Work Text:
John was forever saying Sherlock's name.
Every time he did, it was different.
Sherlock had a classification system.
Types 1-10 were everyday occurrences, a simple call for attention: gentle, thoughtless, a descending third with a hint of a rise at the end.
"Sherlock, where's the milk?"
"Sherlock, are we out of toilet tissue again?"
"Sherlock, I'm going out, d'you want anything?"
Types 11-20 were slightly sharper, a rebuke waiting to happen: still patient, but exasperation creeping in, a rising second in the latter syllable.
"Sherlock, why is there a leg in the bin again?"
"Sherlock, where did these burns come from?"
"Sherlock, what have I said about growing mould in the bathtub?"
Types 21-30 were warnings: flat affect, low unison, a hint of anger.
"Sherlock, shut up. No, I mean it, now."
"Not good, Sherlock."
Or sometimes, simply, "Sherlock," coupled with a warning glare.
Types 31-40 were cries for help: strident, military, a strong descending fourth.
"Sherlock, cuffs, now, please!"
"Sherlock, that way!"
"Sherlock, cover me, I have to get to Lestrade before he bleeds out!"
Types 41-50 was where the system started to break down. From 1-40, the system was mostly based on increasing strength, volume, and sharpness of tone. Admirably logical. After 40, the system became much more subjective, classified on a descending level of desirability of repetition. Complicated.
Type 41 was the way John cried out his name during sex, during orgasm, broken and fulfilled all at once, like it was the only name in the world, like it was the only answer to every question that had ever been asked. Sherlock would be content to never hear his name any other way, except that it was private, and he didn't want to share that with anyone but John.
Type 42 was the way John sounded at a crime scene when Sherlock made a particularly impressive deductive leap, breathy and amazed, as though his brain had temporarily gone offline with wonder. That was good, too, and not so personal that he minded others hearing it.
Type 43 was how John sounded when he was acting as a doctor and Sherlock was his second pair of hands. When it was not Sherlock himself who was injured, Sherlock loved watching him tend the hurts of others -- not because he cared, not the way John did, but because it made John so deeply happy to be useful, to eradicate pain. Sherlock's name in those situations was clipped and clinical, almost impersonal, but he would hear it with a certain satisfaction every time, because John was in his element, and he was glorious.
Type 44 was a warning of imminent danger: "Sherlock, get down!" He loved it, because they were both adrenaline junkies and lived for the thrill of the chase. And he hated it, because it meant he had once again led John into danger, and he never wanted John hurt. Not ever. And worse, he knew that John felt the same about him, so he both relished and quailed at the desperate hint of fear in his name when John drew his gun.
Type 45 was the uncontrolled dreadful shout when Sherlock was in danger, or missing, or just out of reach, and John knew he could not get to him. It was rage, and terror, and frustration, and love. Sherlock despised being coddled, but it was nice to have unbridled proof of John's devotion, even if it came at the cost of personal threat and not a little dignity -- he was capable of taking care of himself, after all.
Type 46 was the tightly-controlled snap of worry that was present when it was Sherlock who was injured. There was always a little irritation, too, since it was usually Sherlock's fault, through carelessness or recklessness, or some combination of the two. Sherlock hated pain, and he hated how John's capacity for empathy meant that Sherlock's pain was John's too, because he hated when John was in pain. But he had to admit that the single-minded focus, the way John would snarl at anyone or anything that tried to come between him and his treatment of Sherlock's hurts, was gratifying and warming.
Type 47 was disappointment, a dead, quiet sigh: "Sher-lock. Really?" Not your normal, everyday, someone-used-my-mug-for-an-experiment-again kind of disappointment, but the bone-deep kind that made John's shoulders slump and his face tighten. Like when Sherlock probed too deeply and made innocent witnesses cry. Or when he forgot, and deduced someone out loud, someone John cared about. Or when he broke promises on which John had been counting. Or when John caught him at the end of an alley, just once, wondering if it was worth it to go speak to one of his old dealers. Sherlock actively tried to prevent 47s, hard work though it sometimes was, because it hurt both of them, and there was no pleasure, not even the guilty kind.
Type 48 was a sound Sherlock had thankfully only heard once, but it had instantly been added to the classification system due to his iron resolve to do whatever possible to avoid it in future. They had been haring after some petty thief for six blocks when John tackled him. Reaching back for the handcuffs, John fumbled his grip, and the man twisted, slamming his fists hard against John to free himself before tearing to his feet and away again at a run. Sherlock had started to resume the chase when he heard John call his name in an unfamiliar voice, a weak little gasping cry that faded out halfway through the second syllable. Sherlock had turned to see John pitching forward, eyes rolling back in his head, blood on his lips, the handle of the knife still protruding from his chest. Sherlock had caught him before he could hit the ground, cradling John against his own aching heart, calling and calling his name until the sirens drowned it out, and it had been almost three weeks before John had finally been able to whisper his name again, bringing the sounds of the rest of the world back to life with him. But that long silence at the end of his name as it died on John's lips -- silence where there should have been John's voice, no matter what type, he would even have welcomed a steady stream of 47s -- he never wanted to hear it again.
Type 49 was also unique, and Sherlock had vowed to keep it that way: the way John had screamed his name as he jumped from the roof of St. Bart's. Fear, agony, disbelief, betrayal, guilt, love -- the love was the worst, because it was the first time Sherlock had heard it, really heard it and understood it, and by then it was too late. It was the sound of John's heart shattering on the pavement, and Sherlock had promised him (and himself) over and over that it would never, never happen again.
Because if it did, then he would hear Type 50, the sound he had never heard and never wanted to -- a sound he prayed would never come -- a sound he would sell his soul, his violin, his life, his intelligence, anything, to avoid:
The sound of John saying goodbye, Sherlock.
And then 51-infinity:
the long, long, empty silences that would follow.