anonymous asked: “great. perfect. nice. fuck this.”
“great. perfect. nice. fuck this.”
No. No no no. No. No.
The lump that lodges itself in his throat renders Sherlock unable to speak, unable to breathe, unable to beg John not to go, not to assume what he’s obviously assuming, the pain climbing exponentially with every silently passing moment as John yanks his jacket on.
He can’t leave. Not again. Please. God, please.
“You know what,” John growls as he flicks the collar of his jacket back (flicks the collar back or flicks it up?) and jabs a finger in Sherlock’s direction. “Next time, don’t bother calling, alright? I thought… I don’t know what I thought, but it was obviously wrong so please, in the future, just leave me the hell out of it.”
“John,” Sherlock croaks, standing helplessly in front of his chair, hands fluttering uselessly upward and then back down to his sides, (his) entire body seeming to have absolutely no idea how to proceed. (you mean his body as controlled by his brain? i.e., the only thing with any control over the limbs and so forth? also i have a bit of trouble imagining sherlock’s “hands fluttering uselessly upward and then back down to his sides.” shy baby deer sherlock alert!)
John can’t leave 221B. Not again. Please. (there’s a difference between pointed word repetition and a complete lack of finesse.)
“No.” John shakes his head, turning his back on Sherlock and storming toward the door. “No I won’t continue to follow you down dark alleyways and into danger zones and happily patch you up afterward only to leave you here alone. I’m not going to be your sodding sidekick anymore just so you can get your fucking kicks.” (straight from “sodding” to “fucking” in the same sentence, huh?) He grabs the door handle and if John Watson (what the fuck is with this woman and her need to include John’s full name in the narrative where it really doesn’t belong?) weren’t silently seething, were instead banging and stomping and making more noise in his fury, then Sherlock wouldn’t have heard (random tense shift!) what fell from his lips next. (ugh, i hate this turn of phrase.)
The words that finally break Sherlock’s muteness. (so did i hallucinate that “John” a few paragraphs back?)
“It’s not enough for me anymore.”
And as far as Sherlock is concerned, it’s like a bomb going off.
And before John can twist the handle and flee the room, Sherlock is looming over him, palm pressing flat against the door to keep it closed, to keep John in, to keep them together because that is all Sherlock has ever wanted in his life and so help him god if he’s going to screw this up again. (this sentence doesn’t really…end. “god help him if he screws this up again” would be the proper way to handle it and she doesn’t have the cred to be screwing with rules of grammar like that. especially in ways that are just clumsy and weird.)
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs down to the army doctor (ugh no), his army doctor (ugh no), his John that is (who’s) now within reach again both physically and emotionally, his friend that’s (who’s) gone through hell and back: a scam of a marriage, a fake baby, a divorce to end all divorces, the love of Sherlock’s life is here and he’s back and he’s alive and Sherlock will be damned if he fucks this up again.
John doesn’t move, shoulders rising and falling quicker than before, eyes trained on the door.
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispers again, the last word slipping into a breathless plea, ruffling John’s fringe at the tip of his ear, and Sherlock only realizes how close they are as he watches a fine shiver race down John’s spine. (how could he possibly not realize how close they are, he’s looming over him.)
“Don’t…don’t do that again,” John growls and Sherlock isn’t sure what he’s referring to but John is turning toward him and Sherlock’s hand is falling from the door and to the center of John’s shoulder blades, pulling him to his chest without a second thought. “I can’t… I can’t lose you again, Sherlock.”
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock breathes with a hitch as John’s strong arms wind around his waist and a blond head settles against his chest. (that’s a very disturbing image.)
“I don’t want to keep doing this,” John mutters into his sternum. “I don’t want to run all over London with you and see you get hurt and then…then have to leave you again. I don’t… I can’t.”
“John,” Sherlock only manages to get out around a sob because suddenly his whole world is no longer shattered, suddenly his entire life is no longer in shambles because John, beautiful wonderful John wants to come home and it’s… (sherlock is more than his relationship with john.)
It’s everything. (she is obsessed with this phrase and it sucks.)
“Stay,” Sherlock whispers in his ear, daring to press a kiss to John’s temple. “Please…please stay. Please stay here with me.”
There is a long moment of silence, possibly the longest moment Sherlock has ever had to endure and then John is giving him the gentlest of squeezes, still wrapped in his arms, still holding on for dear life.
In the end, it only takes one word.
One simple, easy word.
alright, i admit i sent in this prompt and i admit i was trying to press her to produce something that didn’t end in hollow sap and groundless sentimentality and i further admit that i didn’t think she would be able to do it.
so turns out i was super right.
not only do i have no idea what the tipping point was that caused john to threaten to leave, but sherlock’s efforts to keep him from going are dangerously close to emotional manipulation. i know their relationship isn’t the healthiest on the block, but this portrayal is practically abusive.