Sherlock meets The Flash and Arrow

CHAPTER 36

Notes

Please note that I am about to discuss Sherlock's extremely traumatic past.

I can be very, very dark sometimes, and this next section is just... awful to Sherlock, and he's only six in the time I'm referencing. If you don't want that weighing on you, you can read until I mention Sherlock owning a dog (John's perspective), then skip to the next chapter. Reminder this was written before season 4.

Oliver

It feels like he's slapped me. Hard. With a glove. Covered in iron spikes.

What I'm trying to say is that it hurts. I don't doubt for a second anymore that he could have me sobbing on the ground.

Maybe I'm just trying to explain why I let go of him. It's a callow beginner's mistake. My only excuse is that listening to his words is like being stabbed.

Instantly, almost before I realize what's happening, he's grabbed a bar from the ground and sent me reeling from a good hit from it, connecting solidly along my jawbone. That'll probably leave a bruise.

I've lost.

My new injury doesn't hurt at all compared to the damage he just did with his knives. Words. John's right, they really are the same thing in the end.

Sherlock steps away from me, giving me room to breathe again. He picks up the three bars from the floor and puts them and the one he's already holding back.

I can't breathe from the pressure of Sherlock's accusations. Trying to distract myself, I say, "Girlfriend."

He turns around. "Pardon?"

"My dead friend's girlfriend. Her name's Nyssa."

John laughs. "Not like you to make the same mistake twice, Sherlock. Harry and Clara, then Oliver's friend and Nyssa." He smiles, ignoring Sherlock's glare.

I settle down on the mat and put my head in my hands. I can hear Diggle behind me, but I don't look up. He says, "Hey man. That was brutal. You okay?"

I flatten my mouth into a line and close my eyes. "I don't want to talk right now."

John

I walk over to Oliver. "Sorry. I was trying to warn you."

"Pride deafens us to the advice or warnings of those around us. John C Maxwell. One of the few people on this planet who knows what he's talking about," Sherlock says.

Sometimes I just really want to punch him . Scratch that. I almost always want to punch him. He can be amazingly blind for a genius.

"Pride? You think I'm proud of my moral failings?" Oliver spits. "I didn't cry when my mother died. I didn't even go to her funeral. I cheated on my girlfriend with her sister. Then they both died and I couldn't cry. I chose to kill one of my lovers to save another. My father shot himself to save me. Didn't cry either time. Practically everybody I love is dead, but I can't mourn them.

"Maybe I always have a poker face. Maybe no one can read me because I'm emotionless. Having emotions or caring would've killed me during my crucible. So I stopped, and that protected me. And it doesn't seem like I can start again. So, no, Sherlock, I'm not proud. I hate that I can't show that I care. But I don't cry." He buries his head in his hands. "See how messed up this's made me? I don't talk about the island. I don't talk about myself. Until now, apparently."

Felicity sits next to Oliver and, impulsively, hugs him. Oliver rests his head on her shoulder and sighs.

So quietly that I barely catch it, Sherlock says, "I know what you mean."