Not Broken, Just Bent (BBC Sherlock)

Through

The sound of the door lock clicking open softly open, echoing through the gloom of them dark, was the best sound that Sherlock had ever heard in his life. The noise sent his heart racing out of his chest, causing him to freeze slightly. After waiting through the night and through the sorrow, staying for John. For his friend. There was no way that he was turning back now. No way.

Sherlock stood, grunting sharply as he did. The hours of sitting against that door had made his legs and back prickle with pain when the blood actually was able to flow to them once he was on his feet again. He was still dressed in his tailored suit jacket and pants, button down ivory shirt and leather shoes. Finding no need to remove them after returning from the case, he was too caught up in the night's events to rid himself of them. He shirt crinkled at the belly, and his hair was an utter tangle of curls, from being brushed up against the wood of the door for so long. Sherlock turned himself around after the blood finally rushed back to his legs, resulting in the return of feeling to them, his hand wavering over the door handle.

What was he doing? He had no clue on what he would say or do to the doctor, unable to understand the emotions that John was most likely experiencing. Feelings are surely the opposite of what he was good at, anything remotely related to emotions made the detective run a mile at the slightest mention. Things like this didn't come easy, a never ending bewilderment breathing out from the reactions of people based on emotions, a puzzle that Sherlock couldn't wrap his brain around.

Yet, John had unlocked the door, hadn't he? John trusted that he would make the right decision in helping the damaged doctor, and that was what pushed him into turning the handle. The freezing metal clinked and he stepped inside, the door creaking as it shut behind him.

The room was dark, the only light creeping in from the lightpost outside, filtering in behind the thick cotton curtain hanging in front of the small window. The sickly light cast over the wall paint, emitting a deep orange glow around the murkiness of the shadows. John was sitting on his bed, head in his hands. Sherlock slowly took a step inside, gauging the doctor's reaction before taking another and then another, until he was sitting down cautiously next to John on the sheets. The man acted as if he was non-existent, just a change in the wind, nothing to be concerned about. Sherlock couldn't even get him to look up at him. The detective knew that being patient in situations was the most recommended, so he remained, pulling his knees up to his chest, in wait. It was a bit before he spoke.

"John," he said softly, shifting his head to look gaze at the ex-soldier. "John, look at me." No response, not even a glance of acknowledgement. Up close, Sherlock noted the way John's hands shook, heavy tremors coursing through. He spotted the creases in the top of John's forehead and the faint line of gray in his hair, the only way of defining his age, even in the darkness. He couldn't rip his eyes away, no matter how hard he tried. The features were the only thing that showed what John had been through, at least the only thing that he lets show, excluding the scar that was most likely present on John's shoulder, even if the detective had never seen it before. John probably hid more behind his fluffy jumpers and woolen sweaters.

"John," Sherlock tried again. "I need you to look at me. Please."

That earned a tense flinch from the doctor at the final word. Please was not a word often heard from Sherlock. Ever, actually. He only used it when absolutely necessary on cases, and even then it never sounded as real and pleading as it did now. The please sounded truthfully and needy, one that sounded as if Sherlock would die if John didn't look up and act as if he was there, and he was.

With a pained intake of breath, shaky and frail, John brought his hands from his face but still procrastinated to look up. Sherlock knew that he didn't want to, afraid of what he would see in the eyes of his best friend, but he knew that he would never give John a look of hatred. "It's okay."

It was agonizingly painful how slowly John brought his head up to look and at Sherlock. And when he did, the detective's skies fell.