![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
flywomanSee Chapter 1 for notes.
Chapter 2
John lifted his head at last, swiped at his eyes, and looked around the flat. In a matter of seconds, the myriad subtle and not-so-subtle signs of Sherlock’s recent presence had been transformed. Instead of filling him with dread and despair, they offered him a dizzying mixture of joy, relief, and above all, rage.
He wasn’t mental. Sherlock was alive. And, perhaps the most incredible of all, Sherlock was sorry. All right, so he hadn’t said as much, exactly, but John had heard it in the way in which he’d spoken his name, had felt it unmistakably in the pressure of his fingers.
Sorry because of what he’d done to John in his unthinking arrogance, with his magnificent magic trick? Or sorry because he’d so utterly failed to interpret John’s reaction to his reappearance?
For one brief, mad moment, John considered tearing out of the flat on Sherlock’s heels, but he knew instinctively that this would be a mistake. John had just been returned to Sherlock in as shocking a manner as Sherlock had reappeared to John, and more than that, Sherlock now knew himself to be responsible for John’s suffering, not only the anticipated grief and loneliness after his “death,” but months of mental anguish and self-imposed isolation. He would need time to himself, to stalk the streets of London, to berate himself, to brood. In the meantime, John would be right here, awaiting his return.
And, angry as he was, what could John do to welcome Sherlock back to Baker Street? He looked around again and decided to straighten up the flat. He restored Sherlock’s vintage microscope to its customary place on the kitchen table (luckily, it didn’t seem to have suffered any obvious structural damage). Dusted off Sherlock’s violin case and placed a well-thumbed sheet of music on the stand. Did the dishes and set out teacups for two in case Sherlock returned sooner than anticipated. Rearranged the furniture so that the armchairs faced each other companionably again.
Just as he was finishing up, the intercom buzzed. A few seconds later, he heard unfamiliar footsteps tromping up the stairs, Mrs. Hudson’s lighter, less even tread right behind.
“Oh, John,” she cried apologetically as the door swung open, “I told him that you weren’t receiving visitors today, but he simply wouldn’t wait-“
“It’s all right,” John said, even as he directed a cool, assessing gaze at the stranger. A thirty-odd-year-old man of average height: clean-shaven, nondescript features, light brown eyes and hair, crisply pressed but drab suit. A Government man. John’s suspicions were confirmed when the younger man handed him a manila envelope.
“Mr. Holmes, I presume?” John inquired archly. The young man neither confirmed nor denied but turned smartly and saw himself to the door, brushing past Mrs. Hudson, who wrung her hands and looked at John.
“Twice in one morning, and you all worn out with work,” she fretted. “Now, John, dear, just make yourself comfortable, and I’ll bring you a nice pot of tea.”
“Got any buns?” John asked, realizing that it was past noon and that his stomach, though still tense, was starting to rumble.
“I do,” and she looked positively delighted to be able to fulfil this small request. “Fresh from this morning.”
John settled himself in his armchair, rubbing fitfully at the phantom pain in his leg, and forced down the tea and bun that Mrs. Hudson brought him, beaming, before picking up the envelope (thick, heavy, sealed, with a faint smudge on the flap). There was a typewritten note affixed: “Dr. Watson: I had intended this envelope to be opened only in the event of my death. However, given my brother’s recent return, your obvious misinterpretation of the data, and the extreme unlikelihood of a satisfactory explanation being offered by other interested parties, I thought it best to share the contents with you now. – MH.”
He tore open the flap, pulled out the sheaf of papers, and scanned the first page. It became more and more difficult for him to grasp the details as his anger grew, but the gist was clear: Mycroft had known all along, had conspired with his brother in order to fake Sherlock’s death. The operation had been a complex and carefully orchestrated one, involving street closures, an inflatable mattress, a crowd of extras, and a fresh corpse supplied by Molly Hooper.
Mycroft had taken great care to emphasize that this grand deception had been undertaken specifically to ensure the survival of Sherlock’s family and few friends - John himself, above all. While doubtless true, this explanation only fuelled his rage. How could Sherlock have thought- and suddenly John dropped his head into his hands, overcome by the thought that threatened to complete itself. How could Sherlock have thought that John’s life could go on without him.
That was the moment when he first acknowledged the great and inconvenient truth: that what he had experienced was not the normal grief of a man suddenly deprived of his flatmate and friend. That he had loved Sherlock – truly, madly, deeply – and that this was why, in the absence of his radiance, John’s life had been as dull and cold as the surface of the moon.
John had never been a great one for introspection, so he did not proceed to delve into the depths of his own psyche to inquire as to previous hints of his latent homosexuality, etc. Instead, he focused on the practical: Was he attracted to Sherlock? Did he find Sherlock physically beautiful, did he welcome his touch, did the thought of embracing, kissing, even fucking Sherlock excite him? And the answers came to him quickly: Yes. God, yes.
And Sherlock? How would a man who regarded the body as nothing more than transport for that inimitable mind react to any such overtures? Incomprehension, John surmised bleakly. Horror. Disgust.
And now that John knew, surely Sherlock would know. Worse still, perhaps he had always known – perhaps he had been only too right to tell John that first evening that he was married to his work, in response to what he himself had thought an innocent question. Perhaps this even explained why Mrs. Hudson had never quite given up hope.
Alone in the flat, John groaned aloud.
***
The afternoon alternately dragged and flew forward as John worried over his newfound realizations, trying to settle on the most appropriate course of action, but there was no sign of Sherlock.
He was tempted to call Greg and ask if he’d fancy dinner out at the local, but he didn’t dare leave the flat until Sherlock returned. But perhaps he could order in, and Greg could bring some beer, and Sherlock would return to find them both laughing over some shared joke. He found his mobile behind a seat cushion and turned it on. Greg, unfortunately, was working that evening, but he sounded sincerely happy to hear from John and promised to pop round for a drink at the end of the week.
It was just as well, John supposed; he was so tense that the mere thought of food turned his stomach. And if Sherlock came home to an empty refrigerator, well, it was the least that he deserved.
He tried to watch telly but couldn’t concentrate. He flipped idly through some of the newspaper clippings and screenshots that Mycroft had included in the file: the discovery of a new population of a highly endangered species of frog in the far reaches of Tibet by a Norwegian explorer named Sigerson, the sudden resolution of a diplomatic crisis with Iran by an unnamed intermediary, the successful synthesis of a remarkably efficacious novel antibiotic by a laboratory in Montpellier… But the idea of Sherlock abandoning him in his desolation to showcase his brilliance on some kind of grand world tour only made John angrier.
In the end, John gave up his vigil and went to bed. He did not sleep at once but rather dozed fitfully at first, starting awake at any small sound from the street that might herald Sherlock’s arrival.
The next thing he knew, Sherlock was standing by his bedside.
Disoriented and groggy as he was from being summoned out of deep sleep, John knew that the tall, slim silhouette could belong to no one else. He could smell Sherlock’s skin, familiar but more intense and… damp, John surmised, as if he’d been caught out in the rain. He was trembling slightly as he stood there, staring down at John, thin fingers flashing spasmodically in the moonlight. He jumped as John’s sleep-roughened voice croaked, “Sherlock. You startled me.”
John heard Sherlock swallow. “That was not my intention.”
"It's all right," John answered, breathing out softly, understanding the apology behind Sherlock's words. He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes, not wanting to frighten Sherlock in his current vulnerable state, to do anything that would shatter this fragile moment. John stifled a yawn. He felt more exhausted than he had before going to bed and could only hope that he wasn’t about to do or say anything terribly stupid. But he needed to know for certain.
"Do you think..." John rubbed his temple and squinted down at the duvet, suddenly wondering whether he dared do what he most wanted. He gave a resigned sigh and began again. "Sherlock," he said, raising his eyes. "Could you come here for a moment?"
Sherlock stepped tentatively closer, and when John nodded his encouragement, he slid gracefully onto the mattress, crossing his long legs neatly beneath him like a great cat.
Already rapid, John’s heart rate accelerated; he felt excited and curious and terrified all at once. He steeled himself, taking a deep breath. "Give me your hand," he said, enunciating his words with careful precision. Sherlock didn't move. "Your hand, Sherlock," John repeated. “And I don’t want to hear about this in the morning, so please keep your mouth shut."
Silently, Sherlock extended his arm toward John as if to shake hands, clearly without a clue as to his friend’s intentions. When John took Sherlock's wrist gently in his hand, turned it palm up, and found his pulse, Sherlock dropped his head and let out a ragged, pained breath. Like a dubious disciple, John kept his fingers on Sherlock’s flesh, warm and human and alive beneath his cool, moist skin. He heard himself panting harshly, torn between relief and rage.
Now Sherlock raised his head again to lock eyes with John, obviously determined to give his friend whatever confirmation or reassurance he required that he was, in fact, returned, and regretful, and in desperate need of John’s forgiveness.
John let Sherlock's arm drop back into his lap, pulled the covers aside, and sat up on his knees. Still breathing heavily, he leaned in to press two fingers to the pulse point at Sherlock's throat. At any other time, he knew, Sherlock might well have lashed out at John in scorn, or twisted away with an almost imperceptible shudder of distaste. Instead, he was willing himself to sit perfectly still as John followed the flow of his blood, the beat of his heart, and felt himself slowly growing calm and even a little sleepy.
At the same time, he could sense Sherlock’s pulse accelerating, probably as he approached full-blown panic at this unprecedented intimacy between them. John took pity on him and started to pull away.
Sherlock’s cold hand shot out, gripped John’s, and pressed his palm to his chest, just over his heart.
John gasped with surprise and gratitude at the enormity of this gesture. He could feel Sherlock’s heart beating wildly under his hand like a frantic wren against a windowpane. A queer, sudden ache in his own chest caused him to close his eyes and crumple in upon himself, and he felt hot, shameful tears welling, about to trickle down his cheeks.
And then, even more astonishing, he felt Sherlock’s fingers release his hand and begin running up and down his arms, sliding up to his shoulders and back down to his wrists, final proof that he was here, alive and corporeal and real.
John's hand fisted in Sherlock’s shirt, and it was soon crushed between their chests as Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and drew him close. John could feel his cool, thin fingers playing lightly on the ridges of his vertebrae, then pressing more firmly against his flesh, Sherlock’s body shuddering against his with every ragged breath.
It suddenly occurred to him that Sherlock was crying. Real crying, not the crocodile tears he produced on cue while pursuing a case. Sherlock was crying, and it was all for John.
Without fully thinking things through, he released Sherlock’s shirt and reached for his pale face, gently wiping away the tracks of his tears. And then, when that didn’t seem sufficient to the occasion, John leaned forward and clasped his jaw and kissed the wet patches away, salt and skin and Sherlock under his lips.
Sherlock exhaled sharply, roughly, and he swayed in place but didn’t reject John’s benediction.
And as they clasped each other unsteadily in the darkest hour before the dawn, nothing seemed more natural than to kiss Sherlock on the lips.
He’d meant it to be brief, a tender brush, a kiss of pardon like those he’d exchanged at the end of far too many relationships. He wasn’t prepared for Sherlock’s moan in his mouth, the way Sherlock pressed insistently forward, seeking more, cool hands still caressing the contours of John’s body. Which meant that it wasn’t just a kiss, they were kissing, and
John pulled back suddenly, and Sherlock followed in pursuit, almost knocking him flat, but with the last of his ebbing strength, he caught Sherlock and held the both of them upright. Sherlock made a small, anguished sound and shivered, hunching in upon himself.
"It’s all right, Sherlock," John ran a firm, calming hand up Sherlock's back and across the width of his shoulders, then leaned forward over the bent head and kissed the damp curls: once, twice. “It’s all right,” John repeated, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s crown, breathing into his hair, waiting for Sherlock’s shaking to ease.
He lay back slowly, taking Sherlock with him, their bodies fitting together as easily as if they had been sharing a bed for years. He could feel the younger man’s warm, uneven breaths against the hollow of his throat. He traced soothing circles on Sherlock’s back, smoothing the silk of his shirt with the palm of his hand, in a losing battle to keep his own eyes propped open. For the first time in approximately forever, John was unafraid of what dreams might come.
“John,” Sherlock’s voice rumbled softly but urgently against his collarbone, and John jolted awake again.
He heard Sherlock take a breath, sucking the air sharply past his teeth. “It is imperative that you forgive me.” Their temporary truce ruined, John went rigid and silent, waiting for the rage that he knew Sherlock’s next words would bring. “I know that it was horrible and that I was wrong, but you have to understand that it was because I didn’t see, John, I didn’t understand, because I have a blind spot when it comes to you and it stops my mind from working right... You are a great conductor of light, and you are so much a part of my vision that sometimes I can’t see you as a separate being. But John, if I had known –”
Sherlock drew himself up to rest upon his elbows and regard John, and the abrupt loss of contact was almost physically painful. “I did not do this to you intentionally,” he babbled on. “I... I couldn’t foresee this because I failed to understand how a simple human being such as yourself would interpret the data at hand. And I can’t imagine how you must have felt, but I need you to forgive me because the current situation is unbearable. I should have realized, but I didn’t try to understand what was happening because I was finally here with you again and that was all that mattered. I would be lost without you, John, I truly would, and you must forgive me. I did this to save your life,” he finished, as if that purpose had the power to justify everything that had followed.
John inhaled deeply and forced himself to look at the ceiling, mentally counting to ten. If there had been the slightest hint of smugness in Sherlock’s voice during that monologue, the faintest glimmer of self-congratulation for his own cleverness in his eyes, John would have punched him in the face.
He still might.
“I knew that bit, actually,” he acknowledged at last, as softly and evenly as he could. “Mycroft sent someone over with some documents. Seems they were to be given to me in the event of his death, but he thought I’d better read them now because you’d never manage to get that out right.”
He shifted slightly, still not daring to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “But you didn’t tell me,” he whispered, hoping that Sherlock would hear the love beneath the bewilderment and wrath at his betrayal. “You didn’t tell me a thing.”
“I thought you knew,” Sherlock responded, reproachful. “That you had figured it out.”
John resisted the urge to roll his eyes, fighting down fury. “Well, I hadn’t, obviously. I’m an idiot; remember?” And he was, for so many reasons.
“You are,” Sherlock said hoarsely, “the only person who matters. The only one ever. I have never asked anyone for something like this before – not because there was no need, but because I didn’t care.” John did not doubt that this was true, at least of the experiences that Sherlock had not intentionally deleted. “And I’m just going to keep asking until you give in and forgive me… or until you really do give up and leave me for good.” Sherlock paused, took a breath, and then offered a last, whispered plea: “Please.”
John lay silent in the darkness, hands folded across his chest, staring up at the ceiling.
"What makes you think I'm saying no?" he murmured, and he felt Sherlock still.
John rolled over on his side to face Sherlock, his eyes again welling with traitorous tears. "You don't understand a thing, do you?" he whispered. "You honestly think that I can choose whether or not to be here – no, of course you do, you've chosen not to, so you think that I can do, too."
"John," Sherlock began brokenly, and stopped.
John shook his head, resigned. "You're being daft. You can't have missed this unless you tried – oh my God,” he added in horror as sudden realization struck, “is this what you feel like all the time? As if people are unbelievably obtuse?"
Sherlock stayed silent, eyes wide, then blinked several times, deliberately and rapidly.
John sighed and started again. "Yes, I’m angry with you," he said, and his voice rose against his will. "Incredibly angry, you are right about that. You might have thought you were faking your death for the right reasons, but you were unbelievably self-centered and callous, even for you, Sherlock. You can't have thought that I could watch you..." (John screwed up his eyes and drew a deep breath) "leave me like that and walk away. There is no one in the world who could misunderstand the situation that badly."
"I was trying to protect you," Sherlock protested, still with far too much self-righteousness that needed to be knocked out of him.
"I know that," replied John coldly. "You had it all figured out, you and Mycroft had a terribly clever plan, and you got to play the big, tragic hero. But you can't possibly have thought..." He swallowed. "Sherlock, you had to have known that without you, my life was not worth saving."
Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock. Savagely, John pushed on. "What did you think I was going to do? What did you think I had left? Sherlock, while you were gone," John felt himself bare his teeth in a feral grin, "you can't call what I did during those years living.
“Do you know..." John briefly reconsidered what he was about to say, then decided that there was no point in holding anything back now. "Do you have any idea why I didn't go to anyone? Hallucinations aren’t exactly unheard of in PTSD patients, Sherlock, you know that. There was my therapist, there are specialists. I could have gotten medication to make me normal again – Harry was pushing me to do it for depression anyway – but I wouldn't because–" John took a breath and gritted his teeth. “Because I didn’t want to stop seeing you. I needed you." He laughed harshly and without mirth. "I was so fucked up that I preferred to be mad, because at least then you would still be there, Sherlock.” He bent his head briefly. “You would still be there.”
He had been sure that Sherlock would interrupt him at that point, but he didn’t. "I canceled plans with people – you know, real living people – to sit at home and eat takeaway and watch crap telly with your goddamned ghost. And I saw myself doing it. I understood exactly what I was doing and I was terrified because... because how long can something like that go on? There was really only one way it could end. But I kept it up anyway, I chose that path knowing that ultimately it would lead me off a cliff, but that was my only option because at least you were there."
Sherlock actually looked ill now, his eyes glassy, his thin body swaying helplessly from side to side. John reached up and clasped his dear, thick head, his hands gentle, steadying.
"And you think that I'm going to disappear now that I know you're alive?” He kept his tone soft, as if chiding a small child. “Of course I'm angry with you, Sherlock, furious, and that's not just going to go away overnight. It's going to take some time, and you need to know that I'm going to get angry, and scream at you, and probably walk out, but I'm always going to come back. Having you here again is..." John searched fruitlessly for another, better word, but couldn't find anything more fitting: "It's a bloody miracle. I know it sounds ridiculous, but to me, that’s what it is. For you to be alive?" He swallowed hard past the sudden lump in his throat. "Nothing in my life is ever going to matter more than that. Ever."
Sherlock's hands rose in panic to his face as his eyes welled with tears, and John as quickly released him and lay back, giving him silent permission to go.
Sherlock hesitated for a few seconds, trembling. Then he lay back down, body tense but at least temporarily obedient, fitting himself against John’s belly and breast. He rested his head in the hollow between John’s neck and shoulder and watched him warily, unblinking.
"I'm going to go back to sleep now," John told him in a low voice, slowly turning his head so that he could meet Sherlock’s gaze. "I'll be right here. You can wake me up if you need me." He could see a snarky comment composing itself behind Sherlock’s bright eyes, but in the end, his friend only nodded.
"It's fine if you need to go somewhere and think," John continued, strongly inclined to be generous now that he had burdened Sherlock with his own raw emotions so relentlessly. "Although...” he didn’t want to leave Sherlock in any doubt of his forgiveness. “It would make me happy if you stayed here."
Sherlock stared back at John, still looking shell-shocked. John smiled reassuringly at him. “Goodnight," he whispered, and closed his eyes.
***
Sherlock was still there when John woke up.
He was terribly disoriented at first to find another body in his bed. His recollection of the night’s events returned within a few seconds, but they remained somewhat foggy and more than a little difficult to take at face value: surely he had only dreamed that Sherlock had come to his bed, that they had-
But no, there was Sherlock, lying on his side with his back to John, sheet slipping down over the sharp point of his hip. Sometime during the night he must have shed the rest of his damp clothes; he was now completely and unselfconsciously naked, unruly black curls a startling contrast to the smooth skin like fine white porcelain gleaming over his bones.
“Jesus,” John breathed, taken aback by his unexpectedly strong physical reaction to the sight, but fortunately Sherlock didn’t stir, not even when John eased himself out of bed and padded out of the bedroom. In the shower, John took matters into his own hands with harsh efficiency. He felt ashamed, even filthy, as he wanked, not that there was anything inherently wrong with homosexual attraction, of course not, but surely Sherlock- and here he bit his lip, stifling his low groans under the spray.
He was already in the kitchen contemplating the interior of the tea cupboard when he realized that he had forgotten his cane upstairs. His thigh promptly indulged in a decided twinge, and John frowned down at it. “It’s all in your head,” he told himself sternly, keeping his voice low. It didn’t help. He hobbled back upstairs for his cane, cursing under his breath.
He could have prepared breakfast for both of them and coaxed Sherlock into eating his share, but he wasn’t quite ready to drag their conversation into the daylight. Instead, he made himself tea and toast (which tasted like tar and sawdust) and washed the dishes as quietly as he could. He needn’t have worried; Sherlock still hadn’t moved by the time John had himself fully dressed and shod.
Perhaps he was shamming, equally eager to avoid discussion of what had happened during the night, but John didn’t think so.
It was still early enough for him to walk to the clinic, which he would force himself to do in defiance of his limp. Fair weather was predicted, so he took his lighter coat and left his scarf hanging on its hook. He nearly stumbled over Sherlock’s favourite coat and shoes in a sodden heap by the door; after brief consideration, he brushed them off, hung up the coat, and set the shoes to one side to air.
Once in the clinic, John kept an eye on his phone, but Sherlock didn’t attempt to contact him until after lunch, and even then the text only read, “We’re out of milk. SH.” John felt the corner of his mouth quirk up.
“I’ll pick some up on my way,” he responded promptly. Then he recalled the nearly empty fridge. “Want me to bring home a Chinese?”
"Don't forget the egg flower soup. SH." And then, a few seconds later: “Unless it's from the place with the uneven windows. SH.”
“That place closed while you were gone,” John replied. He’d almost written dead, only half-teasing, then decided that this would surely redirect the conversation to topics better left untouched.
They texted back and forth over the course of the afternoon, neither of them making any reference to the previous night, much to John’s surprise. He’d fully expected Sherlock to bombard him with questions about, well, everything: the kisses, the close contact, the current and likely future state of John’s emotions, the probability of anything along similar lines occurring again if they both stayed in 221B.
You know my methods, John. Apply them. He knew well how Sherlock’s mind worked, at least concerning matters such as this. If he wasn’t asking, it was because he didn’t think that the answers made any difference, and that could only be because…
John’s logical train of thought stuttered abruptly to a halt. A slow, disbelieving smile stretched his lips.
That could only be because, despite everything that had happened, Sherlock believed their relationship to be fundamentally unchanged.
And John trusted that this, too, would turn out to be true.
***
Sherlock texted John just as he was leaving the clinic: “How long? Bored. SH.” Standing at the counter of Peking Garden, John felt his hip vibrate with another text: “Get the dumplings too. SH.” It was remarkable, John reflected as he fished in his wallet for loose change, how straightforward it was for him to interpret Sherlock-speak. I miss you. I want you to take care of me.
A few raindrops had just begun peppering the sidewalk when John reached their front door. Normally he would have paused to take off his coat, but his hands were full, and besides, he was as eager to see Sherlock now as he had been to avoid him that morning. And Sherlock evidently shared that sentiment, since he met John at the door, his face breaking into a broad grin. He took the bags and led John into the kitchen, an unmistakable bounce in his stride.
John flicked on the lights, noting that Sherlock had been borrowing his laptop again. "Have you really been sitting in the dark all day?" he asked, not bothering to suppress a fond smile.
Sherlock set the bags down on the table and turned round. “I-“ he said, and broke off at the expression on John’s face, and beamed back at him, his severe features softened so that John suddenly glimpsed the small boy that he must once have been.
“Come here,” John offered, opening his arms, and Sherlock stepped forward and enfolded him, burying his nose in John’s neck. John pulled him close, flesh warm and pliable and alive under his silk shirt, collarbone sharp against John’s forehead. He could hear Sherlock’s heart beating hard, felt his breath hitch.
Then, almost in unison, their stomachs growled, and John laughed and pushed Sherlock lightly away. “Food first,” he said. “Doctor’s orders; you’re looking peaky.”
Sherlock put on a pout, although he was positively glowing with secret delight for some reason. “I drank some milk today.”
“And that was after how many days of-“ John broke off and shook his head. “Never mind. Hand us a couple of plates, love.”
And as he watched Sherlock select some utensils, his breathing still erratic and spots of colour high on his cheeks, John suddenly realized that he’d left his cane back in the clinic.
THE END.
Chapter 2
John lifted his head at last, swiped at his eyes, and looked around the flat. In a matter of seconds, the myriad subtle and not-so-subtle signs of Sherlock’s recent presence had been transformed. Instead of filling him with dread and despair, they offered him a dizzying mixture of joy, relief, and above all, rage.
He wasn’t mental. Sherlock was alive. And, perhaps the most incredible of all, Sherlock was sorry. All right, so he hadn’t said as much, exactly, but John had heard it in the way in which he’d spoken his name, had felt it unmistakably in the pressure of his fingers.
Sorry because of what he’d done to John in his unthinking arrogance, with his magnificent magic trick? Or sorry because he’d so utterly failed to interpret John’s reaction to his reappearance?
For one brief, mad moment, John considered tearing out of the flat on Sherlock’s heels, but he knew instinctively that this would be a mistake. John had just been returned to Sherlock in as shocking a manner as Sherlock had reappeared to John, and more than that, Sherlock now knew himself to be responsible for John’s suffering, not only the anticipated grief and loneliness after his “death,” but months of mental anguish and self-imposed isolation. He would need time to himself, to stalk the streets of London, to berate himself, to brood. In the meantime, John would be right here, awaiting his return.
And, angry as he was, what could John do to welcome Sherlock back to Baker Street? He looked around again and decided to straighten up the flat. He restored Sherlock’s vintage microscope to its customary place on the kitchen table (luckily, it didn’t seem to have suffered any obvious structural damage). Dusted off Sherlock’s violin case and placed a well-thumbed sheet of music on the stand. Did the dishes and set out teacups for two in case Sherlock returned sooner than anticipated. Rearranged the furniture so that the armchairs faced each other companionably again.
Just as he was finishing up, the intercom buzzed. A few seconds later, he heard unfamiliar footsteps tromping up the stairs, Mrs. Hudson’s lighter, less even tread right behind.
“Oh, John,” she cried apologetically as the door swung open, “I told him that you weren’t receiving visitors today, but he simply wouldn’t wait-“
“It’s all right,” John said, even as he directed a cool, assessing gaze at the stranger. A thirty-odd-year-old man of average height: clean-shaven, nondescript features, light brown eyes and hair, crisply pressed but drab suit. A Government man. John’s suspicions were confirmed when the younger man handed him a manila envelope.
“Mr. Holmes, I presume?” John inquired archly. The young man neither confirmed nor denied but turned smartly and saw himself to the door, brushing past Mrs. Hudson, who wrung her hands and looked at John.
“Twice in one morning, and you all worn out with work,” she fretted. “Now, John, dear, just make yourself comfortable, and I’ll bring you a nice pot of tea.”
“Got any buns?” John asked, realizing that it was past noon and that his stomach, though still tense, was starting to rumble.
“I do,” and she looked positively delighted to be able to fulfil this small request. “Fresh from this morning.”
John settled himself in his armchair, rubbing fitfully at the phantom pain in his leg, and forced down the tea and bun that Mrs. Hudson brought him, beaming, before picking up the envelope (thick, heavy, sealed, with a faint smudge on the flap). There was a typewritten note affixed: “Dr. Watson: I had intended this envelope to be opened only in the event of my death. However, given my brother’s recent return, your obvious misinterpretation of the data, and the extreme unlikelihood of a satisfactory explanation being offered by other interested parties, I thought it best to share the contents with you now. – MH.”
He tore open the flap, pulled out the sheaf of papers, and scanned the first page. It became more and more difficult for him to grasp the details as his anger grew, but the gist was clear: Mycroft had known all along, had conspired with his brother in order to fake Sherlock’s death. The operation had been a complex and carefully orchestrated one, involving street closures, an inflatable mattress, a crowd of extras, and a fresh corpse supplied by Molly Hooper.
Mycroft had taken great care to emphasize that this grand deception had been undertaken specifically to ensure the survival of Sherlock’s family and few friends - John himself, above all. While doubtless true, this explanation only fuelled his rage. How could Sherlock have thought- and suddenly John dropped his head into his hands, overcome by the thought that threatened to complete itself. How could Sherlock have thought that John’s life could go on without him.
That was the moment when he first acknowledged the great and inconvenient truth: that what he had experienced was not the normal grief of a man suddenly deprived of his flatmate and friend. That he had loved Sherlock – truly, madly, deeply – and that this was why, in the absence of his radiance, John’s life had been as dull and cold as the surface of the moon.
John had never been a great one for introspection, so he did not proceed to delve into the depths of his own psyche to inquire as to previous hints of his latent homosexuality, etc. Instead, he focused on the practical: Was he attracted to Sherlock? Did he find Sherlock physically beautiful, did he welcome his touch, did the thought of embracing, kissing, even fucking Sherlock excite him? And the answers came to him quickly: Yes. God, yes.
And Sherlock? How would a man who regarded the body as nothing more than transport for that inimitable mind react to any such overtures? Incomprehension, John surmised bleakly. Horror. Disgust.
And now that John knew, surely Sherlock would know. Worse still, perhaps he had always known – perhaps he had been only too right to tell John that first evening that he was married to his work, in response to what he himself had thought an innocent question. Perhaps this even explained why Mrs. Hudson had never quite given up hope.
Alone in the flat, John groaned aloud.
***
The afternoon alternately dragged and flew forward as John worried over his newfound realizations, trying to settle on the most appropriate course of action, but there was no sign of Sherlock.
He was tempted to call Greg and ask if he’d fancy dinner out at the local, but he didn’t dare leave the flat until Sherlock returned. But perhaps he could order in, and Greg could bring some beer, and Sherlock would return to find them both laughing over some shared joke. He found his mobile behind a seat cushion and turned it on. Greg, unfortunately, was working that evening, but he sounded sincerely happy to hear from John and promised to pop round for a drink at the end of the week.
It was just as well, John supposed; he was so tense that the mere thought of food turned his stomach. And if Sherlock came home to an empty refrigerator, well, it was the least that he deserved.
He tried to watch telly but couldn’t concentrate. He flipped idly through some of the newspaper clippings and screenshots that Mycroft had included in the file: the discovery of a new population of a highly endangered species of frog in the far reaches of Tibet by a Norwegian explorer named Sigerson, the sudden resolution of a diplomatic crisis with Iran by an unnamed intermediary, the successful synthesis of a remarkably efficacious novel antibiotic by a laboratory in Montpellier… But the idea of Sherlock abandoning him in his desolation to showcase his brilliance on some kind of grand world tour only made John angrier.
In the end, John gave up his vigil and went to bed. He did not sleep at once but rather dozed fitfully at first, starting awake at any small sound from the street that might herald Sherlock’s arrival.
The next thing he knew, Sherlock was standing by his bedside.
Disoriented and groggy as he was from being summoned out of deep sleep, John knew that the tall, slim silhouette could belong to no one else. He could smell Sherlock’s skin, familiar but more intense and… damp, John surmised, as if he’d been caught out in the rain. He was trembling slightly as he stood there, staring down at John, thin fingers flashing spasmodically in the moonlight. He jumped as John’s sleep-roughened voice croaked, “Sherlock. You startled me.”
John heard Sherlock swallow. “That was not my intention.”
"It's all right," John answered, breathing out softly, understanding the apology behind Sherlock's words. He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes, not wanting to frighten Sherlock in his current vulnerable state, to do anything that would shatter this fragile moment. John stifled a yawn. He felt more exhausted than he had before going to bed and could only hope that he wasn’t about to do or say anything terribly stupid. But he needed to know for certain.
"Do you think..." John rubbed his temple and squinted down at the duvet, suddenly wondering whether he dared do what he most wanted. He gave a resigned sigh and began again. "Sherlock," he said, raising his eyes. "Could you come here for a moment?"
Sherlock stepped tentatively closer, and when John nodded his encouragement, he slid gracefully onto the mattress, crossing his long legs neatly beneath him like a great cat.
Already rapid, John’s heart rate accelerated; he felt excited and curious and terrified all at once. He steeled himself, taking a deep breath. "Give me your hand," he said, enunciating his words with careful precision. Sherlock didn't move. "Your hand, Sherlock," John repeated. “And I don’t want to hear about this in the morning, so please keep your mouth shut."
Silently, Sherlock extended his arm toward John as if to shake hands, clearly without a clue as to his friend’s intentions. When John took Sherlock's wrist gently in his hand, turned it palm up, and found his pulse, Sherlock dropped his head and let out a ragged, pained breath. Like a dubious disciple, John kept his fingers on Sherlock’s flesh, warm and human and alive beneath his cool, moist skin. He heard himself panting harshly, torn between relief and rage.
Now Sherlock raised his head again to lock eyes with John, obviously determined to give his friend whatever confirmation or reassurance he required that he was, in fact, returned, and regretful, and in desperate need of John’s forgiveness.
John let Sherlock's arm drop back into his lap, pulled the covers aside, and sat up on his knees. Still breathing heavily, he leaned in to press two fingers to the pulse point at Sherlock's throat. At any other time, he knew, Sherlock might well have lashed out at John in scorn, or twisted away with an almost imperceptible shudder of distaste. Instead, he was willing himself to sit perfectly still as John followed the flow of his blood, the beat of his heart, and felt himself slowly growing calm and even a little sleepy.
At the same time, he could sense Sherlock’s pulse accelerating, probably as he approached full-blown panic at this unprecedented intimacy between them. John took pity on him and started to pull away.
Sherlock’s cold hand shot out, gripped John’s, and pressed his palm to his chest, just over his heart.
John gasped with surprise and gratitude at the enormity of this gesture. He could feel Sherlock’s heart beating wildly under his hand like a frantic wren against a windowpane. A queer, sudden ache in his own chest caused him to close his eyes and crumple in upon himself, and he felt hot, shameful tears welling, about to trickle down his cheeks.
And then, even more astonishing, he felt Sherlock’s fingers release his hand and begin running up and down his arms, sliding up to his shoulders and back down to his wrists, final proof that he was here, alive and corporeal and real.
John's hand fisted in Sherlock’s shirt, and it was soon crushed between their chests as Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and drew him close. John could feel his cool, thin fingers playing lightly on the ridges of his vertebrae, then pressing more firmly against his flesh, Sherlock’s body shuddering against his with every ragged breath.
It suddenly occurred to him that Sherlock was crying. Real crying, not the crocodile tears he produced on cue while pursuing a case. Sherlock was crying, and it was all for John.
Without fully thinking things through, he released Sherlock’s shirt and reached for his pale face, gently wiping away the tracks of his tears. And then, when that didn’t seem sufficient to the occasion, John leaned forward and clasped his jaw and kissed the wet patches away, salt and skin and Sherlock under his lips.
Sherlock exhaled sharply, roughly, and he swayed in place but didn’t reject John’s benediction.
And as they clasped each other unsteadily in the darkest hour before the dawn, nothing seemed more natural than to kiss Sherlock on the lips.
He’d meant it to be brief, a tender brush, a kiss of pardon like those he’d exchanged at the end of far too many relationships. He wasn’t prepared for Sherlock’s moan in his mouth, the way Sherlock pressed insistently forward, seeking more, cool hands still caressing the contours of John’s body. Which meant that it wasn’t just a kiss, they were kissing, and
John pulled back suddenly, and Sherlock followed in pursuit, almost knocking him flat, but with the last of his ebbing strength, he caught Sherlock and held the both of them upright. Sherlock made a small, anguished sound and shivered, hunching in upon himself.
"It’s all right, Sherlock," John ran a firm, calming hand up Sherlock's back and across the width of his shoulders, then leaned forward over the bent head and kissed the damp curls: once, twice. “It’s all right,” John repeated, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s crown, breathing into his hair, waiting for Sherlock’s shaking to ease.
He lay back slowly, taking Sherlock with him, their bodies fitting together as easily as if they had been sharing a bed for years. He could feel the younger man’s warm, uneven breaths against the hollow of his throat. He traced soothing circles on Sherlock’s back, smoothing the silk of his shirt with the palm of his hand, in a losing battle to keep his own eyes propped open. For the first time in approximately forever, John was unafraid of what dreams might come.
“John,” Sherlock’s voice rumbled softly but urgently against his collarbone, and John jolted awake again.
He heard Sherlock take a breath, sucking the air sharply past his teeth. “It is imperative that you forgive me.” Their temporary truce ruined, John went rigid and silent, waiting for the rage that he knew Sherlock’s next words would bring. “I know that it was horrible and that I was wrong, but you have to understand that it was because I didn’t see, John, I didn’t understand, because I have a blind spot when it comes to you and it stops my mind from working right... You are a great conductor of light, and you are so much a part of my vision that sometimes I can’t see you as a separate being. But John, if I had known –”
Sherlock drew himself up to rest upon his elbows and regard John, and the abrupt loss of contact was almost physically painful. “I did not do this to you intentionally,” he babbled on. “I... I couldn’t foresee this because I failed to understand how a simple human being such as yourself would interpret the data at hand. And I can’t imagine how you must have felt, but I need you to forgive me because the current situation is unbearable. I should have realized, but I didn’t try to understand what was happening because I was finally here with you again and that was all that mattered. I would be lost without you, John, I truly would, and you must forgive me. I did this to save your life,” he finished, as if that purpose had the power to justify everything that had followed.
John inhaled deeply and forced himself to look at the ceiling, mentally counting to ten. If there had been the slightest hint of smugness in Sherlock’s voice during that monologue, the faintest glimmer of self-congratulation for his own cleverness in his eyes, John would have punched him in the face.
He still might.
“I knew that bit, actually,” he acknowledged at last, as softly and evenly as he could. “Mycroft sent someone over with some documents. Seems they were to be given to me in the event of his death, but he thought I’d better read them now because you’d never manage to get that out right.”
He shifted slightly, still not daring to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “But you didn’t tell me,” he whispered, hoping that Sherlock would hear the love beneath the bewilderment and wrath at his betrayal. “You didn’t tell me a thing.”
“I thought you knew,” Sherlock responded, reproachful. “That you had figured it out.”
John resisted the urge to roll his eyes, fighting down fury. “Well, I hadn’t, obviously. I’m an idiot; remember?” And he was, for so many reasons.
“You are,” Sherlock said hoarsely, “the only person who matters. The only one ever. I have never asked anyone for something like this before – not because there was no need, but because I didn’t care.” John did not doubt that this was true, at least of the experiences that Sherlock had not intentionally deleted. “And I’m just going to keep asking until you give in and forgive me… or until you really do give up and leave me for good.” Sherlock paused, took a breath, and then offered a last, whispered plea: “Please.”
John lay silent in the darkness, hands folded across his chest, staring up at the ceiling.
"What makes you think I'm saying no?" he murmured, and he felt Sherlock still.
John rolled over on his side to face Sherlock, his eyes again welling with traitorous tears. "You don't understand a thing, do you?" he whispered. "You honestly think that I can choose whether or not to be here – no, of course you do, you've chosen not to, so you think that I can do, too."
"John," Sherlock began brokenly, and stopped.
John shook his head, resigned. "You're being daft. You can't have missed this unless you tried – oh my God,” he added in horror as sudden realization struck, “is this what you feel like all the time? As if people are unbelievably obtuse?"
Sherlock stayed silent, eyes wide, then blinked several times, deliberately and rapidly.
John sighed and started again. "Yes, I’m angry with you," he said, and his voice rose against his will. "Incredibly angry, you are right about that. You might have thought you were faking your death for the right reasons, but you were unbelievably self-centered and callous, even for you, Sherlock. You can't have thought that I could watch you..." (John screwed up his eyes and drew a deep breath) "leave me like that and walk away. There is no one in the world who could misunderstand the situation that badly."
"I was trying to protect you," Sherlock protested, still with far too much self-righteousness that needed to be knocked out of him.
"I know that," replied John coldly. "You had it all figured out, you and Mycroft had a terribly clever plan, and you got to play the big, tragic hero. But you can't possibly have thought..." He swallowed. "Sherlock, you had to have known that without you, my life was not worth saving."
Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock. Savagely, John pushed on. "What did you think I was going to do? What did you think I had left? Sherlock, while you were gone," John felt himself bare his teeth in a feral grin, "you can't call what I did during those years living.
“Do you know..." John briefly reconsidered what he was about to say, then decided that there was no point in holding anything back now. "Do you have any idea why I didn't go to anyone? Hallucinations aren’t exactly unheard of in PTSD patients, Sherlock, you know that. There was my therapist, there are specialists. I could have gotten medication to make me normal again – Harry was pushing me to do it for depression anyway – but I wouldn't because–" John took a breath and gritted his teeth. “Because I didn’t want to stop seeing you. I needed you." He laughed harshly and without mirth. "I was so fucked up that I preferred to be mad, because at least then you would still be there, Sherlock.” He bent his head briefly. “You would still be there.”
He had been sure that Sherlock would interrupt him at that point, but he didn’t. "I canceled plans with people – you know, real living people – to sit at home and eat takeaway and watch crap telly with your goddamned ghost. And I saw myself doing it. I understood exactly what I was doing and I was terrified because... because how long can something like that go on? There was really only one way it could end. But I kept it up anyway, I chose that path knowing that ultimately it would lead me off a cliff, but that was my only option because at least you were there."
Sherlock actually looked ill now, his eyes glassy, his thin body swaying helplessly from side to side. John reached up and clasped his dear, thick head, his hands gentle, steadying.
"And you think that I'm going to disappear now that I know you're alive?” He kept his tone soft, as if chiding a small child. “Of course I'm angry with you, Sherlock, furious, and that's not just going to go away overnight. It's going to take some time, and you need to know that I'm going to get angry, and scream at you, and probably walk out, but I'm always going to come back. Having you here again is..." John searched fruitlessly for another, better word, but couldn't find anything more fitting: "It's a bloody miracle. I know it sounds ridiculous, but to me, that’s what it is. For you to be alive?" He swallowed hard past the sudden lump in his throat. "Nothing in my life is ever going to matter more than that. Ever."
Sherlock's hands rose in panic to his face as his eyes welled with tears, and John as quickly released him and lay back, giving him silent permission to go.
Sherlock hesitated for a few seconds, trembling. Then he lay back down, body tense but at least temporarily obedient, fitting himself against John’s belly and breast. He rested his head in the hollow between John’s neck and shoulder and watched him warily, unblinking.
"I'm going to go back to sleep now," John told him in a low voice, slowly turning his head so that he could meet Sherlock’s gaze. "I'll be right here. You can wake me up if you need me." He could see a snarky comment composing itself behind Sherlock’s bright eyes, but in the end, his friend only nodded.
"It's fine if you need to go somewhere and think," John continued, strongly inclined to be generous now that he had burdened Sherlock with his own raw emotions so relentlessly. "Although...” he didn’t want to leave Sherlock in any doubt of his forgiveness. “It would make me happy if you stayed here."
Sherlock stared back at John, still looking shell-shocked. John smiled reassuringly at him. “Goodnight," he whispered, and closed his eyes.
***
Sherlock was still there when John woke up.
He was terribly disoriented at first to find another body in his bed. His recollection of the night’s events returned within a few seconds, but they remained somewhat foggy and more than a little difficult to take at face value: surely he had only dreamed that Sherlock had come to his bed, that they had-
But no, there was Sherlock, lying on his side with his back to John, sheet slipping down over the sharp point of his hip. Sometime during the night he must have shed the rest of his damp clothes; he was now completely and unselfconsciously naked, unruly black curls a startling contrast to the smooth skin like fine white porcelain gleaming over his bones.
“Jesus,” John breathed, taken aback by his unexpectedly strong physical reaction to the sight, but fortunately Sherlock didn’t stir, not even when John eased himself out of bed and padded out of the bedroom. In the shower, John took matters into his own hands with harsh efficiency. He felt ashamed, even filthy, as he wanked, not that there was anything inherently wrong with homosexual attraction, of course not, but surely Sherlock- and here he bit his lip, stifling his low groans under the spray.
He was already in the kitchen contemplating the interior of the tea cupboard when he realized that he had forgotten his cane upstairs. His thigh promptly indulged in a decided twinge, and John frowned down at it. “It’s all in your head,” he told himself sternly, keeping his voice low. It didn’t help. He hobbled back upstairs for his cane, cursing under his breath.
He could have prepared breakfast for both of them and coaxed Sherlock into eating his share, but he wasn’t quite ready to drag their conversation into the daylight. Instead, he made himself tea and toast (which tasted like tar and sawdust) and washed the dishes as quietly as he could. He needn’t have worried; Sherlock still hadn’t moved by the time John had himself fully dressed and shod.
Perhaps he was shamming, equally eager to avoid discussion of what had happened during the night, but John didn’t think so.
It was still early enough for him to walk to the clinic, which he would force himself to do in defiance of his limp. Fair weather was predicted, so he took his lighter coat and left his scarf hanging on its hook. He nearly stumbled over Sherlock’s favourite coat and shoes in a sodden heap by the door; after brief consideration, he brushed them off, hung up the coat, and set the shoes to one side to air.
Once in the clinic, John kept an eye on his phone, but Sherlock didn’t attempt to contact him until after lunch, and even then the text only read, “We’re out of milk. SH.” John felt the corner of his mouth quirk up.
“I’ll pick some up on my way,” he responded promptly. Then he recalled the nearly empty fridge. “Want me to bring home a Chinese?”
"Don't forget the egg flower soup. SH." And then, a few seconds later: “Unless it's from the place with the uneven windows. SH.”
“That place closed while you were gone,” John replied. He’d almost written dead, only half-teasing, then decided that this would surely redirect the conversation to topics better left untouched.
They texted back and forth over the course of the afternoon, neither of them making any reference to the previous night, much to John’s surprise. He’d fully expected Sherlock to bombard him with questions about, well, everything: the kisses, the close contact, the current and likely future state of John’s emotions, the probability of anything along similar lines occurring again if they both stayed in 221B.
You know my methods, John. Apply them. He knew well how Sherlock’s mind worked, at least concerning matters such as this. If he wasn’t asking, it was because he didn’t think that the answers made any difference, and that could only be because…
John’s logical train of thought stuttered abruptly to a halt. A slow, disbelieving smile stretched his lips.
That could only be because, despite everything that had happened, Sherlock believed their relationship to be fundamentally unchanged.
And John trusted that this, too, would turn out to be true.
***
Sherlock texted John just as he was leaving the clinic: “How long? Bored. SH.” Standing at the counter of Peking Garden, John felt his hip vibrate with another text: “Get the dumplings too. SH.” It was remarkable, John reflected as he fished in his wallet for loose change, how straightforward it was for him to interpret Sherlock-speak. I miss you. I want you to take care of me.
A few raindrops had just begun peppering the sidewalk when John reached their front door. Normally he would have paused to take off his coat, but his hands were full, and besides, he was as eager to see Sherlock now as he had been to avoid him that morning. And Sherlock evidently shared that sentiment, since he met John at the door, his face breaking into a broad grin. He took the bags and led John into the kitchen, an unmistakable bounce in his stride.
John flicked on the lights, noting that Sherlock had been borrowing his laptop again. "Have you really been sitting in the dark all day?" he asked, not bothering to suppress a fond smile.
Sherlock set the bags down on the table and turned round. “I-“ he said, and broke off at the expression on John’s face, and beamed back at him, his severe features softened so that John suddenly glimpsed the small boy that he must once have been.
“Come here,” John offered, opening his arms, and Sherlock stepped forward and enfolded him, burying his nose in John’s neck. John pulled him close, flesh warm and pliable and alive under his silk shirt, collarbone sharp against John’s forehead. He could hear Sherlock’s heart beating hard, felt his breath hitch.
Then, almost in unison, their stomachs growled, and John laughed and pushed Sherlock lightly away. “Food first,” he said. “Doctor’s orders; you’re looking peaky.”
Sherlock put on a pout, although he was positively glowing with secret delight for some reason. “I drank some milk today.”
“And that was after how many days of-“ John broke off and shook his head. “Never mind. Hand us a couple of plates, love.”
And as he watched Sherlock select some utensils, his breathing still erratic and spots of colour high on his cheeks, John suddenly realized that he’d left his cane back in the clinic.
THE END.
