I Am Offering This Scarf

Chapter 12- Clarinets and Dominatrixes

John's POV

I open my eyes and find Sherlock clutching the sides of his head. Must be one of those days. The depression days. He won't tell me exactly what happened in his childhood but I'm thinking there are some rough patches. I know he tries to hide these weird attacks from me, but I've seen him.

His eyes flash back and forth behind his eyelids and he presses his hands to his head harder. He's told me about these things, how dark it gets. How he can spend days on end without even talking. He relives everything. It must be...terrible.

Maybe...I can fix it? I rearrange myself to where I'm sitting on my calves. He's said that I'm his sun. Cheesy. That's his middle name, I swear. He's said many things. That I brighten his mood. Maybe...?

Maybe I can part the fog.

I lightly smooth my hand over a place on his back and his eyes open, revealing a darker green than I remember. He sits up straight and pulls my hand from his back, gazing at me unbelieving. "You...how...?" Slowly, he lifts my hand to his face.

"Sherlock? Are you okay?" His heart is beating like a hummingbird's. It had to have been worse this time. He's breathing is abnormal. I'd say PTSD but I don't really trust the 'PTSD' claim since they diagnosed me. He's definitely got some dusting to do in his mind palace.

He shudders. "Thank you John." He says weakly. "You saved me from my own mind."

"That's what I do Sherlock." I respond. Starting to scoot backward, I pull him onto the bed with me. We pull ourselves up to the pillows, ignoring the fact that neither of us has proper clothes on for sleeping. We face each other in the bed and I'm surprised to see Sherlock's face is ashamed. "Hey, what's bothering you? Is it what just happened?"

He closes his eyes tightly and curls up into my chest.

"Sherlock, hey. Look at me." I pull on his chin. I lightly touch my lips to his. When I pull back I run the inner part of my thumbs under his red splotchy eyes. "You've been crying sweetheart..." He's going to break. The dam is going to break. This is too overwhelming for him, I can tell.

And like I determined, tears start to run down his face. I gather him into my arms. His head goes into my chest the way that usually happens with me. This is hard to deal with. The man that has no emotion, who has blocked off all feeling in his tear ducts because of this, is quietly sobbing into my chest. So yes, it's hard.

***

I wake up before him sometime later. I look over my shoulder at the clock. Its red numbers burn into my eyes. 1:45. In the afternoon?! It's so unbelievably late. We should not be sleeping. We should be up investigating that murder...

Wait...

We're not supposed to. So I could spend all day with my Sherlock. Just like this. It'd be relaxing, without so much drama and so many tears.

It occurs to me, again, that we're no good together. Someone will get destroyed- the lesser chemical in this chemical reaction.

"U. O. I...." Sherlock says quietly.

I look down toward his face. Yes, still asleep. Sherlock sleep talks...odd. Maybe he's more normal than I thought. Speaking of normalcy...

He mentioned the kids problem. It's absolutely ridiculous. He wants to make me happy. Like always. He's always been protecting me.

Sherlock...

Maybe it's my turn. I bet it is. All roles to be switched. I protect him. I die. I know it'll happen. He's probably already figured it out too. That's why he's so...attached, emotional. Ugh, new Sherlock is more confusing than old Sherlock. My thoughts keep turning in circles. I need a break. I need a case. I can't say I have one because it's Moriarty. He's something different altogether. He used to be a case...anymore he's just dangerous.

I almost would respect him if he hadn't killed Mary, and Sherlock, and me. Well, not me just yet. My mind yawns. Time to pick a new subject, I've been thinking over this since we figured out he's repeating himself.

My mind wanders to the many things up in my old room. Most of my clothes, my shoes, my clarinet. Oh my gosh, I haven't thought about my clarinet in forever. I chuckle to myself, thinking about how terrible I'd be at it now. Do I even remember the fingerings?

Sherlock stirs.

I go rigid, not wanting to wake him up. I only relax after he's done rubbing at his face. I should get my clarinet out. Maybe I'd be good, although I probably won't. It's worth a try.

***
I pull myself out of the bed and tip-toe through the bedroom to slip on some socks.

He continues to sleep as I rush to my old room and open the door, wanting to sift through my stuff.

But there's someone on the bed.

"Are you bloody fucking kidding me?!" I whisper/yell.