A Photo Of John

Chapter 6

ohn gaped in shock. He had never thought of Sherlock ever having parents, but he knew not to ask questions. Sherlock was in pain and he needed a doctor. John sat down on the couch next to him and took Sherlock into his arms hesitantly. When he didn't push him away, John held Sherlock while he sobbed into his shoulder, clutching his sweater for dear life. Sherlock kept mumbling something in between the broken sobs, like " I'm not an emotional man", he was in denial. Sherlock reminded him of a child sometimes, he shut himself off from the rest of the world at a young age and hasn't matured in some areas. He had never felt so close to Sherlock before, I mean yes, there was that one hug but, no, this was so much different. He had opened up to John for the first time.

Sherlock was sobbing uncontrollably into John's soft, tan sweater, tear stained and possibly ruined it. His parents were dead, and they meant so much to him, much more than he let on. His image was ruined as the sociopath, his cover was blown and he also looked and felt extremely pathetic. And Sherlock didn't give a shit.

John held Sherlock's raven curls close to him. He held him tightly and never wanted to let go, because he knew, something like this would never happen again.

Sherlock let go of John, and sat back.

" John -"

" You don't have to explain yourself. I understand."

Fury overtook him and he stood up. He grabbed a glass and smashed it onto the floor .

"NO YOU DON'T! YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND ANYTHING! YOU CAN'T SEE!"

John stood up, and broken glass pierced his feet, but he barely noticed.

" My parents are dead too."

Sherlock looked down at John. " What?" He whispered hoarsely

" I lost my parents when I was in Afghanistan. My father died of stroke and sometime after that my mother died of a heart attack."

Sherlock was about to speak but John cut him off

" I know how it feels. It leaves a gaping hole in your reality." John became choked up and a tear dribbled down his face. He swallowed. " It rips out a piece of your soul. It isolates you. I felt like I had lost everything there was to lose, and in a way, I did. "

Silence.

" John, I had no idea, I shouldn't have assumed, I-"

Large puddles of blood were forming under John's feet.

"JOHN!"

Sherlock pushed him onto the couch, and blood was dripping, dripping, dripping...

" John I'm so sorry, I'm so so sorry. It's all my fault it's all my fault."

Sherlock started to weep again, mumbling the words in between.

" Sherlock." He turned his face to John, who was obviously trying to hide the immense pain he was experiencing.

" It's okay, you were angry. But please, could you help me get the glass out my feet?"

Sherlock straitened up, ashamed of acting so childish. " It's the least I could do."

He left and grabbed some tweezers and a petri dish from his chemistry area.

He came back and sat down on the couch. There were hundreds of shards in John's foot and Sherlock felt horrible.

He started to take them out when John spoke. " How?"

Sherlock looked at him and then looked back down at his work. " Car accident."

John nodded softly and stayed quiet.

" Death was instantaneous. I should have told them I loved them, I just never thought they would leave me."

He froze. Sherlock, capable of love? Well it was obvious when he was sobbing, but... he admitted it.

" I won't tell anyone if you don't want me to."

Sherlock quizzically looked at him.

" I know you are trying to go for an image. Sherlock Holmes, the great sociopath. I won't tell a soul if you don't want me to."

He nodded. " Thank you John."

" But could you talk to me about what's bothering you or how you're feeling? You can trust me and... sometimes it's too much to keep it all bottled up."

" I don't want you to think poorly of me."

" I would never think poorly of you."

... " okay."

Sherlock continued to pull the glass out of his foot. Each shard made a clink into the dish, one by one.

John slowly drifted out of consciousness, his head resting on the arm of the couch.

Finally after a few hours, his feet were clean of glass. Sherlock sighed in exhaustion.

He looked at John's face, and saw all the lines he felt guilty. He often forgot that he had seen so much blood and pain. All of the stress of the battlefield showing in his face.

He held onto John's hand. John was irreplaceable. No one could ever fill a hole he ever made.

He never realized how valuable he is. Such a kind man, but with nerves of steel and perfect aim.

Then Sherlock realized something so alarming, so disturbing yet so calming and relieving, he gasped.

He loved John.