Sherlock was a mess, and it didn't take a doctor to see that. More poetically, he supposed, Sherlock's injuries- both physical and psychological- were bubbling up to the surface, making themselves known in hot, clammy skin, shaking limbs, wild eyes. It was difficult to watch, knowing he had nothing with which to treat him. He was going to lose Sherlock, and he knew it. It was simply a matter of time.
It was almost sick, the way his body still reacted with relief to the open sky even when he knew it might as well be a painted set. Up on the roof the evidence of Sherlock's injuries became less lurid, his skin softened by the natural light. His usually cool clear gaze took on a bluer hue as he stared John in the eyes and just barely stopped himself from asking John to end his life. He could see that question, hanging between them- as tangible as the gun he'd won in the bloodbath tucked away safely but still screaming out its presence, the logic to taking its quick, perfect way out. (Back in London, John had held onto his service weapon illegally and kept it in a drawer as some kind of twisted lifeline to his old life, the one with meaning. He'd wondered on greyed out occasion that faded into bone-deep misery, if he'd kept it just in case one day the monotony and the surety of nothing more than monotony stretching out forever became more terrifying than not existing at all.)
Sherlock was talking, now. He watched him, his chest twisting, as he remembered meeting him. His bright, quick eyes, the frankly ridiculous way that he could be completely charming while saying the cruellest, most inappropriate things, the way he lit up like a spark when someone said the word murder-- and his heart ached for Baker Street, more than it had ever ached for jokes with the lads in the desert, for quick hands snatching up lives before they could seep out into the sand. It ached the way it was supposed to ache at a funeral.
God, I'm in trouble, he thought. Oh, my god. And then he realised he was supposed to be listening, that this hell of endless death without funerals was supposed to be important, that he was supposed to be trying to beat it.
"Joan's Sherlock?" he asked, distantly. Someone to look after her once we're gone, his mind supplied in a quiet whisper. He cleared his throat, straightened up, and pushed it aside. Stiff, forced steadiness propped his words up and gave them a weight and sturdiness he didn't feel.
"I suppose that'll be good, for her, as much as anything can be good in here. You should let me look at your hand, Sherlock."
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It was almost sick, the way his body still reacted with relief to the open sky even when he knew it might as well be a painted set. Up on the roof the evidence of Sherlock's injuries became less lurid, his skin softened by the natural light. His usually cool clear gaze took on a bluer hue as he stared John in the eyes and just barely stopped himself from asking John to end his life. He could see that question, hanging between them- as tangible as the gun he'd won in the bloodbath tucked away safely but still screaming out its presence, the logic to taking its quick, perfect way out.
(Back in London, John had held onto his service weapon illegally and kept it in a drawer as some kind of twisted lifeline to his old life, the one with meaning. He'd wondered on greyed out occasion that faded into bone-deep misery, if he'd kept it just in case one day the monotony and the surety of nothing more than monotony stretching out forever became more terrifying than not existing at all.)
Sherlock was talking, now. He watched him, his chest twisting, as he remembered meeting him. His bright, quick eyes, the frankly ridiculous way that he could be completely charming while saying the cruellest, most inappropriate things, the way he lit up like a spark when someone said the word murder-- and his heart ached for Baker Street, more than it had ever ached for jokes with the lads in the desert, for quick hands snatching up lives before they could seep out into the sand. It ached the way it was supposed to ache at a funeral.
God, I'm in trouble, he thought. Oh, my god. And then he realised he was supposed to be listening, that this hell of endless death without funerals was supposed to be important, that he was supposed to be trying to beat it.
"Joan's Sherlock?" he asked, distantly. Someone to look after her once we're gone, his mind supplied in a quiet whisper. He cleared his throat, straightened up, and pushed it aside. Stiff, forced steadiness propped his words up and gave them a weight and sturdiness he didn't feel.
"I suppose that'll be good, for her, as much as anything can be good in here. You should let me look at your hand, Sherlock."