literature

You Found Me - SH

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         Yes, I was going to die. Straight to hell, perhaps a nice little chat with Lucifer, before coming back and haunting Mycroft and That Bitch for all I was worth.

         C.O.D? at this rate – probably lung cancer. No – I was too healthy for that. Too fit. More likely to be a near death with tuberculosis, then lung cancer.

         I lowered the cigarette, and breathed out smoke. When a nearby single mother, recently divorced shot me a disapproving look and moved the buggy away from me, I smiled at her and puffed a smoke ring in her direction.

         The woman scowled, and moved to the furthest side of the pathway. I took another smoke as I examined her. By the way she was walking, she was probably trying to lose weight – after-pregnancy weight. Pram with newborn. Clothes a little too tight, muffin top showing. New hairstyle – barely any roots showing, no split ends, even thought hair was so obviously straightened – yes, she was improving herself. Or trying to.

        It was just starting to show in her teeth, that faint discolouration. And in her eyes. And in the stain on the corner of her top. And on the size of the child. But fierce hatred of cigarettes –

        The woman drank.

        It was going to ruin her child's youth, her sanity, any chance she had at fitting into those size sixteen clothes – but everyone was a mess after loosing someone close. Everyone fell back into deadly, guilty pleasures.

        I breathed out the fumes, and my lip twitched at the irony.

        "Sherlock?"

        You cannot comprehend how that voice sounded to me. The complex confusion and chaos that shot straight to my core, my heart. The first time I'd heard it in just over a month. The last time I'd heard it, he'd been yelling abuse at me. Telling me what he thought. How he really felt. I couldn't remember how the argument had started – something about me not caring again – but it had all spiralled, until he had yelled at me about being heartless and how he couldn't stand it anymore, before he left, to live with That Bitch.

        I'd never thought I'd hear that voice again. But I'd dreamt about it every night, missed it every day, and longed for it every second. But for him to see me like for the first time in so long like this – creased shirt, sleepless eyes, and smoke pouring from my mouth like I'd swallowed coals – for him to see me weak. I couldn't bear it, almost as much as I couldn't bear him being away.

        Hating myself, hating my life, I raised my head to see the man I most/least wanted to see. "Oh, hello," I said, hiding all those shots of pain, fear, longing, hatred from my voice. I'd had a lot of practise. I slid my arm down behind the back of the bench, hoping that with the swift, unobtrusive movement I could hide the thin cylinder of paper and poison-

        But no. The clever, callous, caring Doctor couldn't be fooled so easily.

        He looked down at me, all the emotions I'd been waiting for spreading across John's face. Hurt. Pain. fury. "What the hell are you doing?" he asked roughly.

        It was like that night all over again. That night he'd left. The harsh words, the curses, the scornful remarks came flooding back into my mind with that tone, those fierce eyes. I wanted to cry, so I hid it the way I always did. With a harsh remark. "What, not another one?" I said, rolling my eyes and taking a huge breath of smoke, hoping the drug would numb the pain. "Another do-gooder trying to save my life – Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, even Mycroft – haven't any of you learnt yet that if I want to do something, I go ahead and do it?"

        John paused, the way he always did when he was thinking. Then he said, calmly, his voice quivering with what I knew was rage, "If you don't give a damn about how it will affect your health, or kill you young, think about this – it shrinks your lungs, Sherlock. How will you be able to chase a taxi across London when you can barely take one breath? It's going to interfere with your work. And how about the future of those around you? Even with your . . . specialised knowledge, you must have heard about passive smoking!"

        "What people around me?" I asked roughly. "I live alone, remember?" Since we argued. Since you left me for her. . . just because it wasn't spoken doesn't mean that we both didn't hear it.

        There was a pause. "How about Mrs Hudson? She can't like it."

        My lips twitched. I wasn't quite sure what I was smiling at. Perhaps at what had happened – like John had suspected. Perhaps at the way John still knew my life so well. "Yeah – she's doubled my rent."

        John smiled too. "Good for her." His foot hovered above the ground for a second, before stepping forwards.

        My heart began to race.

        He slid into the park seat, right beside me.

        My skin flushed.

        "What're you doing out here?" he asked. "I mean, in sunlight – around normal people – is it safe?"

       "For them? No," I said truthfully. "But – I got bored. And without anyone for me to annoy at the flat, I thought I'd come and annoy people out here." there was a pause, and I realised John, like me, must have been imagining all the times I'd pissed him off, just for fun. I didn't want him to remember that.

        I think that was the first time I let myself realise how much I needed him back. "How about you?" I asked swiftly. "What are you doing, prowling through the park?"

        He smiled across at me jokingly. "What, the great deductor can't tell?"

        I scowled, inside glowing. "It's because I've deducted that I'm clueless. No wallet, so you're clearly not shopping, or going out to meet someone for lunch, and I know you take walks for exercise, but that's usually early morning or late at night, when there's less people. Why are you out now?"

        John hesitated, and I finally let myself turn and stare at him. Only to figure out what he was thinking, of course. Purely to deduce what he was doing out here.

        Nothing to do with looking at him for his beauty alone.

        Ah, and I'd thought I was a good liar.

        But John was hesitating, and I was desperate to know why. So I looked at him, examining every feature, every minute detail of his face, his clothes, his body – his tousled, oatmeal-coloured hair, his rough, sweetly care-worn face, his depthless, thoughtful blue eyes, his delicate lips, such a contrast to the rest of him, pursed with worry. The three frown lines he always got on his forehead when he was anxious. The way he ran his thumb over the back of his other hand when he was thinking.

        I wanted to hold it still, to rub away the frown, to make those lips smile again. I almost hated myself for thinking such clichés - but they were true.

        "Sarah," said John slowly, deliberately thinking through every word, "Asked me – the other day – if it might be time that the stripped jumper – you know, the grey and black one?" I nodded, smiling. "Well, if it might be time it went to a charity shop."

        I didn't know whether to laugh or gasp. I knew that jumper – almost loved that jumper. I knew John did, he'd had it for years, and it was almost threadbare in places. Most of the time, when clothes got like that, John did give them to a charity shop – but not that one. Oh, no. it would be like discarding one of his favourite book because the pages had gone slightly yellow with age.

        That was why I wanted to gasp.

        I wanted to laugh, because it showed Sarah clearly didn't know him at all. It was proof they didn't belong to each other. That I knew him better.

        I think I ended up making a kind of coughed chuckle. John heard my humour, and smiled wryly at me. "Yeah, precisely."

        "Well, she's female," I said seriously. "I think she's allowed to be a bit ignorant when it comes to decent clothing."

        John grinned. "Also," he said, apparently emboldened by the reaction his previous     statement, "She said – the other day – that she'd love to get a – a cat."

        Oh dear. oh dear, dear, dear . . . I almost pitied her. "Right," I said out loud, slowly. "No – don't think I can come up with an excuse for that." I paused, then continued "Doesn't she know about the pet you used to have . . . bulldog, right?"

        "Bull pup," John nodded. "And yes, yes she did."

        "Oh dear," I said.

        "Yep," John agreed, nodding. "So . . . not quite sure it's going to work out."

        "what?" I said, the word almost jerked out of me. Did he just say that? did I imagine it? no – he couldn't have said . . .

        John paused again, hesitating once more, that thumb brushing backwards and forwards once more, those tender lips hardened once more into a firm line. My fingers itched to move towards him. I pressed the tips of my fingers together, almost in a praying shape to stop myself from stroking his worry away. "it's – it's not going to work out between Sarah and me. I – I mean, she seemed nice enough at first, but – she doesn't know me. She hasn't really been with me. I mean, she's been with me, of course, but not – not properly – not, uh, experienced me like I really am – ah, this isn't making any sense . . . she just doesn't know who I really am. She only sees the surface me, not who I am . . . inside . . ." he trailed off, and rubbed his face with his hands.

         "No, I understand," I told him softly. And I did. The convoluted description – Sarah hadn't really done anything exciting with John. Hadn't been in difficult situations with him, hadn't seen what he was like when things got hard, terrifying, tragic.

          John nodded, and looked up. his gaze fell on my hands.

          I'd forgotten about the cigarette. Suddenly, it seemed pointless. Inconsequential. Merely a piece of paper with strange herbs inside.

          "Can I have that?" John asked carefully, almost as if fearing an outburst.

          I didn't even have to think. "Sure," I said, handing it to him.

          He pinched it with a clear hatred between his two fingers, then, as I'd always known he would, dropped it on the floor and destroyed it beneath the sole of his shoe.

          He looked up at me, and I stared into him. surely, surely that showed – that demonstrated the understanding between us? our connection – surely!

          He smiled at me, a soft, almost sad smile. I would have been concerned, if – not happiness, but contentment hadn't radiated out from him. "Take me home, Sherlock," he said, not pleading, but merely stating what would happen. What we both wanted, and knew would always have happened eventually.

         I didn't answer with words – merely a smile.

         No – wait – 'merely' doesn't fit in there.

         We rose, and headed off down the pathway, back to our flat, 221B Baker Street, where, no doubt, Mrs Hudson would be waiting with a pie ready in the oven for out dinner.

         A few meters down the path, John reached out for my hand. I let him take it without complaint. I felt him smile.

         Smiling myself, I squeezed his hand lovingly. A few seconds later, he did the same back.

         Far, far behind us, the remains of the last ever cigarette smouldered, forgotten, on the tarmac.
okay, tis from the POV of Sherlock. situ - John recently moved to Sarah's after a huge fight between Sherlock and himself.

inspiration was 'You Found Me' by the fray <3 TUNE!

i just kinda had the idea that sherlock would go back to cigarettes if John left, so . . . i wrote this :D not really a very romantic piece, but i hope it's sweet. :)
© 2010 - 2024 alihay
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Katesmile's avatar
I enjoyed every word in your work...I can't describe this...Words are weak,but emotions that I was feeling while i was reading this were really strong.Thank you for this,my dear!