Someone Like You

Of all the scenarios, about how John would greet him when he got back home, Sherlock had imagined during his two-year “death”, this had never crossed his mind. Hadn’t their bond been unbreakable, undestroyable, mutual?

Bidrag til Alternative Universe konkurrencen, skrivedelen mulighed tre.


1. Part I

During his life Sherlock was certain that he had closed more doors than he was ever going to open, some out of self-preservation, others out of the pure need to be in control of a situation, especially anything that involved sentiment. Yet, here he was standing in front of 221B Baker Street, after two years and out of his own free will, thank you very much, because the thing was that nothing could force the great Sherlock Holmes to do anything he did not wish to do. The only exception being his heart, of course, and he found this unexplainable longing fairly odd, after all, he was a man ruled by his logic mind and not his foolish heart.


He was fairly quickly convinced otherwise though when he caught himself rehearsing all kinds of nonsense that he saw no logic in. They were all small, sentimental...confessions? No, of course, they weren’t confessions. He didn’t confess, he observed. He observed and only spoke when he felt it was an utmost necessity. But this, this was something more than an observation, it was stronger than a fact, complex in a totally alien way to Sherlock. He had no control over this sentiment if one could call it that, and frankly it scared the hell out of him. He inhaled a deep breath of the fresh London air, then overcome with a wave of uncertainty he pinched the bridge of his pale nose with his long and slender fingers. It had been two bloody years, both figuratively and literally. Surely John had moved on, as hesitant as Sherlock was to admit it, John must have moved on, he had been an army doctor for crying out loud he had lost a lot of comrades, why should this be any different? But it had been different for Sherlock.


For two years he had been on the run trying and succeeding in unraveling the enormous web that was Moriarty’s organization. He had tortured, been tortured in return and traveled across the whole world to protect the people he cared the most about, only to stand here on this crucial day to have doubts, he was Sherlock Holmes for Christ's sake. He, of all people on this unintelligent planet, should be certain of the decision he was making. No matter how much he wanted to, how hard he forced his brain to try, he could not overcloud the piercing doubts flooding his overworked mind. The cold, insulting detective who was said to not have much of a heart, if a heart at all was nowhere to be found. Instead, he had been replaced by this insecure and slightly anxious skeleton of a man. His brain, however, his brilliant genius brain, was still counting and revising the facts. John might have changed. John might have moved on. One thing that John might not have done was forget him, Sherlock was sure of it, and after this immense shock, Sherlock was sure to cause he knew that John would not forgive him either.


At that provoking, but sadly true though, the tables turned inside his great mind. He cased the window of the flat one last time. Etched the pattern of the brick into his memory and admired the soft looking white stone covering the lower facade. He internally laughed at the hideous curtains and wordlessly insulted the many goldfish walking the street and their funny little brains before he disappeared into thin air.


“Please Mycroft, I do not need your pity.” Sherlock bluntly declared with a great deal of annoyance present in his voice. The slim man with ebony curls surrounding his sharp features carelessly stepped on the low wooden coffee table Mycroft had insisted be in the tiny flat, along with a sofa and bed, viewing it as the easiest way to transport his body towards the window.

“You know I worry about you, brother mine.” Mycroft’s eyes were fixed on the back of Sherlock's head as the younger Holmes brother stared distantly out the window. The flat, their flat, was just across the street yet it felt like it was a thousand miles away, endlessly out of his reach. And it was, in every sense of the word, truly, painfully unreachable, a twinge in his heart really. “Admittedly I worry about the doctor too. Your death took its toll on him.” Mycroft’s voice softened a tiny pinch, that no one but Sherlock would be able to register. “I know you do too. You can’t hide such an obvious fact from me. It should almost lead one to believe that you are rather fond of Doctor Watson.”

“I’m most definitely not in love with John.” Sherlock countered defensively. His heart and mind had a bit of a row with each other at that thought, because Sherlock didn’t allow himself display such emotions towards anybody, he had continuously been reminded of that throughout his childhood. It still clung to his memory to this day and Mycroft’s words, the ones he was reminded of so often, Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. Still, his heart ached at the thought of John alone in that flat crying himself to sleep. He had experienced several dreams where he was back in 221B Baker Street, curled around John on his bed whispering sweet nothings in his ear. As much as he despised the thought once he woke up his heart longed to dwell on that sweet dream.


Seen in retrospect, that was probably where his addiction to lucid dreaming started. Yes, he was absolutely positive that the rather bad habit had been triggered by that exact dream sequence, and so he had taken to drinking. Drinking, of course, wasn’t the healthiest thing to do, he was well aware, but after his first nonlucid dream about John, he had gone to the bar and gotten pissed. It was so very unlike him, he was also very aware of that, but he couldn’t help it. By that point in time, it had been a year and a half. 18 bloody months and he needed, something, anything. When he returned from his little escapade he had gone out cold on his bed and for the first time in his life, experienced lucid dreaming. Surely he had heard of other ways to achieve this state, but none had been quite as effective, not quite as real. Night after night he had picked up the bottle, it had taken him a couple of days, drinkable alcohol wasn’t his strong side until he had found the perfect mix. 2 pints of beer, obviously, and then two vodka shots. Even though, despite his limited experience with alcohol consumption, he preferred vodka sunrise. At first, he had tried with vodka sunrise, but it didn’t do the job, and at the moment experiencing John was so much more valuable to him than actually enjoying the process of getting there, and so he had stuck to straight vodka.


“Now brother mine, are you certain of that?” Mycroft tabbed the top of his umbrella on the floor a couple of times as to signal the precision of his rather thoughtful question. Not that Sherlock needed guiding, he was as sure of his answer to his brother as one could be.

“Yes, I am certain that I’m not,” he searched for the right word. “...sentimental when it comes to John.”

“Love clouds one's judgment, but what would you know about that matter? You are basically a sentiment virgin.”

“I’m not!” Sherlock insisted turning to face his brother with contempt sprinkled across his porcelain features.

“You aren’t? Here you are, ‘dead’, but still failing to admit your love to the dear Doctor. Probably wouldn’t do you any good whatsoever. For all, he knows you’re dead and gone, and when you finally do decide to show your face he will probably kick you out the front door.” it was as if Mycroft knew just which buttons to push to get the wanted reaction out of Sherlock.

“Okay, so say that I do feel something. What would be appropriate to do in such a situation?” Sherlock’s tone, that usually echoed intellect and knowledge several miles away, now sounded lost, confused and sincerely unsure.

“Oh my, you truly are inexperienced, aren’t you?” if one didn’t know any better you might assume that Mycroft was pitying his younger brother. In fact, he was just confirming a simple fact and maybe teasing Sherlock just the tiniest bit. Sherlock bluntly rolled his eyes sky high.

“Oh do stop with your nonsense and answer my question!” Sherlock’s patience was running low after two years off being chased and seeing his head on wanted posters. He just wanted a tad of advice, as embarrassing as it was for him to admit.

“Well, I shall not make myself the expert of love but,-”

“Oh please go right ahead, you’re practically already the British government, why not add another job to your resume, Amor?” Sherlock snapped looking defiantly at his brother.

“But, this is no ordinary situation, so I suggest you get it over with. Why lurk in the shadows any longer than necessary?” Mycroft pointed out with a simple tap of his umbrella to the creaky wooden floor.

“Now you’re simply being silly Mycroft. One minute you tell he will probably kick me out the front door and the next you’re encouraging me to get it done. What is this little game of yours brother?” Sherlock raised one brow in question.

“It’s not a game, Sherlock. It’s reality, I suppose I assumed that I could shield you from the hard ways of love by telling you that caring was not an advantage. But you are your own person, and as your own person, I cannot tell you what to feel. Forgive me brother mine.” Mycroft’s voice rang with regret.

“Perhaps shielding is to be preferred.” Sherlock's voice was simple, it was just stating an opinion, and showing no emotion of the whirlwind he felt inside.


Was this really what his life was like now? Was this what being your own person was like? He had always believed that being his own person meant that he could take distance from any bond of sentiment, platonic and romantic, and he had succeeded until this day. Of course, he had been his own person before, but he had been guarded by Mycroft's voice echoing in his mind. Now, that he didn’t have that, he was at a loss for what to do or say. His brilliant mind was blank on this subject.

“I truly wish I could help you with this brother, but it seems that the longer I am here the more trouble I cause. I will be leaving now, best of luck, brother dear.” Mycroft turned in his posh suit and walked slowly towards the dark oak door leading out of the tiny flat. Sherlock stood at the window watching his brother leave. He didn’t make a move to push him away but rather hoped that he would actually slow down because once he was gone Sherlock knew he had to face John. The danger was nonexistent anymore, and there was no reason to lurk in the shadows anymore, exactly as Mycroft had said. With a final swing of the dark blue umbrella, the door shut, leaving Sherlock in the dark.


Oh god, this was it. He was back in London with no way to back out now. He almost wished he could go back to dismembering terror cells. Just almost. But then again, the torturing and constant fleeing hadn't been all too pleasant now, had it? A small voice asked. No, but it had been necessary, he reminded it. Otherwise, we would have lost John. Even the thought made his heart break a little. He couldn’t bear to lose his best friend, let alone his only friend. What if this whole sentiment thing went to hell? Their friendship would surely vanish as well, wouldn’t it?


The air was chilly out and Sherlock wrapped his Belstaff closer around himself with a gloved hand. This didn’t much to block the cold, that draped itself over him like an icy blanket. It almost felt like treason when he stepped inside the pub like he was betraying the very concept of love by getting pissed in some lousy pub instead of being courageous enough to stand up for what he felt, and who he felt it for. He had always viewed love as a feeling only sentimental, ordinary people experience, but here he was, the greatest mind in all of Britain, if not the greatest mind in the whole world, madly in love with his best friend.


The guilt drowned him when his foot crossed the threshold to the small pub. Still, he proceeded to sit down at the bar desperately wanting to drown his doubts in golden brown liquid.

“The usual?” the bartender asked while polishing a whiskey glass. Yes, he had been here before. In fact, he had visited this place so many times that the bartender had memorized his order, a stupid impression trick if Sherlock had to be frank.

“Yes, that will do,” he responded without looking at the man behind the bar. The bartender returned a minute later with a pint in his hand.

“Here you go,” he presented the beer. “You seem gloomy, is there something I can do for you?” he questioned after having placed the beer in front of the pale man.

“No,” Sherlock waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Nothing there.”

“Perhaps I can cheer you up?” a young woman purred suggestively and slid onto the barstool next to Sherlock’s. She was wearing a tight red dress that managed to show off a tad too much cleavage for Sherlock’s liking. She licked her red lips and winked at him with one of her clear blue eyes surrounded by thick, lush lashes. Her chocolate colored hair was pulled back in a high, curly ponytail, leaving her spotless skin undisturbed by the silky locks. To any given man she might be gorgeous, the sort of girl you would give your right hand to be with, but not Sherlock. He considered his right hand way to important.

He quickly picked her apart. An only child lives on her own (obviously), has, no, had a cat about two years ago, frequently dyes her hair, smokes at parties, and has a habit of picking up one night stands from various bars throughout the city, if her current actions were anything to go by. She looked him up and down with lustful eyes before speaking.

“So tell me, what is a handsome guy like you doing here all alone?” Oh please, he thought and took a swig of his beer. Women must have reached a new level of desperation to utter such a cringe-worthy question.

“No, I’m serious.” She smiled and leaned one elbow on the table to support her chin and looked at Sherlock. “A guy like you, so handsome you’re to die for, certainly you must have a special someone, or maybe it’s just my luck.” she bit her lip seductively and he blushed slightly at the compliment. However he remained quiet, he had no idea what to say, this woman was flirting with him, right?

“Oh, do say something,” she cocked her head at him with a pleading look. “I’m sure your voice is just as attractive as the rest of you.” she placed her long, slim fingers on his lower thigh and a strange sensation went up to his spine. “Anything.” she elaborated with the same pleasing look sprinkled across her flawless features. She was breathtaking, if only he wasn’t interested in someone else. The pleasing look soon turned to burning desire the higher her hand went. She stopped again mid-thigh and Sherlock just barely suppressed a moan. He was supposed to be asexual, damn it!


“You like that?” she whispered in a seductive tone, she must have sensed the way his legs shuddered. “Then, how about this?” she moved her fingers up a centimeter or so higher and tingles ran through his body again. “You know, you could have me completely at your mercy all night, just say something.” her voice was beginning to get a little raspy. “Anything,” she repeated and he could feel her hot breath in his ear. He moaned quietly and she smirked in victory. “Oh, come on. For me, pretty boy.” she ran her hand through his hair and he felt the warmth of her skin against his neck. She leaned in slowly, her red lips glistening and her eyes closing slowly. The friction their lips created when they met was indescribable to Sherlock, and yet so wrong. This was his first kiss since his teenage years and it was supposed to be with someone special, not some flirty woman he didn’t even know. All he could think about as she leaned in for more, was John. It had always been John. It would always be John.


To be continued...

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