Broken Trust (Sequel to To Trust Wholly)
John whined and tossed in his sleep, clutching at the blankets as voices echoed in his ears, shouting, panicked voices, and then a gunshot and John bolted upright, panting and eyes darting around the place. His human body was covered in sweat and he groaned, the echoes of pain shooting through his left shoulder, but he ignored it. The pain in his shoulder was nothing compared to the pain in his heart.
Flopping back onto the bed, John breathed deeply, covering his eyes with his forearm and his breath came out as a whine. He hated these nightmares. He hated that Sherlock wasn’t here to soothe him with kind words and gentle pets as he used to do when John had had nightmares as a pup.
The peace and content between him and Sherlock had lasted until John was twenty and Sherlock was twenty one. Then John’s curious nature had come between them. Sherlock normally hadn’t minded John’s curious nature – if anything, he encouraged John to explore and learn everything he could under the human’s warm supervision. But, this time, he’d gotten curious about something that Sherlock hadn’t liked. War. He was curious about war. He’d started collecting pamphlets and brochures and tucking them under the mattress in their flat. When Sherlock had found out, he’d been furious, and had punished John, making him sleep on the floor for the first time in years and refusing him kisses for an entire month. He’d pleaded and begged and apologised – he always hated upsetting Sherlock – but Sherlock had been determined and told him if he saw any more about the war from John, he would kick John out. John had steered clear of anything related to the war for the next two months before his curiosity became unbearable and he started collecting and reading up on it once more
John was interested to find that he would be able to join the war. Sherlock had made John a fake identity years ago. When Sherlock found out a month later, he’d quietly taken the things John had collected, calmly burnt them in the fireplace and ordered John out. John had shrunk back in the face of the calmness in Sherlock’s demeanour and the fierceness in his eyes and tried to explain, but Sherlock hadn’t wanted to listen. He collected all of John’s things, stuffed them into a duffel bag and threw them out the door and then turned back to John and pointed out the door silently.
Upset, John had gone, hopefully lingering on the doorstep and asking quietly, anxiously, “How long?”
Sherlock had shut the door and didn’t reply.
John had lingered outside the flat for months on end, but Sherlock never once called for him or looked for him.
He never did manage to bring himself to go to the war.
Shaking himself out from his depressing thoughts, John sighed and sat up. There was no point in trying to go back to sleep now. He was back in London, in a tiny, crappy flat, wishing he’d never even heard of war.
Swinging himself out of bed, glancing distastefully at the cane that he didn’t need for his gun wound but more for the limp that plagued him – PTSD, his therapist (something else he’d been forced to go to and had attended one session before never going back) had said, probably from the gunshot. No, it wasn’t from the wound. He knew that.
Scrubbing his hands over his face, John glanced out the window. It was light. He should go for a walk, get some fresh air. Grabbing his cane, he heaved himself up and walked out the door.
*.*.*.
An hour later, and he was walking into a lab with Mike Stamford (a bloke that had been nice to him and taken him in for a while after Sherlock had kicked him out) and looking around, making a joke about how it was different from his day – when Mike had shown him around here once or twice even though John hadn’t enjoyed it because it reminded him of Sherlock too much – and then froze in place, head swivelling to find the source the of scent the man that he still loved, even after all this time.
Sherlock. Sherlock was here. John’s heart pounded and his head whirled. He had conflicting overwhelming urges of running over to Sherlock and running away from him. But, wasn’t this why he was here in London? The chance to finding Sherlock?
Sherlock glanced at him, and then back to his experiment. The dismissal hurt, and John averted his gaze for a moment before taking a deep breath and straightening his back.
“Afghanistan, or Iraq?” Sherlock murmured the question, not looking up. His real question was obvious to John – to which country had he abandoned Sherlock for?
“Afghanistan,” John responded to the question. “How-?” he started, before cutting himself short and glancing at Mike. How did Sherlock act as if he didn’t know John, was what he wanted to ask. John was barely managing to stay upright.
Sherlock glanced at him and straightened, stalking forward. John trembled slightly, but stayed perfectly still. “Tan-line, obviously,” he said, and then walked over to Mike, holding out a hand, “Can I borrow your phone?
Tan-line? Oh. Sherlock was answering his cut-off question, but had misinterpreted.
“Sorry, it’s in my other coat,” Mike said with a shrug, and Sherlock sighed.
John’s hand was down in his pocket, gripping his phone and holding it out before he’d had time to realise that he’d done so, the words tumbling from his mouth, “Take mine.”
He wanted some recognition from Sherlock, some sign that he still loved John, or even liked him.
Sherlock looked at him and took the phone, but stilled for a spit-second in his typing, eyes widening minutely.
John held down a grin. Sherlock recognised the phone! It was the phone Sherlock had given him years ago, with the inscription:
To: John
From: Sherlock
Forever. x
John glanced away to hide his joy. Maybe there was even a chance that Sherlock still liked him? Still loved him maybe?
John knew he would never stop loving Sherlock. Even though he’d disobeyed Sherlock and been kicked out, John would never stop loving Sherlock, not ever. He’d sworn to stay with Sherlock forever and would love him always, and even if Sherlock didn’t let him stay, he would always love Sherlock. Nothing could stop that.
There was a clearing of the throat, and John looked up to see Sherlock staring at him intensely, the phone extended in his hand, and John took it, carefully letting his fingers brush against Sherlock’s as Sherlock murmured, “Thank you.”
John’s heart pounded, and his head dipped instinctively as he always had when he wanted a pat. He couldn’t help it, he’d been doing it his entire life, and he hardly noticed he was doing so. When there was no hand in his hair after a moment as usually happened when he did so, John realised what he was doing and cleared his throat in embarrassment, glancing up to see a smile flash across Sherlock’s face before it was gone once more.
“Right, I have to be go. Left my riding crop in the morgue,” Sherlock said, striding away and paused at the door, winking at John before disappearing.
John stared after him in silent longing. There was no call of his name for him to follow, or a snap of Sherlock’s long fingers. Disheartened, John glanced at Mike who smiled at him and shrugged. “I’ve got to go to. I’ll see you out,” Mike said, and started walking towards the door, glancing back at John before he reached it.
Mentally shaking himself, John forced a small smile and nodded, walking forward and keeping pace with Mike. The human’s pace was slow, more an amble than anything, and John missed keeping a pace behind Sherlock’s quick stride. Forcing himself not to dwell on the past, even though the scent of Sherlock hung thick in the air from where he had strode through moments earlier, taunting him with the desire to chase after Sherlock and catch up.
But, he had to resist. If he chased after Sherlock, he would surely be mad with John. Despite everything, it was still deeply ingrained in John to not do anything that might upset Sherlock. He’d only ever disobeyed Sherlock three times, and every time afterwards he’d always regretted it and wished he’d that he hadn’t done it.
Especially that last time. The first time he’d started collecting the brochures and pamphlets, he hadn’t known that he was doing something wrong – Sherlock had, after all, always encouraged his learning of new things that John found when they were out walking or when he sent John to the shops to get food.
And, even after he’d been punished and kicked out because of his interest in the war, he hadn’t joined, the pain of not being with Sherlock consuming him completely.
*.*.*.
Later that night as John sat on his bed, cane resting against the bed near his bedside table with a mug of tea and an apple on top of it – which he likely wouldn’t eat (he hadn’t eaten much since he’d left Sherlock and he’d lost a lot of weight) – he was staring at the wall, thinking, when his phone pinged with a text. Surprised – not a lot of people had his number, only Sherlock and Mike actually – John blinked himself out of his thoughts and dug his phone out of his pocket and unlocked it.
His heart pounded as he saw that the message was from Sherlock, set out in the familiar format from when Sherlock had used to text him instructions back before he’d been kicked out.
John.
221B Baker Street. 7pm tomorrow.
SH
John’s mouth was dry and he reached for his mug, taking a large gulp, eyes never leaving the screen. Sherlock had texted him. Sherlock wanted to meet him somewhere. A flat, probably. It wasn’t their old flat. Sherlock had probably moved out of there after John had given up and went off.
Did that mean Sherlock could forgive him? That they could live together once more and Sherlock could, once more, be his pack leader – his Alpha? Even though Sherlock was all that he could remember, his wolf side instinctively recognised Sherlock as the leader of their pack. It had taken him years to recognise what his instincts were telling him and even longer that he found the proper name for it.
Realising that it had been five minutes and he’d just been staring at the text, he jolted forward slightly, upright and on his feet, not sure what he was going to do, and then cursed as his leg crumbled underneath him and he fell to the floor. Pressing his head into the floor, he breathed deeply and with trembling arms lifted himself up into a sitting position and positioned his leg into a correct position where it didn’t hurt so much.
I’ll be there.
JW
He sent the text and leant back against the side of his bed, closing his eyes and waiting for either a response or for sleep and the nightmares to claim him.
Just as he was about to slip into sleep, his phone pinged and he peeked open his eyes to read it, before he fell asleep with a small smile on his face.
I know.
SH
*.*.*.
John walked (limped) into the flat, behind Sherlock, gaze fixed on Sherlock, hardly aware of the presence of the landlady. When Sherlock had invited him to the flat, he hadn’t thought that it was a place that Sherlock was looking at buying. Did that mean that Sherlock was inviting him to move in with him once again? He knew that it was unlikely that Sherlock had forgiven him just yet.
“It’s very nice,” John managed to get out as he rested his leg in the middle of the room, leaning on the cane and lifting his foot from the ground slightly to relieve the pressure on it.
Mrs Hudson asked, “Will you be needing two bedrooms?”
John looked at Sherlock, instinctively, wanting to instantly say no, but he knew it wasn’t his choice. Sherlock turned away to tidy up after a moment, but John had caught the flicker in his facial feature. Sherlock didn’t want them to have two bedrooms.
“No, thank you,” John told Mrs Hudson with a slight smile.
If Sherlock wouldn’t let him sleep in his room, it was likely John would be out in the living room. Either way, he’d be closer to Sherlock than he had been in nearly four years.
*.*.*.
Later, after the exhilarating chase after a cab and then back to Baker Street, after the drugs bust, when Sherlock had dashed off without John, and Lestrade had given his little speech about Sherlock becoming a good man, John paced the flat.
Where had Sherlock gone? He’d been acting odd before he left, and John had refreshed the search, and now he ran his hand through his hair. Darting over instantly as the computer beeped, John stared. It was moving.
Oh. Oh! No, no, no! Sherlock had gone after the killer by himself! What an idiot! Why would he do that? Why not let John know? Whining in anxiousness, John paced for a moment, waited for the dot to settle, zoomed in on it, and dashed out the door. Once he was out in the streets, he darted into an alley way and transformed. He had to pause for a few moments, head whirling as he fought to control himself and his instincts.
Focus! Sherlock was in danger!
Taking a deep breath, he dashed through dark alley ways to stay out of sight, running through a park. Sherlock had memorised London by the time he was seventeen, so John had been forced to learn it as well to keep up with him and not lose him.
The dot’s position focused in his mind, it only took him two minutes to reach it. Sniffing about, he caught the scent of a gun and poison, and whined, following the scent of the gun into a building. It was odd, there were three people here. Sherlock’s went into the other building, as did the scent of poison, but the gun scent was older. It had clearly come here before this. This was a set up.
Hackles raised, ears pricked, he heard Sherlock and an elderly male talk in the other building, goading Sherlock into taking a pill. John rushed through the halls, pausing as he located the scent of the gun. It was a sniper, ducked down low with the barrel of the gun just barely out the window, trained on Sherlock.
John glanced out the window and panicked as he caught sight of Sherlock raising the pill to his lips. John snarled as he saw the finger tighten around the trigger, and lunged, knocking the sniper to the ground as the shot fired. He spared a moment to listen, to hear Sherlock’s continued breathing and the laboured breathing of the elderly man, and quickly and cleanly snapped the neck of the sniper before dragging him and the gun out the back of the building to dispose of it.
Once that was done, he phoned the officer Lestrade and then made his way around the building, giving the police enough time to get there before he ventured onto the scene, eyes finding Sherlock wrapped in a shock blanket and unable to supress his smile of amusement.
He watched and listened as Sherlock started describing the sniper, and watched as Sherlock’s gaze fell on him then swept over him, taking in his raggard appearance, the dirt under his nails and the way some of his shirt was still untucked, and paused in speaking.
John watched as Sherlock strode over to him and stared down at him for a moment.
“Is it gone?” Sherlock questioned in a low voice.
“Completely,” John answered, gazing up at Sherlock’s face. He had so much that he wanted to say to Sherlock, and most of all he wanted to tell Sherlock that he was sorry and that he would always love him. Forever, he’d promised when Sherlock was eight and John seven.
Sherlock stared at him for a moment more, a small smile twitching on his lips, before he turned and started walking, saying, “Come, John. We’ve much to discuss.”
Finally, John thought with a grin as he caught up to Sherlock and stayed a step behind him as he always did.
*.*.*.
Back in the – their – flat, Sherlock shut the door behind them so Mrs Hudson wouldn’t hear and faced John, who was waiting in the middle of the room, cane long since discarded.
“Wolf,” Sherlock commanded, “I need to catalogue the changes.”
John hesitated a moment, well aware of what his wolf form now looked like, but before Sherlock could reprimand him or demand again, John transformed. He stood, head bent and eyes closed. Before Sherlock had kicked him out, changing into his wolf form had simply been shifting into his other skin, but now it was different. Now, he had to struggle to control himself and had to fight with his instincts.
His fur was rugged and unkempt, dirty and tangled. The gunshot wound on his left shoulder had no fur covering it, and his fur was longer than Sherlock had previously kept it at.
John closed his eyes, not wanting to see Sherlock’s face as he took him in. He’d used to look clean and good and fierce, now he just looked wild and pathetic. John hated it. But he couldn’t exactly trim his own fur.
A finger gently pressed against the gunshot wound, and John didn’t flinch, staying still as he felt Sherlock bend to inspect it. “It was done in this form,” Sherlock murmured, “But how is that possible? You were in Afghanistan, in the army. They wouldn’t have let you return if they knew you were a werewolf. And why is your fur in such a state? It’s disgusting, John. You need a bath. And a trim.” A finger traced over one of his ribs, “And feeding.”
Sherlock circled him, muttering to himself, before he finally snapped his fingers and John transformed back an instant later, sitting on the floor and finally looked up at Sherlock, who was frowning down at him.
“How did you get that if you went to war?” Sherlock questioned sternly.
John shook his head. “I didn’t go to war,” John told Sherlock.
Sherlock’s frown deepened. “But you went to Afghanistan.”
“Yes, I did,” John agreed, not really wanting to talk about it, and glanced down at his feet.
“John,” the tone was stern and familiar and John looked up automatically, “Tell me what happened.”
John sighed, and gazed at Sherlock’s face as he spoke. “I stuck around for quite a few months, hoping desperately that you’d take me back in. But, it looked like you were never going to. And, that. Well, it broke something inside of me, I guess,” John admitted, glaze flickering down, only to be drawn back up by Sherlock’s finger under his chin.
“To put it simply, I went feral. Hence the state of my fur. I reverted back to that of an average wolf. All I knew where base instincts and who you were and the knowledge that my own Alpha had kicked me out sent me wild. So, I fled to the first place I had been thinking about last – Afghanistan. I hunted animals or something. I can’t quite remember. Then, hunters found me. Wolf hunters. They tracked me for weeks, and then ambushed me in the night, tried to capture me in nets, and shot around randomly to spook me – which worked – and I fled and escaped, managing to get away with only a shot to the shoulder. My limp had slowed me down. The therapist Mike forced me to go to said it was because of the wound. But it wasn’t. I had it before then. It was because you kicked me out that I started limping,” John finished, watching the expressions pass over Sherlock’s face.
Sherlock was quiet for a few minutes, before he finally spoke. It wasn’t an apology nor was it words of pity or anger. Instead, Sherlock said simply, “Come. Let’s get you washed and fed and trimmed.” And then Sherlock stood, snapping his fingers as he headed towards the bathroom.
John instantly transformed back into wolf form and trotted after Sherlock.
They spent the rest of the night getting John’s fur back into the perfect state that it always was when Sherlock looked after it. Then Sherlock got John to transform back, eat two servings of a large dinner (even if Sherlock didn’t eat, he always had made sure that John ate enough).
It was around two in the morning by the time they trailed into the bedroom, weary, and John lingered by the end of the bed as Sherlock stripped and curled under the blankets.
“End of the bed,” Sherlock instructed in a murmur, and John nodded, curling up on the end of the bed (he hadn’t gotten changed after his bath so he was still nude).
Content, it didn’t take long for him to fall asleep.
*.*.*.
John bolted upright, sweating and whining in panic, hand scrambling at his injured shoulder as he panted heavily, practically gasping for air.
There was a rustle behind him, then strong arms were wrapping around him and pulling him close, one long arm around his back and the other cradling his head, pressing his face into the pale neck. John inhaled the familiar comforting scent, clutching at Sherlock and pressing his eyes closed as Sherlock gently lay them back down and pulled the sheets over the both of them and began stroking his hair.
“You won’t have any more nightmares,” Sherlock said firmly. “I am here. You are here with me. You have nothing to fear.”
“Don’t leave,” John whimpered.
“Never again. Those four years were hell for both of us. I shan’t ever let you go,” Sherlock promised, and John relaxed.
He nodded slightly against Sherlock’s neck. Pulling back from John, Sherlock looked down at him, and then pressed their lips together gently. John pressed eagerly into the kiss, opening his mouth for Sherlock to plunge his tongue inside, which he did.
This was familiar, and comforting, and John relaxed further, making a soft noise as Sherlock continued stroking his hair. Finally, Sherlock pulled back and pressed a kiss to John’s forehead and murmured softly, “Sleep,” before tucking John’s head back under his chin.
John quickly obeyed the command, slipping back into sleep and curling up into Sherlock’s body, feeling safe and content and loved. Even if Sherlock hadn’t said it, John knew that Sherlock still loved him.