Officially Cumberbatched? A sequel to 'Well and truly Cumberbatched'

Chapter 41

AN: Song for chapter: 'Bloodstream' Ed Sheeran (X)

Still Saturday.

Evening. The boot room, a girl and a guy, both worse for wear in more ways than one.

Watching him slumped against the cold wall, sat on the wooden bench sheltering generations of wellies, fishing rods, and a plethora of lost but not forgotten trinkets fallen from old Barbour pockets I couldn't help but feel helpless standing there.

The state of him, Ben, just sat there with tears streaming down his pale, sunken cheeks; his eyes bloodshot, closed off, clouded in the haze found at the end of a bottle of Jameson, he ticked away, each breath the shudder of the hands of a clock, a time bomb fuelled by anger and a loss of faith from his friends, waiting, pacing, the moment to erupt coming closer and closer...

Closer to me, the one who'll take it in; because that's what I'm good at isn't it?

Darling Rosalind, always there for her charming Benedict, who cares who hurts him? She'll sort him out, hold his hand, love him to the point of exhaustion whilst the rest of the world chews him up and spits him out. What about me? Hm, hm friends? No no of course, who cares? No one cares, just leave me to clean up the mess, I'll just cry some more, that's what I'm good at too isn't it?

Taking the brunt of it all, only to end up leaning on Ben's shoulder again.

I wish they never said those things, I wish they'd have just thought it instead, just smiled to our faces and kept it to themselves. Despite what they felt, what Lucy said, this is what I'm left with, sleepless nights otherwise heavily medicated, a man constantly knocked from all corners, it's like everyone has it in for him; they don't get it, none of them do. A delicate shell of a man who wants to do more than he should, be more than he is because he struggles to accept he is good enough, he's fine as he is but can't see it, at times he can't see it.

...

I just wanted to get him to bed but he wouldn't budge, I just don't want anyone to see him like this, especially not Morgan, he's like a brother to Ben I suppose, they've developed quite the friendship over time; Morgan- he's sensitive, mindful, older than his years with a childish wit and sense of humour, a lot like Ben.

I'd rather have that Ben right now, not this version, the version that crumbles after putting on a brave face, the version that thinks he's alone when he isn't.

I wiped my eyes briefly, the back of my hand sodden with tears.

...

"Rosie" he finally mumbled, less fraught, just tired now.

"Mm."

He looked over at me, through me. "Come." He said.

I remained standing at the door; he can't stay down here, brooding, wandering off through the meadows of his mind to find his centre again, whenever he feels as though he's been knocked off kilter he walks away, away from everything to collect himself.

He can't walk away from it all can he? There's just so much pressure; work, the public, the media, the pressure he puts on himself- to be everything to me, his parents, his adoring audience, his fans to some extent, he doesn't seem as fussed about them these days, keeps to himself more.

The pressure I suppose I've put on him; I've not wanted to but I have haven't I? We all do it to each other; never minding when we take on the troubles of those we love, but feeling as though we mustn't allow them to carry our troubles upon their shoulders.

I sighed thinking about it. "Ben I'm here." I quietly said turning the dimmer up on the hall light just outside the boot room door, the house was eerily quiet.