May Your Heart Purr Like A Bumblebee [BBC Sherlock - Johnlock]

Chapter 6

“Leave it alone, Harry.” He has returned, but Sherlock has not. He’s pacing now, agitated, trying to decide where and when to start looking for him.

“But... he didn’t say anything about the pants?”

“No.”

“Well, did he see them?”

John turns on his heel to face her, voice ominously low. “What did I say?”

“All I was asking was if he saw them. You don't have to be a prat about it.”

John starts yelling. “His cousin fucking died, okay, Harry? His cousin who was like his brother. He died, and I had to tell him, and what part of leave it alone don't you understand?”

Harry yells back. “Well, I didn't know that, did I? Because you didn't tell me.”

“No, you didn't. You just assumed that you should keep wrecking my life. I tried to hold his hand, Harry -- which is your fault -- and he pulled away from me like I was on fire. And ran off, God knows where. So you can fucking well sod off, okay?”

“Fine. I'm moving, anyway.”

“Great. Can't happen soon enough.” He turns, stalks out of the apartment, slams the door satisfyingly behind him (apologizes to Mrs. Hudson in his head). He walks downstairs and goes about two blocks, not even knowing where he’s headed, then turns back around, swearing. He can’t leave, in case Sherlock comes back.

When he walks back in, Harry is holding his phone, which he didn't realize he'd forgotten. “You might want this, to track him down,” she says somberly.

He's vaguely aware that he should apologize, but he can't think about it right now. He still feels angry, helpless, and his brain is still buzzing Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock. “Right.”

“Do you think he’s likely to take something tonight?”

John hasn’t told her about that part of Sherlock’s past. “How’d you know?”

“John.” She just gives him a look. He imagines for a moment that there is an addicts’ secret handshake.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don't have a clue what he's doing right now, or how to find him.” His brain is so loud he can't think.

“Is there anyone else who might know?” she asks.

“No. Yes.” He leans forward, kisses her on the forehead. (She looks startled, but not displeased.) “Thank you.” Then he turns on his phone and calls Mycroft.

* * *

Sherlock is not doing any of the things John envisioned, as it turns out. He is sitting on a bench, staring out at the Thames. He is the only one. A cold spring rain has started, and the benches are wet. He is soaked. John sits down beside him. Sherlock does not acknowledge him. For a long time, they just sit and look at the river.

“We used to watch the ships,” Sherlock says, finally.

“How old were you?”

“I don’t remember. Young enough to both have naval ambitions. He wanted to be an admiral.” He smiles the smallest, saddest, most lopsided smile.

John is pretty sure it’s the first time Sherlock has said anything about his childhood.

They sit and watch the ships and get very, very wet.

John thinks about how extraordinary Sherlock is, and how fragile. And how much of an idiot he would be to complicate things between them. He knows he’s done with his silly game of flirtation. And he knows that he will help Sherlock through this, however he can.

For now, he sits with him.

Eventually, thoroughly waterlogged, they head for home.

* * *

Harry is gone when they get home. John works on getting Sherlock to eat just a bit; he sits and watches while Sherlock stares off into the distance; he listens to him play violin; and, perhaps most worryingly, he manages to get him to go to bed. John, who has nothing to offer except his company, sits with him until he is asleep.

When John emerges from Sherlock's room, Harry is back, curled up in his armchair. “Brought back some Thai leftovers,” she says, nodding at the kitchen.

“Ta,” John says, falling into Sherlock’s chair. He is probably hungry, but is too exhausted to be able to tell, or to do anything about it.

“How is he?”

He shrugs. “Okay, for now. Not normal -- for Sherlock, I mean -- but I think he's as okay as he could be, probably. He didn’t take anything.”

She nods. “I'm glad. And glad you were able to find him.”

“Me too. Thanks for the suggestion of who to talk to.”

“Oh, well.” She shrugs. “It was mostly your idea. And it was the least I could do, after wrecking your life, and all.”

The full weight of everything he said earlier finally hits him. He shakes his head. “No. No, Harry. You didn't. I was just, I was so angry, and worried, and worried I'd made things worse. But it wasn't your fault. I just -- I can be -- sometimes I feel --”

“Like a stroppy teenager?” she says with a small smile.

He chuckles. “Well, yes. I suppose so.”

“You have that effect on me, too, sometimes, you know.”

“I guess that's what family does.”

“Yeah.” She chews a strand of hair thoughtfully. “But I am sorry, John. I do think I made things harder for you. Messed up a good thing. Especially right now.”

He shakes his head. “No. You really didn't. You didn't make me do anything I wouldn't have probably done eventually, anyway. I take a little longer to realize things sometimes than you do, but I would have gotten there on my own. Stop taking the blame.”

She nods slowly. “Okay. I'll try.”

“Good.”

She looks closely at him. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he responds automatically. Then he snorts and shakes his head. “No, I'm really not. I'm worried about Sherlock. Not as worried, but still. And I -- I hurt for him. And feel so helpless. It's pretty much the worst.”

She nods. “I remember. When Clara lost her mum.”

“Right. Yeah.” He sighs, rubs his head. He doesn’t want to talk about it any more right now. “So, you’re moving? You found a new place, then?”

“Yeah. It’s nice, and it’ll be free at the end of the week. But would you rather I stay? For a bit?” He stares at her questioningly. “I mean, if you think it would be helpful to have someone here, taking care of you. Making sure you both eat. And everything.”

He's touched. “Thank you, Harry. That means a lot to me. But no, I think we'll be all right on our own.” She nods. “You should expect to see me at your new place often, though,” he warns with a smile.

“You'd better,” she grins. “I've gotten used to our non-alcoholic drink nights.”

“Me, too.”

She gets up, walks over, leans down, and hugs him. They don't hug, historically. It's awkward and wonderful. He closes his eyes and clutches her, tightly, glad to have her there and in his life.