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2014-01-05
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Thirteen

Summary:

There are thirteen possible ways to approach John Watson, and none of them are right.

Notes:

Thanks to Bendingsignpost for the extra pair of eyeballs. I promise to keep them in the microwave.

I wrote this as a thought exercise in an alternate Sherlock POV, a “what if?”… not to say I necessarily think this is what was in Sherlock’s head in TEH. Events in TEH are slightly tweaked to suit this AU perspective.

(This is my 13th work on AO3. Entirely accidental!)

(See the end of the work for other works inspired by this one.)

Work Text:

When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
-- Wallace Stevens, “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird”

 

There were thirteen possible ways to escape from the roof of Barts, but it doesn’t matter which one Sherlock chose. If he’s here now, breathing in thick motes of dust in 221B, it doesn’t matter how he arrived. He exists in this space, disturbing the curtains, settling into the chair that can only be his. It doesn’t matter that he winces when he leans back against the leather, that his back is still tender underneath a crisp, unfamiliar shirt. Thirteen ways, two years, one end result. The result is the only thing of importance.

Thirteen. Thirteen possible ways to approach John Watson, and none of them are right.

People are such idiots, imagining that Sherlock doesn’t understand them. Humans. Nature. Sherlock set his brain to the task of understanding them at such an early age that he doubts anyone else could know them better. How else to deduce the behaviour of an alcoholic sister choosing to gift a phone, a sentimental widow and her son who licks the plate clean? And yet people are so remarkably thick, so easily suggestible, that they’re willing to believe Sherlock doesn’t understand. If he’s too too rude, too harsh, they will chalk him up as socially deficient. He learned to do this long ago. The pleasantries of society are tedious and hamper his efficiency. Best to carve out an identity that doesn’t require them.

But he knows people. Above all else, he knows John Watson. He knows the sound of John’s voice and the way it will break when he speaks. The way it broke at Sherlock’s grave.

The lashings in Serbia were inconsequential. They drove blood to the surface, broke the skin. But John’s voice cannot break again.

Thirteen, a text. Not dead. Let’s have dinner. A joke from the past, a shared experience? Too glib, too crass.

Twelve, a phone call: “John.” Then, silence on the line, the sound of John’s choked breath. John often reacts with violence. He’ll hurl the phone, he’ll shatter it. Connection lost.

Eleven through nine are different codes sent in email, a mystery to occupy John while distracting him from the horror of Sherlock’s reappearance. Of the three codes, one is too easy, one too difficult. The remaining code would take John two hours to solve, precisely the right amount of time. The encoded message itself, something brief, simple to crack: Alive. Apologies.

John will hate it. John will need to see him in person.

Eight, Mycroft sends a car. The meeting is private, in a still, soundproof room underneath the Diogenes where John can rant and rave. Someone will pour John a stiff drink of something very expensive. Mycroft’s suggestion. Sherlock rejects it on principle.

Seven involves the homeless network. Six, Molly Hooper. But Sherlock already owes them a debt for the original deception, and shocking John with the news that Sherlock had confidantes would be poor timing. The shocks must emerge piecemeal, staggered blows, not a single explosion.

Five, Mrs Hudson invites John to Baker Street where Sherlock waits. Baker Street, comfortable, reassuring, could stabilise them and pull at John’s deep sense of home. Mrs Hudson will cry throughout and John will tend to her fragile trembling, a trembling that only serves as a mask for the pure, brittle anger she’ll direct at Sherlock after John has gone. No, Mrs Hudson could never be a witness to their reunion. Her core is steel, but that doesn’t mean she should have to call upon it. She doesn’t know that Sherlock sits here, that he’s disturbed the dust. He will return to her, but not now.

Four. Something far-fetched, a blatant lie to stack on top of the pile he’s already amassed.

A chance encounter in the park, Sherlock wandering like a vagrant. He’ll feign homelessness, memory loss, untended injuries -- and he has enough injuries now to convince John of anything. He’ll need a three-inch gash on his temple -- easily done -- and some additional bruises. A lump at the back of his head. Sherlock has no doubt that he can maintain the charade, but there will be hospital stays and therapy, months of precisely engineered recovery under the watchful eyes of a particularly observant doctor.

John will open the door in the morning, eyes bleary with sleepless concern, and sit by Sherlock’s bedside. John will deliver copies of the Telegraph, the Guardian, photos of crime scenes, crossword puzzles, autopsy reports. He’ll remain for hours if he’s allowed, fishing for the trigger, the one thing that releases the floodgate of Sherlock’s memories.

“See, Sherlock, this photo by the bank, here? We found a corpse in the mud, but you determined he’d been killed by injection, thrown in the river --”

Sherlock will pretend not to remember. John’s face will crumble, although he’ll clear his throat and try his damndest to hide it.

Sherlock could pull it off. It would be possible. But John would be so very patient, so kind, and therein lies the danger. A fall couldn’t kill Sherlock, but John’s kindness very well might.

No, John will need to hit him, will need to feel Sherlock’s blood under his hands. John believes in what he can see and touch. John will grab at him, will close a welcome iron grip around Sherlock’s wrists. John needs this. Sherlock can give it to him. Sherlock has taken so much; of all things, he can give John this.

So it must be in person, but not entirely alone. John needs a witness, an anchor to reality, because Sherlock is most definitely not a hallucination. There can be no doubt.

Three, John’s flat. Sometime in the evening, after supper, when he can ring the bell and step out of the darkness, revealing himself by degrees. John will answer the door, but Mary will be home. Depending on the solidity of their relationship, she’ll provide needed support, or prove herself unworthy. Either way, John needs to know before he proposes.

Mycroft knew about the ring last week. He delivered the news with predictable smugness, watching Sherlock as if savouring every twitch of his reaction. Mycroft holds new information over Sherlock’s head like a prize, and this one was a particularly glossy apple.

“They have a reservation tonight,” Mycroft said. Sherlock did not twitch, but later, he had a single cigarette.

No, John’s flat is an impossibility. It oversteps the bounds that John has neatly laid out for his new life. John is a soldier, and this would be an invasion. John could stand at the doorway and drive him out, and he’d be well within his rights. Sherlock cannot force himself into a space that’s not meant to contain the both of them.

Two, John’s workplace. Posing as a patient is Sherlock’s favoured strategy. Thankfully it’s been two years since Sherlock attempted it, so it won’t be fresh in the minds of the staff. His mouth twitches at the thought of John’s reaction last time, when Sherlock had slipped past the front office to test a disguise as a forty-two year old female barrister. When John had finished shouting and throwing Sherlock’s wig at the wall, they’d both laughed until Sherlock’s mascara ran down his face and threatened to stain his tastefully ruffled blouse.

The memory bites at Sherlock’s chest and trips his pulse unexpectedly. He swallows and steeples his fingers, his own breath hot on his hands until the sting fades from the corners of his eyes.

One, then. What remains. A reservation.

In public, with Mary. A tactic so absurd, so incomprehensible, that only someone as socially inept as Sherlock would dare attempt it. It will be the type of graceless, fumbled move that John might expect of Sherlock, the type that once caused John to cringe and grit his teeth and laugh when no one else was looking.

John will fight down his rage and then explode, and Sherlock will have given him this at last: heartbeats under trembling fingers, blood and stars behind their eyes, the only end result they need. And when his hot, shaking hands pull Sherlock to the floor, John will never know that this was the best of all possible choices.

In 221B, the dust settles like ash from a cigarette. Sherlock stands far too quickly and sucks in a breath.

Works inspired by this one: