Work Text:
He didn't slam the door.
There was no need to.
He just let it clicked closed on the impassive face of The Man, not really caring if he was surprised, if he was upset, if he was indifferent.
Door slamming was always more Sherlock's style anyway. Him and Harry both. Door slamming, windows rattling - incandescent, billowing rage that flew up from liquid statues that could move and it didn't matter anyway, did it? He was not a man prone to histrionics. Flaming rows. Snits.
He felt a smile twitch on his lips.
You two have a little domestic?
The smile died as quickly as it had formed.
The warmth of the wood dug into his forehead, pressed into the flesh - grounding, centering. He had to remind himself to breathe. That it was okay to do that, whether The Man on the other side of the door existed or not.
There had to come a point when you faced yourself and realized that madness was the only possible course. He had seen him Everywhere. Then he had Not. The next logical -
rational, sensible, inevitable, not-impossible-mostly-probable
- conclusion, would be for The Man to appear at his doorstep.
But he didn't have to invite him in. Even though he had essentially already done that. He did that a long time ago.
But he could still chose when the invite was accepted fully. When it was embraced.
It had been too long.
John was tired.
He breathed in the warm-dampness of his own exhalations against pressed wood and chipped paint, feeling his eyelashes squeeze and tangle, his fists clenched, doubled under his chin - holding the door closed and himself upright and wasn't that fitting, that The Man (his presence) could make him no longer able to stand. Of course, he wasn't able to stand when he had met the Shadow the Man was pretending to be. He wasn't able to stand after he...
He could stand now, but he no longer knew whose weight he was holding up.
He opened his eyes. He accepted his own weight. Reclaimed the air that wasn't folded in on itself. He grasped the knob.
'No.' He thought cleanly - but his hand (left) didn't obey, though his other hand (right), leaned against the frame, fingers ready to help him reclaim himself and keep the threshold sealed. Though which Threshold -
the door, his mind, his soul
- he was trying to protect, he didn't know anymore.
So his left hand disobeyed and he wrenched the door open rather more noisily than it had been shut.
There was no one there.
He wasn't sure how he felt about that.
So he closed it again.
And had another drink.