opened his eyes, confused when he felt cold sheets.
Ah, that’s right. John left for work.
Sherlock rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up. His head throbbed at the temples, but it wasn’t unbearable. Just a mild annoyance. He went to grab his phone from the nightstand and felt a piece of paper on top of it. Sherlock looked over, seeing a note, and pulled both his phone and the paper closer. He rested the device on his blanket-covered lap, rubbed his eyes again to smooth away the blurriness of his vision, and then read the note:
Told ya you’d want to sleep in. When you leave, lock the flat door. And if you steal anything remember that I know where you live. ☺
Otherwise, after work I’m headed to rehearsal. I’ll see ya there, Holmes.
♥ - JW
Sherlock smiled.
And then the realization of his situation, and his feelings, made his heart race with fear. What was wrong with him? Caring was not and never will be an advantage. It only leads to pain and failure.
What about the cold case? His mind offered. You caring about him led to you inviting him over, which led to you solving it.
He rubbed his temples, his headache developing into a migraine with the stress. He needed to think. His thoughts were jumbled and too much information had been left unprocessed.
Sherlock lay back down and closed his eyes, pressing his hands together with the fingertips touching his chin, and he retreated into his Mind Palace.
The detective opened his eyes, and he was in the foyer of his family home. Well, what was once been his family home. Sherlock rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath, steadying himself and shaking off the last remnants of his discomfort.
“Why do I have to keep telling you that caring is not an advantage?”
The voice of his brother, condescending and emotionless, came from his left. He turned his head and saw the tall auburn-haired man twirling an umbrella. He stared at Sherlock with mild disappointment, his hawk-like nose tilted up slightly as if Sherlock was beneath him. That gesture never failed to get underneath Sherlock’s skin.
“Ah, Mycroft.” Sherlock sneered. “Of course you would be the personification.”
“I’m the one who taught you it, to be fair.” Mycroft narrowed his gaze, leveled his head, and tilted it slightly as he studied Sherlock. “Don’t you remember primary school? All those bullies and vagrants tearing you down, singling you out?”
Sherlock winced at the memories of being punched, kicked, shoved, and yelled at.
“Freak.”
Sally’s voice came through as the memories flooded him, followed by a chorus of children and teachers alike repeating it. He felt small, powerless, as shadows circled him. The shame crawled up his spine like an infection, leaving Sherlock shaking in the middle of the eye of the storm. Suddenly he was feeling too much. There were too many emotions to process. Too much pain.
“You survived because I taught you to stop caring about what they said or did. I taught you how to use someone’s empathy as a tool. It’s a weakness, Sherlock. Found always on the losing side.”
Sherlock gripped his head, shaking where he stood. His face felt wet. Was he crying?
“Don’t pay him any mind, William.”
The soft soothing voice cut through the chorus of voices chanting ‘freak’, silencing them almost immediately. They were still there, Sherlock could tell, he could hear them as if they were outside the front door. But with distance between him and the darkness, he could start to breathe again.
Sherlock looked to his right, seeing a greying woman smiling at him.
“Your brother forgets that the reason he ‘helped you’ all those years ago was because he cared about you.” Sherlock’s mother glared past Sherlock at her oldest son. “You stop filling his head with all that nonsense, Mycroft. Besides…” Their mom looked at Sherlock and smiled brightly, that same smile that always relaxed Sherlock when he went running home upset.
“…was it not empathy that led you to helping John in the first place? The same empathy you felt with Victor?”
“But…” Sherlock frowned, looking down the hallway and seeing his younger self running toward them, Sherlock behind a brown-haired child of the same height. Both kids smiled and laughed as they turned the corner and sprinted off, the family dog chasing after them.
“I know he’s gone, now, William.” His mom gave him a sad smile. “But you two made some wonderful memories together, didn’t you? Before he passed?”
Sherlock closed his eyes, hearing the faint beeping of a heart monitor before it flat-lined. Pain radiated in his chest.
“But it hurt so much.” Sherlock whispered, opening his eyes and finding himself at the back of a hospital room. He watched his child-self scream at Victor, who was lying in the bed completely still, to wake up. His mother, who was less grey and more brunette, grabbed him from behind and pulled him away. Sherlock kicked and screamed before he finally buried his face into his mother’s chest and sobbed. The people around the three were a blur, a mass of barely cohesive shapes. All that had mattered in that moment for Sherlock had been him and Victor.
“That’s the price of caring, I’m afraid.” Sherlock could almost feel his mother’s arms around him when he closed his eyes. “When life hurts them, you’ll feel it too. But,” the phantom touch of his mother pushing his curls out of his face eased some of the heartache in his rib cage, “When life rewards them, sweetheart, you’ll feel that as well.”
Sherlock opened his eyes and saw his mother looking up at him, that loving and caring look in her eyes that made him bend to her will whenever she used it. It was what sent him to rehab a few months ago. The same look that gave him the courage to talk to Victor, to pursue his passion, to continue perfecting the violin, and so much more.
“That’s what makes the pain worth it in the end, mon cher. Seeing the one’s you care about happy. Watching them thrive and grow. And when the time comes… being with them when it hurts the worst.”
Sherlock looked past his mother to the hospital room behind them. He noticed his mother sobbing as she held the younger Sherlock, hearing those whispered apologizes in his ear.
“I’m so sorry, mon cher. My sweet William.” She stroked the back of Sherlock’s head, holding him tight to her. “At least you got to speak with him, oui? You got to be here with him, made his last hours less scary? Good Lord in Heaven, I’m sorry, my sweetheart. I’m sorry it happened at all.”
Sherlock opened his eyes, his vision blurred with tears. He sat up in John’s bed and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. As he took a moment to breathe and come back to reality, he noticed that he wasn’t as fearful anymore. He was worried about what would happen, how things would progress, and what he would do if John ever lost interest, but he wasn’t afraid of being attached. Deep down, in the recesses of his mind, he wanted it. Not with anyone else he’s met, no, he fully meant it when he said they were all idiots. No, John was different – a breath of fresh air for a suffocating man.
It was a few minutes after Sherlock’s revelation that he thought of checking his phone. He noticed that he had messages from two people: John and Lestrade.
Of course, he read John’s first.
Thanks for spending the night. It was the best sleep I’ve had in years. I hope you slept well, too. Even after I left.
I know we just met, what, four days ago? And you’re not used to all this romance stuff. So I’m sorry if things went too fast cause of the wine. But I do really like you.
If you need time, for whatever reason, I can wait. We’ll move at your pace. I gotta get back to work, now. Ta. ☺
Sherlock furrowed his brows, noticing the other phone numbers tagged with his as recipients in a different text that John sent. It was part of a group chat, apparently.
Oh for fucks sake. I’ll be MIA for an hour past start time. Some dumbass tried to fuck a toaster.
Sherlock burst into giggles at John’s wording, shaking his head. He read John’s fellow cast members’ replies – he presumed – with a grin.
I’m sorry but How Do You Fuck A Toaster John
Lol, miss working as a GP with me yet?
GOD no, I’d rather apply burn cream to some meth-head’s burned dick than work 15 flu cases in a day. Alright breaks over and I’m tapping in for a coworker, ta till later.
wAIT IT WAS ON??
Poor innocent Roger, it’s called sexual masochism. Also thank god danny doesn’t have a phone. I trust none of you to keep any conversation at E for Everyone.
Why is no one else confused as to HOW YOU FUCK A TOASTER!
Having had his fill of layman antics, he muted the conversation and replied to John directly.
Slept far longer than I expected. Or I spent longer in my Mind Palace than I realized. Either way, I’ve processed and sorted the information I needed to reflect on. I appreciate your consideration. –SH
See you tonight. We can discuss plans once you’ve finished tending to the sexual masochist and rehearsal. Your way of wording things is quite amusing, I must say. –SH
After what felt like ten minutes but was really more like thirty, Sherlock got to Lestrade’s message.
Alright I got to come out and ask: who’s this ‘Doctor Watson’ you mentioned over the phone yesterday?
Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. As much as he enjoyed the new attention from John, he did not enjoy having new attention from anyone else.
But Lestrade does supply him with cases. Which would make him happy. Which would make John happy. So pleasing Lestrade with an answer would, inevitably, work in his favor. Sherlock, however, couldn’t promise to make the message nice.
Scowling, Sherlock wrote a message:
A new colleague. One far more capable than your Yarders. He will be assisting me with cases from now on. –SH
Sherlock crawled out of John’s bed, tossing his phone onto the blankets, and walked to the bathroom.