Not Broken, Just Bent (BBC Sherlock)

The Wall

Sorry this chapter took so long to post! It has been a long week. I've been running around like crazy. I was wondering if you readers would like a Star Trek FanFiction? I was thinking about writing one, but wasn't sure how you would take to reading it. Anyways, here is the next chapter. Enjoy! :)

The door was like a wall. The moat of a castle, the bars of a prison cage. A firm barrier protecting the fragile and exposed inside of a forever altered man. The man who shied away from touch, whose eyes went lost in thought as memories flashed across, the man who hid the truth of his past. Sherlock hadn't seen the John he knew in that man. The one who ended up so far away and so hurt that he had almost killed the world's only consulting detective. That wasn't his John. That wasn't the John who beamed as his deductions and quoted how amazing he was, the John who drank tea and read a book on the nights when they weren't sprinting around London. That man hid away in confinement now, hiding away from the things he could ultimately do to Sherlock once the memories take over.

The need to comfort was overwhelming. The need to tell the good doctor that he would never hurt Sherlock, ever. That John had stopped himself from pulling the trigger, had overcome the mass of flashback and relapse, just to save Sherlock. Yet, words did not come just as they never do. Words seemed inadequate, insufficient, useless. Words did not reassure as much as action. Acting truthfully seemed to be the best option to get the man inside to open up. And so he sat.

Sherlock sat resting his back on the door, placing his head softly against it. He could hear the soft mummers of John inside, repeating, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." Over and over again. It was agonizingly painful. Hearing the way the doctor's voice broke and cracked as he sobbed the words that cut deep into Sherlock's very being. The detective was aware of a cool wetness running down his pale and sharp cheek bones, and he just let them run down. Light came in from the living room and a small lamp in the kitchen, casting deep menacing shadows across the hallway and door itself, Sherlock included. The sounds of cars zoomed by outside, tires swishing on the wet pavement, splashing up water as they went. People walking by and their footsteps It was the sound of London. The heartbeat of the city, forever beating on and on with life.

Time went by. A jumble of thoughts turned straight and a mess of sounds quieted into the soft passing of the clock. John's cries receded slowly and his mummers running dry, body racking sobs into hardened tears and then into small sniffs. When it finally died down, he spoke, his voice hoarse, "I know that you would never hurt me, John. I know that with all my heart. You stopped yourself. You beat your own mind just to save me from your past. That is the most extraordinary thing that I've ever seen, and there is no doubt in my mind that one day you will end up topping it."

Silence followed. The darkness grew as the light outside shrunk back behind horizon outside. Sherlock sat until his back became as stiff as a rock and long after he had lost all feeling in his legs. But he was far from caring. Sherlock could hear the ragged breaths on the other side of the door. He knew that John was there, afraid to speak. Something about the harsh breathing of John kept him waiting. Wanting John to speak, to just say something. It was a long while before Sherlock heard the quiet shifting against the opposite of the door side. The delicate brushing of cloth against wood, John's wool jumper against the frigid pale wood of the separation between the two men.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock." John's voice was muffled slightly, but Sherlock could still hear the anguish leaking out from the corners of the statement. "John," Sherlock replied. "You have no reason to apologize. None at all. Rather the opposite, I must say. You saved me from yourself John."

He heard the rigid chuckling from the doctor, devoid of any emotion, just cold and chilling. It sent goosebumps up Sherlock's spine. "If I wasn't a threat Sherlock, I wouldn't have had to do that. I wouldn't have to beat myself to stop myself from shooting another person," John said painfully. The detective shook his head, the dark curls on his head rubbing against the door. "John. You weren't at fault. Not now, not ever. I pushed you into reliving the experience with my badgering questions and harsh words. And for that, I'm sorry."

Another fit of excruciating dead air. And then, the doctor did something completely unexpected. Movement through the door was obvious, the push off from a sitting position. Sherlock thought that John was done with the conversation, and was ready to leave. Instead, he heard no shuffling after the push to stand. A few moments went by steadily. Then, the detective's heart nearly burst into his throat as a sound rang out, piercing the darkness. The metal click of the lock on the door.