Fic: Running 'Round Leaving Scars (Sherlock, John; Gen, PG-13)

[swissmarg]

Title: Running 'Round Leaving Scars
Author: swissmarg
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: John, Sherlock (gen, could be read as pre- or possibly post-slash)
Spoilers: Reichenbach
Word count: 2,968
Summary: Sherlock calls John anonymously when he comes to a crisis point during the hiatus. John isn't too happy when he finds out.
Disclaimer: The universe of Sherlock Holmes was created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The BBC incarnation was created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. This is a work of fan fiction and makes no claims of ownership or entitlement.
Notes: This is my first fic in this fandom, and the first thing I've written in any fandom in ever so long, so I'm a bit rusty. Kudos to lady_invidia for the Britpicking/beta. All remaining inconsistencies, errors, or Americanisms are mine. The title is from 'Jar of Hearts' by Christina Perri, which is the most perfect post-Reichenbach John/Sherlock song ever. This was inspired by this prompt on the Kink Meme: While Sherlock was dead, John saves a man who was about to kill himself. When Sherlock comes back, he thanks John for saving his life.
Warnings: Mention of suicidal thoughts, language

This fic has been translated into Chinese by morningflowersc (registration required).


"Hi, you've reached Samaritans. I'm glad you've called. My name's John."

There was silence on the other end of the line, but John could hear that the connection was open.

"Hello? Are you there?"

The person on the other end - a man - cleared his throat. When he spoke, though, it was in a whisper.

"Yes. Yes, hello. John."

Yorkshire accent, John's brain automatically supplied. Difficult to determine the age without hearing the timbre of the voice. Couldn't tell much more. Sherlock could have. Not useful to go down that path.

"Hi. How are you?" John asked.

It was another few seconds before the man responded. "I'm feeling rather alone, actually." Again, breath without tone behind it.

Most of their callers were. People with strong social networks didn't tend to call crisis helplines on Christmas Eve. John settled in to the conversation, brought up his standard responses.

"You're not alone now. I'm glad you thought to call. Would it be possible for you to speak up a bit? I'm having difficulty hearing you."

"I can't ... lost my voice."

"Oh, sorry to hear that. Are you ill?"

"No, no, I'm fine. Just my voice."

"Good. I'm glad to hear that. Well, what would you like to talk about?"

"Anything. It doesn't matter. Please, just... talk."

"All right. We've ... it's been rather busy tonight. Lots of people calling in. So, you know, you're not the only one wanting some company. I think for most people, it's the holidays. Can be stressful. Family, or... or no family. I don't know if that's the case with you. Do you have family?"

"No." The answer came quickly. An automatic response. Or an untruthful one.

"Ah. Well, I don't... I only have my sister. Parents are gone. My sister and I don't get on that well, so. I guess I'm in the same boat as you. Maybe why I'm here tonight, too. I suppose if I hadn't volunteered to be on this end, I might have called in as well."

"Are you lonely, John?"

John stumbled at the question. Most of their callers didn't even reciprocate the standard 'how are you' opening.

"Lonely? I don't know that I'd ... I mean, there are people who ... friends. Yeah, no. Yeah, I think, mostly, I'm lonely. So, but that's all right. It's fine. You don't need to, you know, be in a room full of people all the time. But sometimes, I'd like to..." John had to remind himself that he was here for the caller. "How about you? You said you felt alone?"

"Yes."

"Yeah. Yeah. But, that's why it's good to know you can just pick up the phone. Call someone. You weren't... I mean, was there something that happened? Some reason? That made you want to call tonight, in particular?"

The man on the other end was quiet. John heard him breathing this time. Irregular. Then a long, slow exhale.

"Are you all right?"

"I don't know if I can do this."

"Do what?"

"This. What I'm doing. What I've been... I thought I could, but..."

An alarm sounded in John's head. He hadn't been working the helpline for long, but he'd got a feel for when people just wanted someone to talk to, and when they were actually thinking of harming themselves.

"Go on. What can't you do?"

"This! God, this feinting and parrying and thrusting, and I'm making mistakes. I never make mistakes! I'm overlooking things and getting slow, and I'm actually... I'm actually frightened that I won't make it back. Or worse, that word will get back and everyone will... that it will all be for nothing."

"I'm not exactly following. Have you taken something?"

"What? You mean drugs? No, you know I stopped." The man sounded irritated, as if it should be obvious.

"Of course," John said, humouring him, although he didn't know.

"And I was thinking, maybe the safest thing would be to..." The man's voice suddenly became very quiet, and John had to strain to hear the throaty whisper. "To follow the original plan."

"I don't know. Would it be?" John asked carefully.

"Yes. It would be." The man huffed out a voiceless laugh. "But I am not a safe person."

"Erm... you're scaring me a bit here."

"I don't mean to." He sighed. "Yes, I know. This must all be confusing for you. I'm sorry. Never mind. I just wanted to hear ... someone. To know someone was there. And there you are."

"I'm here, yes. There will always be someone here when you call. What are you doing tonight then?"

"Staying in."

"May be wise, the way it's coming down. Are you taking care of yourself though? Have you eaten?"

"No."

"Oh. Oh. I mean, do you... I can give you the address of a couple of places... the Salvation Army, or ... I don't know where you live, but there's always a place you can... you know, if you'd like a warm meal."

"I have money. I simply... wasn't hungry."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply anything."

"It's all right. I can tell you care."

"Yes, that's right. I do care. I care about you."

"You don't know me." It wasn't an accusation. An observation.

"Not personally, no. But, that doesn't mean I can't care. I don't... I don't want to see anyone hurt. I'm a doctor, so. I mean, it's not just that. I had a friend. A very good friend. He... well, I think he must not have understood how many people cared about him. Even people who didn't know him very well. So, I'm here because of him, too. So that no one has to feel the way he did. Even if you don't know it, there are people whose lives you've touched. People who admire you, people who like you. And people, like me, who want to help you. Whatever it is that you need. I may not be able to do more than talk to you. But I hope that helps. I think that's why you called. Because you felt it would help to talk to someone."

"Yes. You have ... most definitely helped me, John."

"I'm glad. Do you have something to do tomorrow? A way to keep busy? Sometimes that helps, too. If you can get out. So you're ... not alone. With your thoughts."

"I do have plans, thank you."

"Good."

"I'll let you go. I know you're busy."

"You don't have to. I have time. There are other people here answering the phones as well. We can talk for as long as you like."

An exhale of silent amusement. "You have to sleep sometime."

John smiled too. "Yeah, well. You know what I mean."

"What are your plans for tomorrow?"

"Well. I'll sleep late. Don't get much chance to do that. Maybe read a book, watch the Dr Who Christmas special. I've been invited to my former landlady's for the afternoon. She doesn't have any family either, but I think there'll be a couple of other friends of hers there as well."

"Sounds boring."

John grinned. "I... to be honest, I don't really want to go."

"You should."

"I know. That's why I'll go."

"You often do things because you're supposed to... I gather."

"I sometimes think that's the only reason I do things anymore."

The other man didn't respond for several seconds. John heard another long exhale. Cigarette smoker, it came to him.

"Still there?" John asked, when the silence stretched out.

"I'm sorry."

"No, it's fine. I'm sorry. I don't mean to burden you."

"Don't be stupid."

John felt defensive. "It's not stupid, it's ... I was being unprofessional."

"You were being honest."

"I should be a better listener."

"I don't mind."

"Still, it's not what I'm here for."

"Duty's important to you."

"Yes, I should think so." He considered that that might not have been the most flattering thing to say. "But that's not why I'm talking to you."

"Yes, it is. Your friend. You feel that you failed him," he said in his strange, hoarse whisper. "You're trying to make it up with everyone else."

John felt himself losing control of the conversation once again. "This is supposed to be about you."

"It is."

John got a vague feeling of unease in the pit of his stomach, the beginning of a rush of white noise in his ears.

"Thank you," the man said abruptly. "For everything, John. I had really best be going."

"No," John said too quickly. "We can... as long as you want."

"I have enjoyed talking to you, John. Very much. I hope one day you will know how much you've done for me."

"Call back another time, then. If I'm not here, they can give me a message. I'd like to know... how things work out for you."

"Good-bye, John."

John took the headset off. He only noticed now that his hands were shaking, the sweat prickling in his armpits.

The man never called back.

---

"I don't..." John had both hands around the cardboard coffee cup. He wished they were someplace with real, solid mugs. He wanted to squeeze something. Hard. Preferably without ending up with a lap full of hot liquid.

"John..."

"No. This is... It's my turn now, all right? I understand why you did it. It's not about that. The thing is... The part that really..." He exhaled in frustration. "You didn't trust me. You trusted Mycroft. Who was the one who betrayed you first, by the way. You trusted Molly. Who... And I know you weren't interested in her. But did you really think I was weaker than Molly Hooper?" John's face creased.

Sherlock looked like he wanted to say something, badly. But he held his tongue, because that wasn't really a question.

"You trusted God knows how many of your Irregulars. You trusted Irene Adler, for fuck's sake," John hissed as he leaned forward and looked around, because she was still supposed to be dead. Whatever that meant these days. "Which doesn't actually surprise me, only she did pass on information to Moriarty before, and just because you affected her pulse rate at one time doesn't mean she's not an opportunist."

Sherlock returned John's glare. "Are you quite finished putting words in my mouth?"

"Don't. Don't try to make yourself out to be the noble one here."

"So the thing that bothers you in all this is that you weren't part of it."

"No," John said, his voice trembling despite his best efforts at keeping it evenly measured. "The thing that bothers me in 'all this', is that you decided for me. You assigned me a role in your grand scheme, you decided what part it would be most useful for me to play. You decided how much I could take, how far you could bend me until I broke. And you know what?" He grimaced and looked down. "The worst fucking part is, you were right. You did it all yourself - or at least without me. You went out, and you disassembled Moriarty's network, and you came back, and none of us are dead, either at the hands of Moriarty's goons or our own. So. Congratulations." He sat back and tried to clear his vision.

"John. You're wrong."

John laughed and shook his head. "Of course I am."

"No, stop making out that you know what's going on in my head, or what I was thinking, or doing, or feeling all those months, because you can't possibly-"

"Right, because no mere mortal can possibly fathom the depths of Sherlock Holmes' genius."

Sherlock frowned. "John. You think you didn't help me. I can tell you now, that you were..." He looked around quickly, lowered his voice. "...the one thing - the one thing - that kept me going. You think I was alone out there, that you weren't with me. Well, that isn't true." He waved a hand irritably at the look on John's face. "Don't be pedantic. I tried to do it alone. I tried to put you out of my mind, to concentrate on the work and the pursuit, and keeping one step ahead of them. But I couldn't - something was missing. I was missing something. You made me depend on you," he said fiercely. "I was - very angry about that."

"Good," John said. "Makes two of us."

"Yes, well." Sherlock turned his cup - barely touched, must be cold now - around with his long, pale fingers. "I wasn't sure whether to tell you this. I hope you take it the way it's meant." His glance flickered up to John, then back down. "I called you."

John waited.

"Last Christmas. You were working that ... crisis helpline."

John became very still.

"I was..." Sherlock cocked his head, an unfamiliar series of emotions working their way across his face. "As I said, I was angry. I didn't want to need anyone. But I was stuck, and I was getting sloppy. There were things I was overlooking, things that, had you been with me, probably wouldn't have happened."

"Bit late for that," John muttered.

"The upshot is, I was spotted. I wasn't sure if they'd recognised me, but I couldn't take the chance. If I wasn't able to catch them before they passed on the order to Moran, you'd have - Well, I was seriously considering implementing Moriarty's original plan."

"So you called, what... to leave another note?"

"I'm not sure. Yes, I suppose, that was probably my first impulse. But once I heard your voice, I couldn't - things took a different turn."

"But I don't remember... I mean, I'd know if I'd spoken to you. Did you call and hang up?"

"We actually had quite a long talk." Sherlock smirked. "I was afraid I'd given myself away completely. I ended the call abruptly."

John frowned. "But I don't--"

Sherlock switched to the breathy Yorkshire voice to say, "I had a bit of a problem with my voice," then went back to his normal tone. "You told me about your plans to spend Christmas with Mrs Hudson. How did that turn out, by the way?" Sherlock hitched up his expression of bland interest.

John's jaw clenched as he stared at Sherlock. He looked as if he were struggling with himself over what to say.

Sherlock's facade faltered. "Ah. You remember."

"You smug bastard. I had a feeling... But then I had lots of feelings. I couldn't trust my own instincts. You did that to me. I had to live outside of myself to even - to even function. So. You called me, because you were thinking of offing yourself, and then, what? I told you some flattering things and massaged your ego enough that you got your confidence back so you could swan off and brilliantly outsmart Moriarty's clan?"

Sherlock frowned and focused on his fingers picking at the rim of his cup. "Don't. I couldn't have done any of it without you. I cut myself off when I left. I couldn't allow myself to remember, to feel, because those were distractions, liabilities. You called me a machine, that last day, do you remember?" He flicked an eye up to check John's reaction, then away again when he saw the anger still there. "I thought that's what I had to turn into. A machine can compute and discover the shortest route to a goal, the one with the least risk and the greatest chance of success. But there's one flaw in that reasoning." He pushed his cup away and leaned forward, forcing eye contact with John. "A machine doesn't have a reason to get there. When I talked to you, it brought back to me the reason I was doing it all in the first place. Knowing that you were alive, that you were safe, and that one day I might have the chance, no matter how small, of returning -"

"And what?" John asked, incredulous. "That things would just go back to the way they were? Us dashing around crime scenes, getting our jollies off others' misfortune-"

Sherlock looked affronted at John's supposition of his mindset. "I knew you might... develop other interests. Other friends."

John pressed his lips together, exhaled hard through his nose. "Yes, well, I haven't. I have even fewer interests or friends that I did before. I'm not... I mean, obviously, I survived, and I'm functioning, and my limp hasn't come back, and I have a girlfriend - who you are not going to meet, and I am not going to ruin my relationship with her so that you have an audience for your genius.

"I understand what you did, and I have to be grateful that you did end up saving my life, but I think I've saved yours a few times as well, so perhaps we can just call it even now."

Sherlock looked pained, an unnatural look on him as it was unfeigned. "John-"

"No. Just - No. You hurt me, all right? And then you kept on hurting me, and lying to me, and that's - that's not what friends do. So, I don't know. I wish it were different, and I appreciate you making the effort now, but. It's too late. Or too early, maybe. I'll..." He sighed, hating that he was giving in, even a bit, but it wasn't in his nature to be cruel. "Give me some time, all right? Don't text me or call me at work pretending to be someone else or just generally fuck with me for a while. That - that would be a start at least."

Sherlock nodded. "I'm sorry, John."

John nodded. "Me too." He drained the last of his coffee and stood. "Take care of yourself, Sherlock," he said, tossed his cup in the waste bin, and left.

Sherlock watched John through the window as he crossed the street. His back was straight as a soldier's and his fists were jammed into the pockets of his jacket. He didn't look back.

Comments

[swissmarg]

I don't watch Dr Who (although maybe I should), but I really have faith that the first episode of series 3 will be emotional and amazing!