Sherlock fandom
Pride and Prejudice
They both need extensive therapy after Sherlock’s return.
On Sherlock’s part, it is about acknowledging what a terrible idea it was turning up at Baker Street unannounced as if nothing had happened; as if he hadn’t thrown himself off a roof in front of John nearly two years ago.
“How was I to instinctively know you were alive, Sherlock?” John had yelled after he’d composed himself. “Count yourself lucky I didn’t beat you senseless!”
His red rimmed eyes and grief-stricken voice had taken Sherlock aback, but it was John’s trembling hands that broke his heart. From the day John had moved in with him, the doctor’s hands had been steady as a rock.
***
John needs to come to terms with that Sherlock didn’t leave because he thought that John wouldn’t be of any use, but that his sociopathic flatmate and best friend – for once – had a damned good reason for leaving him out of the loop.
“I had no other choice, John. There were snipers who would have…killed you.”
The last two words are barely audible, and John realises that this hadn’t been an easy task for the great detective. John vividly remembers Sherlock’s voice when he stood on that roof. It had been trembling as if he was crying or trying his best not to cry.
***
Because of what the pair need to disclose to the therapist, they can’t choose randomly, and as if magic was involved – aka the British government – a list of therapists with the highest clearance is procured by Anthea the next day. The list is short, as expected; only one man and one woman. Neither of them wants another Ella, so they choose the man, Theodore Norman.
They’re both sceptical and reluctant before their first appointments, but if they shall be able to rebuild their fragile friendship; needs must.
***
“Letters, John?”
“Letters, Sherlock.”
“I suppose we can’t be as bad at writing as we are at conversing,” Sherlock concedes.
“We talked all the time, just not about the important matters,” John mumbles.
Sherlock retreats to his bedroom, while John stays in the sitting room, pondering what to say to the infuriating man he shares his life with.
***
Sherlock.
I’m still furious with you, but not as incandescent as a week ago. That’s progress, I guess. I always thought your diagnosis – that sociopath crap – was just that, crap. The way you care about Mrs Hudson, and apparently me, is testimony to that. Besides, I don’t particularly enjoy ticking off boxes – we are who we are – I’m not exactly “normal” either, whatever that means. I’ve tried, because I saw what it did to Harry to be persistent and true to herself. How much I loathe to admit it; I wanted an easier life. And look where that got me. Running after a madman, feeling more alive than I’d done since I left Afghanistan with a broken shoulder. I know now that I should have spoken up earlier, but I was a coward. And full of pride and you can likely add some prejudice to the concoction as well. I thought you didn’t want more, that I meant nothing more than…I don’t know, a bodyguard who kept you relatively safe, and when I couldn’t, I could at least patch you up. These endless months without you have showed me one thing: you are my world, Sherlock Holmes. No one else will ever come close to what you mean to me.
John
***
John
It turns out that letters were one of Mr Norman’s better ideas. There are so many things I want to say to you, John, but I lose my ability to vocalise them when I am in your presence. You render me speechless, John. I know you will scoff at this, but can’t you see? When it comes to important matters – not murders, abductions, thefts, or counterfeit – but sentiment, I am unable to find the correct words. Do you know how expressive your face is, John? I can lose myself scrutinising it, and when I come back online, I have lost track of what I wanted to convey. But I am stalling. This should be an apology, or at least no, no digressing. I am sorry for causing you pain, John. That is inexcusable, but how was I to know you would grieve me like you have done? There were no signs, no sufficient data to work with. Besides, no one has ever taken an interest in me as a person like you have. For others, it’s the brain that matters, not the man. But you, John, you are nothing like other people. There is only one of you, and I count myself lucky to have found you. It is almost unfathomable when you think about how many people are inhabiting this planet. I remember how you despaired that I had deleted the solar system, but I know this: you are the sun I am orbiting around. My conductor of light. The one that keeps me right. Always. Can you forgive me, John? If not today, then…soon? My time away from you, proved to me that I would be lost without you. Because I was lost. Only the thought of returning to you kept me sane.
Sherlock
***
Months later, both have a pile of each other’s letters in their bedside drawers, which they treasure just as much as the other man’s life.
Sherlock is the impatient one – nothing new there – but John needs more time and reassurance before jumping into bed with his beloved detective.
“Can’t you see? I want to do this the proper way; the way I failed at before,” John explains.
“I don’t know what that even means,” Sherlock replies and pulls his hair in frustration.
“I want to woo you, Sherlock Holmes,” John states, “and you are going to bloody enjoy it!”
“Yes, Captain Watson,” Sherlock smirks, and manages to steal a kiss.
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