Alone On The Water

Chapter 9

Mycroft seems a bit broken as he leaves. I'm not sure Sherlock sees. He actually embraces his brother before he departs. He's not totally phobic about contact like that. He hugs Mrs. Hudson all the time, and he hugs me on a fairly regular basis. But he and Mycroft just aren't like that.

Mycroft pulls me into the hall. "I hope you know what I'm trusting you with," he says.

I nod. "You don't have to worry."

"Oddly, I never have. Not where you're concerned. Hmm. Interesting, that."

When I come back upstairs, Sherlock is on his feet. He looks relatively steady. "I think I ought to sleep," he says.

I grin. "There's something I never thought I'd hear you say."

He smiles a little. "What else does a man do when his work is finished?"

My grin falls away. Finished.

I help him into bed once he's changed. "John, I…" He stops, his mouth open, then waves it off.

"No, what is it?"

He sighs. "I think I don't want to be alone."

I nod. "I'll be right back, all right?" He just looks up at me with large eyes. His illness and medications are stripping off some of his defenses. It's impressive he's retained as much of himself as he has. What he's been through, most people are reduced to blubbering shadows of their former selves.

I change into pajamas and go back down to his room. I climb into bed with him. It does not feel strange to do so. He scoots closer to my side, just so he can rest his temple against my shoulder. We lie there for awhile, not sleeping. Eventually, Sherlock drifts off. I stare down at his slack face. I can't seem to look away. I can't think about the fact that in twenty-four hours I will never see this face again. It is all strange angles and hollows and unearthly pallor, made worse by his condition.

I don't sleep. I just watch him. I watch the rise and fall of his chest with his breath and I can't stop imagining the moment that I am soon to witness, and I catch the merest glimpse of the pain that is in store for me later. I can't allow myself to feel it now. I have to be present for him, for these last hours, I have to push it far from me until it's over, but I know. I know what I am in for.

I hate the universe. I hate whatever forces govern it, be they deities or fates or the tides of randomness. Whoever or whatever they are, I hate them for bringing me into his orbit. I hate Mike Stamford for introducing us. I hate whoever it was who shot me and brought me home from Afghanistan. I hate Britain for the size of my pension that made me need a flatshare. I hate this flat for being charming enough that I didn't turn round and leave the first I saw it. I hate him for being interesting and drawing me in so thoroughly that I didn't say to hell with you, and find a boring flatmate.

A boring flatmate. Do such things exist? Could I have had one? What would my life have looked like these past two years if I had? I don't know if I would trade life with Sherlock for anything.

Even if it meant that my heart wouldn't be breaking now.