Fanfics about Sherlock BBC
"I'm not his thing":
Sherlock awkwardly tried to spark John's passion. And hurt him so much that John left. However, coming to terms with loss isn't about Sherlock.
https://www.wattpad.com/story/341514125-fanfics-about-sherlock-bbchttps://archiveofourown.org/works/47086126Ajax, thanks for the preliminary reading.
John pensively looked at Sherlock in the rearview mirror. But thoughts were not about him. John thought of Mycroft, of the strange relationship between the two brothers.
"Mycroft forced you to have sex?" John summed up his reflections.
Sherlock leaned back in his chair and grinned wryly. The question was clearly not new to him.
"No. By the time he has grown to the age when the actions of a teenager begin to be led by the genitals, Mycroft was already thinking about a political career and never did anything that would compromise him. He knew perfectly well that all secrets would one day come to light." Sherlock made a sharp, annoyed gesture with his hand. "Mycroft rapes the brain. He did this to you many times too." Sherlock leaned forward again and gripped the head of the chair with his fingers. "He holed your brain again today, right? That's the only reason I'm here."
"I'm a doctor. And if someone, it doesn't matter who throws off a sick body next to me, I have to take care of one. You knew that very well when you started your masquerade. And you're as good as Mycroft at brain-raping. You pretended to abandon the investigation for the sake of the drug — and Mycroft, scared out of his wits, did ridiculous things."
Sherlock lifted his nose proudly, grinning triumphantly.
"Only I can fool Mycroft Holmes!"
John silently turned the ignition key. Sherlock is Sherlock. Expecting anything else would be ridiculous. We must live in reality and enjoy what we have, and not torture ourselves by dreaming about the impossible. Sherlock is all about adventure and investigation. And that's it. But it's precious — at least for now. And, there is the entire adult population of London for everything else, and there is some one person among the many thousands of people with whom the word 'love' will not look ridiculous.
Sherlock opened his eyes wide for a moment, then yanked the key out and slipped it into his pocket.
"John, I'm afraid of words! They are insidious. Words distort everything. I…"
"Lie down and be quiet," John cut him off. "I'm not going anywhere, and I'm interested in your investigations. I will take part in them. But only when I'm off duty. And I will live in my apartment." John took a breath and explained in case the genius again did not understand everyday things: "Separately from you."
"John?" Sherlock looked incredulous.
"Give me back the key."
"John, forgive me. I know I was terrible. In everything. Please, John, forgive me for all the hurt that I caused you."
"That's not the point, Sherlock. I'm not angry with you. And never was. After all, if I evaluate your behavior by human standards, it's impossible to choose which of your actions I should never forgive you for in the first place, and which would be number two. But you are an exception to the rules of life. You were the best and the wisest man I’ve ever known. And you... I should ask forgiveness for almost breaking you by dragging you into something that I do not mean you for."
"What?!" Sherlock was shocked and bewildered.
"No more intimacy, Sherlock. Just the right working distance."
"John..."
"Nothing that interferes with the investigations," John interrupted him in a firm, unanswerable tone. "Nothing burdensome, superfluous, emotional. Only thoughts and cases. Alone is what you have and what you do value. Alone, what protects and makes comfort for you."
"I'm not a machine!" Sherlock twitched furiously and leaned over to John, clutching the head of the chair again. "And you're not a hindrance! Not a burden! You are my compass. A way to find your way in the most confusing and dark labyrinth."
John nodded, trying hard to contain his rage. Again…
"Yeah, right, good. I'm your blogger, your conductor of light, your lab mouse, your housekeeper. You take my stuff, you rip me off my job, you ruin my relationships with people. You despise everything I do for your investigations, but you demand that it be done. Enough, Sherlock. I'm. Not. Your. Thing."
John looked at Sherlock with a keen, medical gaze, assessing his condition.
"You'll be fine on your own. You don't need a doctor. Hotel "Mountain King", Mycroft booked the room in your name. Leave the car in front of the hotel."
John got out of the car and started to catch one that would go in the opposite direction from the city.
Sherlock rushed after him, not bothering to close the car.
"John, you're in trouble. It's PTSD. You need help!"
"Everything will pass, traces of Maiwand Meat Grinder too shall pass. The healing process has already begun, Sherlock. Soon everything will be gone."
"But you can't carry everything alone!"
'Small family, but not one you're close to,' John quoted indifferently. He was tired of news and trials. "You said it yourself. And you were right. Before joining the military medicine department at Barts, I was always alone. If I got over it then, I can do it now."
"But what about King's College London?" Sherlock didn't understand. "And the school..."
John boiled from Sherlock's persistence again. However, he answered evenly and calmly:
"After my bachelor's, that's why I went to the magistracy and doctoral studies in the military department to find friends. There are more like me out there. And in Barts, I could communicate less with my family, who never needed me and who at first were unhappy that I grew up quiet and spent a lot of time on textbooks, hoping for a scholarship, instead of running around the streets and being a star among the local tomboys, like Harry. Then they were outraged that I got a scholarship to a medical college, and not a music college, or did not work for my father in a bicycle repair shop after school. And Harry and I never got along."
"What?" Sherlock didn't believe it.
John shrugged.
"It happens."
"But Harry has an album of your photos! She brags about them to all and sundry," Sherlock went on sorting out the details. John clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to stop the urge to wring Sherlock's neck.
"Harry loves when she's already tipsy, but not yet drunk, yelling about how she will kill anyone who offends her beloved little brother. If she is moderately drunk and if she has a job, she can give me an unwanted smartphone. But at the slightest deterioration of affairs, she steals things and money from me in order to buy booze. Harry made the album at the advice of our aunt, and only because the photos helped Harry impress the right people in an informal conversation. Both father and aunt left everything for Harry, but nothing lingered in her hands for long."
"And you…"
"That's it, Sherlock," John interrupted. "Go to the hotel."
He walked along the side of the road away from him. Sherlock overtook him, blocking the road.
"Why didn't you hit me, John? You've wanted this since I opened my eyes."
"That doesn't make sense."
"There is always a sense!" Sherlock said hotly. "You hit me, let off steam, and everything will be as before. I tried to help you with this. Did I do it the wrong way?"
"You did the wrong thing," John clarified. "You're not trying to understand that I don't want any of the things that used to be!"
Sherlock froze, mouth open.
"John... No, John! You… I…" He waved his hands, as he always did, having guessed the solution to the case. "John, kiss me, please. Just a kiss. And if after that you tell me to piss off, I'll never bother you again."
John looked at him doubtfully. But why not? A kiss, after everything that has already happened, is just a brushing of lips.
And John pulled Sherlock by the coat and kissed him. Sherlock responded with his kiss.
It was… John was good with words, but he lacked ones to describe this kiss. Desperate longing, fear of losing John, gratitude, desire, admiration. And love. And an oath to belong to John with all his being. Here was everything that John lacked, without which intimacy was impossible. Sherlock really couldn't speak with words. But he remained a genius of action. And he always gave John what he needed. John just has to learn how to take it right.
John smiled softly.
And he twitched when he heard his ex-boss' car leaving.
"Sherlock, idiot, didn’t you lock the door?! This is my friend's car!"
"Ha!" Sherlock turned up his nose in disdain. "Since when can't we get some wretched thief to return what was stolen to its owner, and in better condition than it was before the theft?"
The end
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