A Bit Not Good

Mrs. Hudson watched John’s retreating form, shaking her head. She had hoped that they were finally past this stage in John’s mourning, that he was getting better.  Stealing a sad glance up the stairs she turned away, letting out sad sigh as she walked towards her own door.

Sherlock had heard John conversing with someone, likely Mrs. Hudson. He thought it odd that he hadn’t seen her yet, but he had assumed she had been on one of her bingo trips, or off visiting her sister and had just returned. After hearing the door slam, he stood and, having already rosined his bow, began to play in quick angry strokes. His music as always, reflecting his mood.

Mrs. Hudson froze a few feet from her own door, her breath caught tightly in her chest and a hand rose to cover her mouth as a gasp escaped.  Very slowly, she turned on the spot and walked toward the stairs. She stood at the bottom listening to the harsh tones bellowing from the upstairs flat.  A part of her didn’t want to go upstairs, frightened by what she would find.  He couldn’t be alive.  Curiosity finally won out and she ascended the stairs at a painfully slow pace, leaning heavily on the rail for both physical and emotional support.  

Barely a minute later she was standing at the cracked door, the music spilled from the room and she could feel the emotion in the strokes, but she hesitated there.  Her hand rested on the door knob, torn between learning the truth and holding onto the present.  Taking a shaky breath she pushed the door open a little farther, a small cry escaped her lips as she spotted the familiar man tearing into the violin.  

As he settled into the flow of his music, the angry notes reflected the chaotic mess that was his mind. His fingers skittered over the strings his arm slicing back and forth in quick harsh motions, murdering the anger burning inside of him. Each stroke made him feel a little better until the melody slowed into somber almost melancholy piece. As he slowed, he found himself beginning to move with the music, spinning slightly as he maneuvered around the chairs and couch.   

The older woman stood there, a hand pressed to her lips as she watched his movements in awe and disbelief.  A few stray tears slipped from her eyes as the music morphed into something else, each stroke of his bow wrenching at her heart.  

“Sherlock?!”  When she found her voice, the tone mimicked that of the tone she had used so many times before when she had found obscene body parts in the fridge, or half finished experiments spilling out onto her carpet.  She leaned heavily against the doorframe, her body betraying her as she tried to process the sight before her.

Sherlock was in the middle of a long note, his body sliding to the side slowly as he held it when Mrs. Hudson’s exclamation cut him short. Turning, he saw her leaning against the doorjamb, tears running down her face. His arms lowered to his sides, the bow and Stradivarius hanging a little limp in his hands. He set them down together on his chair and turned, moving towards her.

“Hello Mrs. Hudson.” he said, holding his arms out to her, “It’s been a long time...”

Her breath hitched dangerously as she stepped forward.  She reached one hand out, letting it sit, shaking, against Sherlock’s hand.  Reality crashed over her and she stepped into the outstretched arms.  “Sherlock, what am I going to do with you?”  Her voice cracked with emotion, but her tone was as doting and motherly as it had always been.  

Sherlock enveloped the small woman into his arms and pulled her to his chest. As eccentric and absolutely irritating as she could be, he cared for her quite deeply. She was more of a mother to him than his own sometimes.

“Oh I don’t know, perhaps a nice cuppa and a chat?” he asked trying to lighten the mood.

She pulled away, wiping the stray tears as she chuckled softly.  Her lips twitched, threatening her stoic appearance.  “Of course dear,” and then with a smirk she added, “but just this once, I’m still not your housekeeper.”  

Fussing slightly she wiped at her eyes again. “Oh sit, sit,” she insisted as she hurried off to the kitchen, familiar with where John kept the tea, and began bustling about.

Sherlock moved his violin and bow back into the case and took a seat on the couch so that Mrs. Hudson could sit beside him. He was sure she had questions, but her reaction was much better than he had anticipated. He cared for her so very much, and he knew that she had been hurt as well. Unlike Angelo, she was not as aware of his ways of coming and going, but also unlike John, she knew he would be who he was, and that it wasn’t worth getting angry at him over it.

She returned shortly with a cup of tea for each of them.  Handing one to Sherlock she sat gingerly on the couch beside him, her eyes still glistening as she gripped her own cup desperately as though it held the answer to all of her questions.  When she did speak she was shaking a little, “I’m sorry dear, I just don’t understand.”  Her eyes rose to meet Sherlock’s every interrogative begging to be answered.  Her mouth opened again, wordlessly, unsure where to start.  

“Mrs. Hudson...” he set his cup of tea down, untouched and took one of her hands in his, “Moriarty threatened me. Everyone had to believe I jumped or... He had snipers on everyone I hold dear Mrs. Hudson, you, John, and Lestrade. There was no other way. I had to stay away. They had to think I was dead, but in that time I've been making things safe for all of you.” He let his free hand come up to brush the new tears away from her eyes.

“I’m here to stay now. For the foreseeable future I have no reason to leave.” There was no need to worry her over the ‘copycat’ as the Yard was calling it.

Nodding quickly she sipped at the scalding tea, processing everything.  A sort of calm fell over her.  Unlike most others, she’d always been able to see this good in Sherlock, it was easy for her to accept that he’d left to protect those few people that he cared for.  She had learned long ago not to question the detectives reasoning or ways of doing things.  Instead she focused on what he’d left behind.  “You better be here to stay Sherlock,” her voice had steadied as she spoke, “You can’t do that to him again.”  She had watched John spiral out of control for the past three years, good intentions aside, it had destroyed him.  

“I’ve seen a little of what the press and unsupportive people had done to him through the internet. However he won’t talk to me about it. I suppose he doesn’t want to and I don’t really blame him. I was gone for a long time.... How... was he alright?” He hated the way his throat closed when he asked her that question, and he looked away as he cleared it.

“Mycroft told me he wasn’t handling it well, but from what I’ve seen he sorely understated the truth.”

Unaware of just how affected Sherlock was by John’s torment she simply grimaced slightly before beginning to divulge.  “He was just destroyed luv.  He just sat up there, staring at the empty flat for weeks on end.  I couldn’t get him to do anything.”  She shook her head, tears pricking at her eyes again as she thought back, “He stayed with his sister for a while after the funeral, said he couldn’t be back in the flat.  Your brother kept paying for it though, said he wanted things to be the same when John changed his mind, and he did.”  She paused, taking a sip of the tea still in her hands.

“People were just cruel Sherlock, he could barely go to work.  God he could barely step outside without being attacked.  It was mostly verbal, they would follow him, harassing him.  But there were a few days when he would come home early.  Your brother or that lovely detective friend of yours would drop him off.  Gregory told me later, he’d been attacked.”  She stopped, her head dropped and she wiped away the fresh tears.  In her eyes, John needed the help and support. He’d been through hell during Sherlock’s absence and if John wasn’t willing to talk about it then someone had to tell Sherlock.  

“Someone physically assaulted him?!” Sherlock asked, his anger rising once more. “Someone attacked him on his way HOME?”  He stood then, and began pacing. He was grumbling to himself as he moved back and forth before the woman, his mind going a mile a minute.

“Mrs. Hudson I need you to tell me everything, I need you to tell me everything he won’t.” When he turned to her then, his eyes were intense, and burned with an angry fire. John had not even mentioned any of this, and he was going to find out everything he could.

Startled by Sherlock’s reaction she set her tea down on the table, “He wasn’t badly hurt dear.  Your brother kept a very close eye on him, they were able to find him before anything came of it.”  She stopped there, unsure how much she should be telling Sherlock if John hadn’t been sharing any of this, but she decided, for John’s sake, to continue, “After John was caught on film saying he thought you were alive there were mixed reactions. There was so much hate Sherlock.  I was able to bin of most of the horrible letters before John saw them, but when he left the house on his own, there was little that could be done.  People either wanted him to tell everyone where you were hiding, or mocked him.”  She wrung her hands nervously in her lap, “Yes, there were a few times where people became violent about it all.  But like I said, somehow your brother always knew what was going on.  The worst he got was shaken up.  He normally stayed home for a few days after those run-ins.”

Sherlock ran a hand over his face. This was all his fault. All of this,  all the craziness and the hate, it was all his fault and John had been caught in the middle of it. He didn’t know why but he hadn’t thought John would be a part of all the fallout at all. That was why he’d lied to John in the first place, make John a victim of Sherlock’s lies so that the public didn’t see him as a conspirator. He carded a hand through his curls, pulling at them slightly, his fingers shaking so violently that his silky locks slipped through his fingers. Instead he moved them to his ribs where they picked up the tapping rhythm that had become so familiar to him over the past few days.

“Oh you stupid prat...” he muttered to himself, not really realizing that he’d said it out loud, “Mrs. Hudson.. this is much worse than I thought. Worse than even the websites said. They didn’t mention him being physically assaulted.”

“It hasn’t been so bad as of late dear,” she assured him, worry creeping into her voice at Sherlock’s reaction.  It was obvious that he really hadn’t known anything, “Things have settled down, you just can’t leave him again.”  

“And I don’t plan to, but I fear I may have said some things that I would not have if I had been aware.... How could I not have known... how could I not have seen....” He started pacing again until his hands threaded tightly through his hair, and he lifted his head up, stopping in front of his land lady.

“How can I ever make things better?” He dropped to his knees in front of her and gripped her hands in his, eyes serious and pleading. “How can I.... How can I ever fix him? I thought everything would be fine, but John didn’t stick to the plan. He was supposed to believe that I was dead.” The overwhelming emotions were building inside him once again. He was so angry with the world and himself for not taking care of John. “Why couldn’t he just forget about me like everyone else? How can I possibly repair the damage I’ve done.”

Mrs. Hudson gently smoothed his hair from his face, then cupped Sherlock’s cheek in her hand.  She smiled sadly at him, she had known Sherlock cared deeply for John, perhaps more than anyone, but it was heart wrenching to see the despair it all caused him.  “He just needs you to be there for him dear. He really did believe in you Sherlock... I think it’s time you return that.”

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Work had gone just about as well as John expected it to.  Mary had spent most of the day either avoiding him or shooting him angry looks, Sarah had demanded some sort of explanation for Sherlock’s sudden reappearance, and the clinic inexplicably acquired a few new patients all of which were desperate for John to be their primary doctor.  The day had left very little time for John to think about his predicament with Sherlock, but as he unlocked the door to 221B he tensed, remembering how he’d left earlier that day.  He quietly made his way up the stairs, bracing himself for whatever version of Sherlock he was about to find.  

Sherlock stood by the window in his normal composing place, playing a sombre tune that reflected the crashing waves of emotion inside of him. He jotted down a few notes on the blank score on his music stand

In the middle of the living room, a kitchen chair and card table had been set up with all the necessary tools for what was in store for them. An electric razor, a pair of scissors, and two separate boxes of chemicals, one to change the color of his hair, the other to chemically remove the curl from his hair. A few towels sat in the chair, and a few newspapers were spread out on the floor to catch whatever mess they made. Also sitting on the table was a steaming cup of tea in John’s mug, as if it had just been placed there for him only moments before.

Sherlock didn’t stop playing when he heard the key in the lock, just continued composing, closing his eyes and letting the melody fill his achingly empty chest.

John gazed around the room, from Sherlock, ostensibly lost in his own world, to the table and it’s contents.  Hanging up his coat John walked over and touched the side of the mug, it was hot to the touch.  He was startled by the gesture and his heart swelled slightly, but the tone of the song quickly squelched his happiness.  His brow furrowed as he listened to the emotions pouring from the instrument.

“Sherlock?”  He took a few steps closer so he was only arms length away from the man, “Is everything alright?”  

The detective finished the long note he’d been holding and the bow made a high pitched whipping noise as he flipped it back under his arm and jotted down the remaining notes he had played. Turning to look at John then he removed the violin from his shoulder.

“Fine.” the short response was not cold and curt like his earlier response, but soft and ventured deeper than a four letter word should. His tone explained that he really had no desire to talk about it. He put the violin in it’s case and moved to the chair, putting the towels in his lap. “I’m sure you’ve had a long day, sit, drink your tea. We can wait to get started.”

Following Sherlock back to the table John took the tea and fell into the sofa, regarding the man in front of him curiously.  It was a complete turnaround from the mornings argument.  He took a drink from the mug and smiled softly into it, remembering Sherlock’s explanation for remembering how he took his tea.  “So,” John started, the calm weighing on him eerily, “how was your day then?”  The question sounded absurd, even to John.  

Sherlock sat in the chair, his fingers steepled and resting against his lips. “It was fine.” His response again said he didn’t exactly wish to talk about it. He had stewed on Mrs. Hudson’s words all day long, and he was feeling particularly sour about it all. He wanted to be angry, he wanted to be so many things, but he refused to let any of it cross his face. All he knew was that there were things that needed to be done, and that he had a feeling that when John dug his fingers into his hair to start cutting it or whatever else they had planned to do to it, that all the chaos would calm. John's touch still cleared his mind and allowed him to think about certain things without distraction.

He didn’t want to speak much until he could tame the growling inside of him, because he did not want to lose control like he had earlier. What he had said to John was inexcusable given the new information that had come to light.

"Alright." John nodded, and began drinking the tea a bit faster, not wanting to stretch out the painful silence.  John could sense the change in Sherlock's mood, but there was little he could actually infer from the detectives actions.  Finishing the tea John walked over to the table, setting the empty cup out of the way.  Turning one of the boxes over in his hands he spoke, trying to keep the mood light.  "You ready?"

He desperately hoped the sour mood wasn't still from their argument.  Thankfully the tea argued against that, it had seemed like a sort of peace offering.

Sherlock sighed and tipped his head back to finally look a John. "We might as well get the foul thing over." He turned and looked at the boxes and hair cutting supplies beside them. There was a spray bottle and comb there as well.

"Are you going to cut it first or the... Chemical genocide?" It was his attempt at humor. The nearness of John did make him feel slightly better, and he was ready for all these shenanigans to be over. He'd smartly changed from his new clothes into some old pajamas so that any stray chemicals would not be damaging his clothes.

John laughed easily at Sherlocks small joke, "Cuttings last, all the chemicals are sure to wreak havoc on your hair.  Hopefully I can cut out the dead ends."  John walked behind Sherlock and carded his hands through the dark locks affectionately.  He felt a sort of sadness, John had never before realized how much he liked Sherlock’s hair, and he really hoped he didn’t ruin it.  As if he was just noticing the intimacy of the touch John pulled his hand back, blushing slightly.  "I'll just go change, and then we can start."  

He swept from the room without looking back. Changing into an old t shirt and sweats John tried to relax, hoping Sherlock hadn't found his actions odd. Little did John know Sherlock had relished in the delicious feeling of those fingers carding through his hair. The anger was sapped out of him by John’s touch, and when they left he had had to fight down a groan of dissatisfaction.  When the doctor returned he grabbed the closest box, a chemical straightener, and began reading the directions.  "You're gonna want to wrap that towel around your shoulders."

At John's request, Sherlock wrapped the towel around his shoulders, safely covering his clothing and the exposed skin of his lower neck. He found himself longing for the feel of those hands in his hair once more and had to clamp down on that thought before it got out of control.

Tearing the cardboard open John read over the directions carefully before moving to stand behind Sherlock, setting up the supplies so they were within reach, then biting nervously at the inside of his cheek he rested his hand on the bit of exposed skin between the towel and Sherlock’s hair line.  “Ready?”  There was no going back once they started.

“Unfortunately. How many times must you ask before you realize that this is going to happen regardless” he said softly, “Mycroft will be so annoying if it doesn't, and he's likely to cart me off somewhere to have it done instead. Most unpleasant don't you think?"   He closed his eyes, and leaned his head back a little, hands gripping the armrests.

John brushed at the skin under his fingers softly before pulling away to slip on the provided gloves, “Yes, I think it’ll look nice though.  Your whole new look.”  

“I’m sure it will look passable. You’re the one cutting my hair and coloring it. I trust you.” However much trust Sherlock put in his flatmate, he was still a little nervous. He’d never done anything to his hair other than cut a stray curl or two himself whenever they got too long.

Trying not to think of the fact that he’d never done more than a quick fade for his buddies John snapped open the chemical mixture.  He hesitated, holding the bottle over Sherlock’s hair, “Okay, the warnings say it might feel a little warm.  Just, let me know if it’s bothering you or anything.”  Slowly he began drizzling the liquid into the dark hair, pulling it through with his other hand.  

Soon the hair was practically soaked, clinging to his scalp.  John couldn’t help but smile at Sherlock’s appearance.  “You hanging in there?”  

It was cold on his scalp at first, but as John began rubbing it through his hair, it started to make his skin warm. He winced as it started burning and tried not to let John see. After the man questioned his disposition he took it as permission to let the complaints fly.

“It burns John...” he said simply.

“Oh.” John grabbed the comb off the table and began working through Sherlock’s hair, it was surprisingly thick like this.  “It might have said something about that.” Given Sherlock’s hesitance John had foregone that bit of information.  Once he was sure that all of the hair was saturated and combed into submission John slipped off the gloves.  “Okay, all done!”  His voice was chipper, rather pleased with himself, “Now it just needs to sit for a bit.”  He moved around to drop back down in the sofa across from Sherlock, noting the time.

Sherlock grumbled under his breath, his fingers tightening on the armrests, wanting desperately to scratch at the places where the burning made his skin itch. He frowned and crossed his arms, fixing John with a pointed stare as if this was all his fault.

“How was work?” he asked, his eyebrow quirking as he waited for an answer.

Not wanting Sherlock to fixate on his obvious irritation with the situation John happily accepted the change in topic.  For the first time since Sherlock’s return he readily unloaded his burdens, a sort of relief fell over him as he spoke.  “Really awful actually.  The place was swamped.  I had three patients fake being ill to ask me if you were really back.  Sarah was as helpful as ever, I mean she was understanding, but she’s was not happy at what it was doing to her clinic.  And then Mary showed up.”  John stopped there, shaking his head.  He hadn’t told Sherlock about what had happened the night before.  “It was just chaotic, I was glad to come home.”  He said the last bit softer and a smile pulled at one side of his mouth.  He checked the time, twelve more minutes.

Sherlock smiled at the comment about being glad to come home, but it did not deter him from the hesitation he heard when John mentioned Mary. His eyes narrowed, and he rested his steepled fingers on his lower lip.

“Mary? The woman that you rushed to her aid last night? Why is that a bad thing? I thought you were friends.” He was proud of himself as he said that last bit without sounding too much like a jealous lover, “Something went wrong." It was a statement not a question, an Sherlock frowned at the small pleasant flame that thought fanned inside of him..

“Yeah,”  John’s lips pulled to the side as he considered his next words, he could tell the idea of there being anything with Mary bothered Sherlock, which only proved that John had been right, he couldn’t have both, only Sherlock.  “That wasn’t exactly what happened last night.  She set up some rouse to get me to come over to her flat, things didn’t go her way so she’s a bit chuffed with me at the moment.”  He had a good hunch that the vague explanation wouldn’t go over well by the way Sherlock was regarding him.

“So she came up with the rouse that there was a break in at her flat to get you to come over. Why? Just for a chat, unlikely as she would have just called you I’m sure... so it was for something else then. It was obviously not dinner, or to have you fix something.... as your clothes were mussed but not dirty like they would have been had something needed repairs and you get a sort of glassy look in your eyes when you are full. Also, if it would have been dinner I suspect It would have gone over better... No it was something else entirely.” he closed his eyes and tried hard to drum up the image of John from the night before when he had first walked through the door. It was fuzzy, but it would do.

“Your hair looked like it does when you've been running your hands through it too much, and your clothes were askew, as if gripped tight, pulling you towards them. A few stitches on the seams across your shoulders had been popped too. Someone was very enthusiastic.” he opened his eyes and narrowed them at his flatmate.

“So either you and Mary had a small tussle and she lost, or she was trying to give you a good shag and you denied her....” He looked confused at that, “Why did you give up a shag John? That’s not like you...”