34Salt
Disclaimer:I own nothing of the Moffat/Gatiss world of Sherlock, nor do I own anything of Sir ACD's world of Sherlock. The views expressed do not reflect my own views and are not designed to offend or hurt.
Summary: Because Sherlock wanted to be there when everything fell apart even though he knew that he wouldn't be able to pick up the pieces and glue them back together. But he could try to sweep them into a neat pile, and relinquish the adhesive to someone who could use it.
Warning: Angst by the bucket load.
Chapter 8
The topics ranged from dark and heavy to light and light. It was like sucking poison from a wound: slowly everything dripped out. It stung, sometimes it hurt like hell, but in the end it was all worth it.
The worst conversations were the ones they had already had. Despite this Sherlock found himself bringing up familiar topics, simply because, selfishly, he knew how those conversations went, he could navigate them well and after a while he could coax more information out of John than he had before, simply by asking the right questions at the right times. What that blonde girl's name was, when his sister had started drinking, whether he preferred tea or coffee or neither, what John saw in Sherlock.
It felt like cheating sometimes, but John didn't know that this was the same avenue of his past that they had visited the night before.
It was early December when Sherlock walked into his flat to find it empty. Not an odd occurrence, but this was a new kind of empty; this was a permanent kind of empty. The one that he knew wouldn't be filled any time soon.
He received a text from Harry.
John's still at mine.
I'm so sorry, thought he was getting better.
Harry XXX
They were both expecting it; the day John just forgot that extra bit and stopped going to Baker Street and talking to Sherlock. Sherlock was surprised he'd managed to hold on this long.
And now he had let it go, and Sherlock was a little bit glad because it must have been quite a strain on John: To hold on, to turn up every evening, to pretend he knew the stranger he sat opposite in a strange flat, to tell this stranger about his life.
'thought he was getting better' Harry was obviously much more optimistic than Sherlock, Sherlock had known that he wasn't getting better. Why Sherlock had tried to hold on was a mystery, because really? It just made it more painful now.
He spent the next day at the window, watching the streets waiting for the John shaped blur to appear through the rain. Such a blur did eventually appear, he walked down the street and then he walked right past their front door (because it would always be their door no matter what happened.) John walked a few yards past the door, before he stopped looked around confused and then walked back towards the door. He stopped just outside the door looked at it, then turned again and resumed walking in his original direction.
This happened again for the next few days, then it stopped, but Sherlock could still make out a John shaped blur loitering around the edge of the street.
And he wondered, not for the first time, if this is what Sherlock had become in John's mind: a blur that dances around the frayed edges, desperate to be let back in.
A week later Sherlock found himself in the uncomfortable and unfamiliar position of doing the shopping. Contrary to popular belief the man was human, and therefore did have to eat to remain alive.
In accordance with popular belief, Sherlock believed he was thoroughly out of his depth in the supermarket, however he was lucky enough to stumble upon an old shopping list that John had written up last month for their weekly shop (unfortunately John had completely forgotten the next day that he had ever intended to go shopping.)
Before John had gone completely they had gotten by with going out for the bare essentials (milk, bread, coffee), pestering Mrs. Hudson into getting things for them and, when she was out, 'borrowing' things from her apartment (though John never knew about the last part.)
So Sherlock went to his local shop, once there he made his way quite swiftly up and down the aisles one by one, not picking anything up just acquainting himself with the layout of the shop. On his second turn around the store he picked up a basket and proceeded around the place with a regal manner. Picking up and dropping items into his basket without even looking.
It was whilst he was doing this that he noticed something, or rather someone.
Harry Watson was scrutinizing two types of cereal in the aisle in front of him. Sherlock thought for a moment about turning away and making his way home, avoiding any awkward conversations and the woman herself. He then told himself that it was a silly reason to stop his shopping and continued down the aisle, praying to God that she wouldn't see him, or if she did she wouldn't make idle chit-chat with him: he hated small talk.
His prayer went unanswered, for the most part.
She did notice him, and she looked all geared up to talk about the weather, and the time of year, and Christmas shopping. But something stopped her, and she nodded politely at the man.
"John's here somewhere, last I saw up the bread aisle."
Sherlock nodded politely in reply. Knowing that, for the sake of his sanity, he needed to avoid the bread aisle for all his worth. But his legs had different ideas, and before he knew it he found himself strolling parallel to thick sliced wholemeal and farmhouse white.
And John was standing there with a trolley, perusing the baguette section. He didn't see Sherlock, didn't even notice there was anyone else down that aisle. Sherlock slowed down, he almost stopped walking completely but he knew that would look odd, so he kept going. And when he got close enough he took a really good look at the man, then his eyes fell to the trolley, and by extension the contents of the trolley. Sherlock didn't even have to look at his own basket, or the shopping list he had securely in his wallet (he didn't need it, memorized of course, but he liked that he had part of John with him wherever he went) He knew that John's trolley was identical item for item to his own shopping. Maybe it was a coincidence, but that was doubtful. More likely was that parts of John's subconscious were leaking into his life.
Sherlock smiled all the way home, because maybe John didn't remember him, but he certainly remembered bits of them.
And there was no point of him if he wasn't part of 'them'.
Thanks for reading.