Life with Sherlock goes on. Most days I go to work and come home to him being on his science equipment, or playing the voilin. We don't go out much, because the world still believes him a fraud, and we haven't quite figured out how to solve that problem; but when we do, Sherlock tries in whatever way he can to disguise himself.
But sometimes, he gets restless. He wants to go out and solve crimes like we did before, and chase criminals down the streets of London; but we can't, because we both know Moriarty isn't dead and, we'd need to find somebody in the media business who actually believed us, and so far, no one is looking very promising, so we don't know how to go about convincing the world that Sherlock isn't a fake. It doesn't stop him some days though.
Now, on a friday night I get home late from work, and usually when I get home late, Sherlock is either on a high, or drunk, so when I do get home, Sherlock is standing in front of the window with nothing but trousers on. A destroyed package of cigarettes and a syringe lie on the floor behind him. The whole room is in chaos: pillows are scattered across the room, some of them torn with their stuffing ripped about; crumpled, ripped or bitten papers everywhere; glass beakers and test tubes shattered; a microscope broken, obviously chucked across the room; gunshot holes in the wall; and he's just standing there, almost frighteningly calm, looking down at Baker Street.
"Sherlock?" I ask cautiously, not quite sure what I'm afraid of.
"Look at it all, John," he murmurs thoughtfully, his voice rumbling deep in his chest. "Quiet, calm, peaceful..."
Taken aback at his eerie calmness, I stay silent, not knowing how to respond.
"God, I hate it, John!" he suddenly shouts and punches the wall violently. There's a sick crunching sound and Sherlock screams. "I can't stand this, John, this hiding and disguising. My brain needs the strain and deduction, I need to analyze, because I feel like my mind is slowly destroying itself. It's rotting and there's nothing I can do about it. I don't know why you insist on being so goddamn secretive, because newsflash--" sneering at the word 'newsflash' and spreading his hands out mockingly, "--I DON'T CARE. I don't care what other people think, John, because they're all so stupid." He stops suddenly, breathing heavily as if he's just ran a marathon. His face is flushed bright red, and his eyes are bright and attentive, but unseeing, because his mind is somewhere in a barren wasteland, tearing itself apart day by day. Then he looks at his bleeding and undoubtedly broken hand and tsks impatiently, as though the pain doesn't actually hurt him, but it's just an inconvenience.
Throughout his entire rant, I'd stood motionless but not surprised; I knew something like this would happen. I'm just disapointed it couldn't have been later. And I don't know what to say.
"All I want, John, is for things to go back to the way they were. Life was better then," he says quietly, and quite frankly, I'm shocked to hear something like this come out of his mouth. I've never known him to be a sentimental person.
"You don't think I want that, too, Sherlock? Did you ever think that I do all this not for your sake, but for mine or Mrs. Hudson's or Mycroft's? When are you going to get it through that thick, brilliant head of yours that sometimes it's not about you? People care about you, Sherlock, whether you like it or not. They don't want the world to think you're a fake, when in fact, we know you're for real, because we know it's a lie. Did you ever think of that?" I ask evenly quiet, sort of scary-calmly.
Suddenly he looks up at me, and has an expression of guilt and confusion. "What?" he asks incredulously.
Sighing, I mumble "nothing" because I know I'll never get through to him, and go to my room to put my things away and go to sleep.
As I hang up my jacket and put my bag away, I try not to think of how utterly tired I am. It feels like a disease; I can feel it in my bones and deep in my muscles, my eyes ache, my eyelids feel droopy, and my brain hurts. And too tired to do much of anything else, I collapse onto my bed in exhaustion without taking my clothes off and curl up in the blankets. As sleep starts to curl it's warm arms around me, and pull me under, I hear my door creak open and a slit of golden light spills into the room.
"Go away, Sherlock," I mutter as loud as I can, and turn away from the door.
The door stops opening, and stays open like that for a solid minute, until Sherlock slowly closes the door with a click, and I slip into unconsiousness.
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When I wake up, I feel fingers sliding through my hair, tugging lightly and pleasantly. There's a sigh, and the fingers progress to my face, tracing intricate patterns of swirls on my forehead and cheeks and nose. I hear humming, and it sounds familiar, like the piece Sherlock was playing when I had gotten home that haunting day. Then, soft as a butterfly, I feel lips press gingerly against my forehead, and I feel warm.
"Are you awake?" Sherlock whisper against my ear, his face grazing my skin and I shiver.
"Mm," I murmur and smild slightly, with my eyes still closed.
"Ah, you are."
I chuckle lightly, and open my eyes wide and look at Sherlock. Light dances around his dark head of hair, as though it is a halo, and the expression on his face is a mixture of extreme affection, and guilt. The light also plays with the color of his eyes; they are circles of a peculiar shade of sea green, with speckles of gold and blue flecked around the pupil. They are bright, and sparkle in the golden midday light. His lips, cupid's bow shaped, are parted as he stares back at me.
"Sherlock," I whisper.
He makes a soft hushing sound, his voice as gentle as a light breeze and cranes his neck down to kiss me.
"I'm sorry, John. I tend to think about only myself, and that doesn't make what I said right, but I'm sorry," he speaks quickly, as if he can't get the words out fast enough. Then he laughs humorlessly, and whispers, "I feel like I've been apologizing a lot lately." He closes his eyes and touches his forehead to mine, our noses brushing lightly.
"I know it's hard right now, Sherlock. I know how your mind works. But you just have to wait. It sounds impossible and pathetic, but you're going to have to. I don't like it anymore than you do," I tell him softly and put my hand to his cheek, brushing my thumb on his sharp cheekbone.
He sighs indifferently and leans into my hand. "I know," is all he says.
