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.


2. Part II

He saw John across the street as her laugh broke the silence of the London night. It wasn’t because Sherlock suddenly had cracked a joke or something of the like, it was because he not spoken a single word to her, and somehow she must have found that rather entertaining. But John, he looked devastated, broken and fragile. Like a hedgehog without its spikes, disheartened. Sherlock's heart tightened as if squished by two enormous rocks and his stomach dropped to the soles of his feet. Despite it all, the want to be with his John again, he continued up the street, turning his head once every so often to see John disappear further and further into the foggy night. Away from Sherlock, whose heart had long ago broken into a million tiny shards, too damaged to ever fix again. If only he knew. Somehow, he still ended up fiddling in his pocket for the keys to his temporary living quarters, while the pretty brunette clung to his arm. He inserted the keys in the lock and opened the door for her.


Sherlock was still convinced that he didn’t do anything he truly didn’t want to do, so why had he done this? Why had he brought her home, well it would never really be home, perhaps that was why. To distance himself even more from this place and this chapter of his life by associating it with something he would never repeat. He felt another amount of weight on his body and looked up to find the brunette straddling his thighs and hips. She bit her lip yet again and leaned down to press a gentle, but a hungry kiss to his jaw. “I’m Alesha by the way,” she whispered in his ear, before venturing further along his jaw, placing soft kisses as she went. He felt his grip on his sanity and beloved logical mind loosen. He struggled to suppress a soft moan and the urge to put his hands on her hips consumed him almost completely, but Sherlock, as everybody knew, was talented when it came to self-control in certain areas, so he kept his hands to himself. She sucked what would probably turn into a mild hickey just below his collarbone. Her hands wandered endlessly, up his thighs, across his abs, over his biceps, interlacing with his musicians' fingers, but he never reciprocated any of these gestures.


He was on the line between not giving a bloody fuck, and let him himself enjoy this one-night thing, and caring all too much that this was happening with the wrong person. Her hands traveled south once more but never reached his thighs, instead, they came to a halt on top of his belt buckle. Her thin fingers decorated with polished nails fumbled with the metal buckle, but before she could make her move to undo the belt completely he stopped her.


He laid his own slender hands on top of her thinner ones and looked at her with an apologetic look rooted in his grey eyes. He slowly removed her hands from his belt buckle.

“What’s the matter?” she questioned. She placed her hands on his chest and started drawing small circles with her fingertips. He had never been in the position to enjoy this kind of stimuli before, but oh god, did it feel fantastic. It felt like her hands were on fire and he wanted more, but at the same time wanted none of it. He desperately battled the lust of his animalistic side, he didn’t even know such a side actually did exist, he had always brushed it off as being some over dramatic expression with absolutely no evidence behind it. Not even when he had studied at Man U and experienced with his sexuality had he felt that animalistic tug. The question she had asked went straight to the back of his mind and all of his energy went into battling the tug.

“Did I move too fast?” Her finger kept up tracing small circles that send vibration throughout his body.


He shoved her so that she lost her balance on his lap and stumbled to her feet.

“What are you doing?” she raised a suggestive eyebrow and a satisfied smirk appeared on her lips. He was slowly gaining back the control he had lost to her red lips and slim fingers, that was what he was doing. She neared Sherlock and let her hand caress his neck. He roughly grabbed her wrist and whispered.

“I would very much appreciate it if you were to leave this flat right this instant.” there was nothing threatening lurking in his tone, in fact, he even had a gentle smile placed on his face. She gaped in astonishment, he presumed, before narrowing her eyes at him. What she did next he would never have foreseen, she kissed him. It was rough and intense and it made him take a step backward.

“I’m serious.” he hissed

“So am I,” she responded. She gave him a more gentle peck on the lips before swirling around and grabbing her purse that she had left by the door. She turned back around.

“That’s why I don’t waste my time on guys I know I can’t have.” she winked. The door slammed.


They would have become close friends if Sherlock hadn’t faked his death 2 years prior to meeting Alesha, maybe it was karma.


For awhile Sherlock stood at the window looking into the night, it had seemed that doing this had become a habit of his, as he spent almost all of his time in the small flat either staring out the window or dreaming of John. His phone buzzed in his pocket but he didn’t bother looking at it, instead, he decided to buy a six-pack of beer and a bottle of vodka. He grabbed his coat and patted the pockets to make sure that his wallet was there before heading into the chilly London night once more. The moon had risen and he presumed that it was well past midnight already.

He breathed in the fresh air, well as fresh as polluted urban air could get, and headed towards the kiosk where he usually bought his liquor.


The small store smelled of alcohol and clouds of smoke hung in the air. The owner was a small, thin man with glasses and a stubble along his jaw.

“Oi mate!” The owner greeted Sherlock

“Evening,” Sherlock muttered.

“Night, you mean. I was actually just locking up. What d’ya need?” 
“A six-pack of beer and a bottle of vodka,” Sherlock responded feeling rather ashamed that this was the method he had resorted to instead of just talking to the man, he lived right across the street for god's sake!

“Here ya go.” the owner placed a six-pack and a bottle of cheap vodka on the counter. Sherlock threw a tenner on the counter.

“Keep the change,” he said before leaving the store, liquor in hand.


He returned to his small apartment after having smoked a quick cigarette on the street. He had relapsed into smoking approximately 2 weeks after returning from his great adventures as Mycroft referred to it. He wasn’t even one bit sorry about it, he had gone through hell back, he had deserved a cigarette by his own standards. He dumped his coat on the floor before proceeding to carelessly throw the bottle of vodka onto the sofa and opened a beer. The beer quickly vanished from the can and was even quicker replaced by another one. Sherlock downed those before switching to vodka. He took a couple of swigs from the bottle, not even trying to pour the drink into shot glasses, he had failed miserably the last time and Mycroft had been pissed to discover that the sofa cushions had stains of alcohol on them. Sherlock laughed to himself as he thought about his brother. Half bald, chubby and miserable, no wonder he cared so much about sofa cushions.


After a couple more swigs Sherlock put the bottle back on the table, but his coordination was so poor that he placed it on the edge and it ended up tumbling to the floor, vodka spilling everywhere. He sat back feeling slightly dizzy and waited for the effects to kick in. If he had done this right he would fall into a dream filled sleep where he had almost perfectly mastered the art of controlling what happened. If he had done this wrong he was either going to pass out or have insomnia for the rest of the night. He started rocking back and forth slowly feeling himself being carried away by the effects of the alcohol. His eyes flickered and he strongly considered laying down on the couch, but he couldn't find the strength to lift his legs. Oh well, he might as well end up on the floor, if only it got him closer to John. He was no longer ashamed, only filled with the want to dream of his John yet again, just as he had done so many other lonely and miserable nights.


The sun shone through the curtains into Sherlock’s bedroom at 211B Baker Street. Sherlock opened his eyes and was temporarily blinded by the sharp, lovely sunlight. Another day, another adventure. He rolled onto his side. Next to him lay his wonderful army doctor, sheets wrapped halfway up his naked chest. Sherlock smiled to himself, he was the luckiest man in the world to have the privilege of being allowed to call John his. That was exactly what he was, John was Sherlock’s and Sherlock was John’s. Sherlock's eyes wandered from Johns naked torso to John’s left hand, where a band with cursive writing engraved decorated the soldier's ring finger. Sherlock squinted, trying to read the text. The word was small, but he was positive that it read ‘starving’. At first, he thought he might have read it wrong until he looked down at his own hand to find a band of the same characteristics with the word ‘hungry?’ engraved in the pure gold. He chuckled at the memory.


Sherlock woke with a jittering feeling in his body, it was everywhere, from the soles of his feet to the tips of his fingers. He took a deep breath and rolled to the side. Thump! He felt the not so soft rug under his ribs on his left side. With one hand he half-heartedly tried to push himself up. He managed to lift his head a small bit from the floor before collapsing flat on the floor again. He sighed in an annoyed manner and drifted back to the magic dreamland of controlled actions.


Sherlock rubbed his gloved hands together in an attempt to create some friction and heat, he leaned back against the rough brick wall. Even though he had just solved the last box of cold cases from 40 years ago, his brain was overheated from not having anything to work out at the moment. Sometimes he wished that he could have John or Lestrade’s brain, or maybe even Anderson’s if he was really desperate, just for a day, just to get some rest from the constant buzzing in his head. There were always drugs, of course, but the last time he had gone to fetch some it seemed that Mycroft had paid off every pusher in London not to sell him any. And so, he had returned home empty-handed and wound up calling Lestrade at 3 o’clock at night to get his hands on some cold cases, where the perpetrators were usually dead. Oh, the measures he would go to get some stimulation. Just as he was considering whether or not to buy a pack of cigarettes from the kiosk around the corner a cab honked from the curb. Sherlock tried to make out who was sitting in the backseat as he made his way towards the cab. He got in and was greeted by a hand on his arm, piercing blue eyes and a deep, passionate kiss.

“I wondered when you would get here.” Sherlock teased.

“Right in time, it seems.”  his boyfriend responded, with a seductive wink. As John leaned in again, Sherlock realized that all the stimulation he could ever need was right there.


When he woke up the second time his head pounded and the sun pierced his eyes. He groaned and rolled over burying his head in the carpet. He was well acquainted with the symptoms of a hangover by now, but he swore it still felt as though knives penetrated his head from all angles possible. Somehow, he managed to stumble to his feet and run to the bathroom where he retched violently. He sat back on his heels once he was done emptying what felt like poison from his stomach, and sighed.


He stood silently by the window, as he usually did when he was busy nursing a hangover, coffee in hand. It was no secret that tea was his favorite caffeinated beverage of choice, but he found that coffee was more efficient when his head hurt and his stomach rolled. The mailman came by as he usually did, and life sped by outside the window. A young woman smiled down at her small child, who very enthusiastically jumped up and down trying to reach one of the last orangey red leaves on a tree. While he watched the girl trying and failing to reach the leaf over and over, before her mother, in the end, plucked the leaf and handed it to her daughter, he decided that this was going to be the day. This was going to be the day he contacted John. This was going to be the day he was going to pour his heart out to John. This was the day that might destroy him. The leaf fell from the girl’s hand and flew down the street.


Sherlock trotted down the stairs of his second floor flat while wrapping his favorite blue scarf around his neck, he adjusted his coat before opening the main door and stepping out onto the street. The birds had long since stopped chirping and leaves flooded the sidewalk. A man carrying groceries bumped into him as Sherlock moved closer to the curb of Baker Street.


It was funny how the other side of the street, where his beloved 221B was located, felt so much more like home. After he had crossed the street it was as though a change had occurred inside of him. He now felt powerful, completely in control, exactly as he preferred it. He glared at the straight knocker on the door and knocked using his knuckles. The door was soon opened by Mrs. Hudson who did a double take before letting out a surprised laugh.

“I knew it!” she announced before enveloping Sherlock in a big hug.

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson,” he whispered into her neck. She slowly let go of him.

“I just knew it!” she exclaimed with a huge smile on her face. “I  knew you would come back! Oh, come on in, Sherlock dear. No need to stand outside on this cold day, I’ll just boil the kettle.” She showed him to her kitchen with flowered wallpaper. The room smelled like cookies and perfume, just as he remembered.

“Please, do sit down dear.” she gestured to one of the two chair, each placed on their separate side of the small table that was pushed up against the wall. Mrs. Hudson placed a steaming hot mug of peppermint tea in front of him and sat down with her own cup cradled in her hands.

“So, tell me, how many people did you kill?” Sherlock was taken aback by the sudden question about how many lives he had taken. He wasn’t proud of the answer, he never would be, but he was sure that it had been the right thing to do. How did Mrs. Hudson even know that he had been abroad on a killing spree and not dead and buried?

“More than I could ever count, Mrs. Hudson,” he whispered in an ashamed tone. She looked at him with empathic eyes, a veil of understanding coating them.

“Everything will be alright in the end, Sherlock, just you wait and see.”


Sherlock finished the last of his still hot tea in a big, noisy gulp. Mrs. Hudson smiled.

“More tea?” she offered politely and made a move to get the kettle from the stove.

“No, thank you.” Sherlock kindly declined her offer of more tea. “Could I go see John now?” he got up from his seat and took a couple of steps towards the door.

“Of course, dear. I haven’t seen him all morning, so be careful not to give him a heart attack.”

“Does he frequent you often?” Sherlock questioned while he leaned on the door frame.

“It was more, in the beginning, it broke him, Sherlock. You broke him.” her tone was sad and heavy. “He wouldn’t even get out of bed the first three months, I suppose it is to be expected when one loses one's boyfriend.”

“He wasn’t my boyfriend, Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock complained for the umpteenth since he had first moved into 211B.

“Whatever the two of you had going on, he really loved you.” she took hold of Sherlock’s hand and squeezed it gently. “Don’t break him again, promise me.” Sherlock smiled a sad smile at Mrs. Hudson and left her flat.


Sure he had known that John had been sad, but broken? He would never have figured that his ‘death’ had left John in such a pathetic state, this might be worse than he thought. He slowly climbed the seventeen steps up to their shared flat. The stairs creaked louder than ever and his heart pounded like it was going to explode in his tight chest. What if John could never forgive him? What would he do then? Move in with Mycroft? No, never, because John was a good human, he reasoned with himself, he would never let Sherlock live with his annoying brother. Not in a million years. And to think that Mycroft hadn’t even gotten in touch with John during the two years! What a horrible brother indeed, why couldn’t he mother hen John like he did Sherlock? It would surely have helped the situation.

To be continued...

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