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1
They were leaving the scene of yet another crime. The case was solved, there was triumph in Sherlock’s step, and John was a steady presence next to him.
“So what’s this one?” Sherlock asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets. John had been insufferably smug about his blog lately. “‘Belly Button Murders’?”
“The Naval Treatment?” John offered.
“Ugh.” Definitely the worst title yet. How people could read that rubbish, Sherlock had no idea. The fact that Sherlock read every post was irrelevant. The blog was about him, after all. He was just making sure John didn’t write anything too ridiculously sentimental – a consulting detective had a certain reputation to uphold.
“There’s a lot of press outside, guys,” Lestrade warned as he met up with them backstage.
“Well, they won’t be interested in us,” Sherlock dismissed, following the D.I. through the winding corridor.
“Yeah, that was before you were an internet phenomenon. A couple of them specifically wanted photographs of you two.”
Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes briefly in exasperation. “For God’s sake,” he muttered, turning to throw an accusing look at John.
John just smirked unapologetically. Yes, much too smug, the bastard.
Passing a costume room, Sherlock quickly snatched two hats. “John.” He threw a hat at his blogger. “Cover your face,” he ordered. “And walk fast.”
“Still, it’s good for the public image, a big case like this,” Lestrade called ahead of them.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m a private detective.” He pulled on his hat as they approached the front door. “The last thing I need is a public image.” He pulled up his coat collar, shielding his face from camera flashes and curious eyes. With John following him, they pushed their way through the crowd and quickly jumped into a cab.
Logically, the solution was to ask John to delete his blog before more damage could be done. It wouldn’t do at all if Sherlock’s face became well-known – it would be nearly impossible to go anywhere undercover. He’d have to get John, whose appearance was less distinctive, to do it for him, and that would just be terribly inconvenient. While John was adept at inspiring genius, and occasionally had intelligent insights himself, he would never see all the clues like Sherlock could.
He glanced at John from the corner of his eye, who was relaxed and gazing out the cab’s window. Sherlock opened his mouth to make his request – surely John would agree to it, even if didn’t want to (John would do almost anything Sherlock asked of him). But John turned to face him then, a small smile on his lips, and Sherlock paused.
“That was an odd one, wasn’t it?” John commented.
John had called off work to accompany Sherlock today. John said ‘brilliant’ and ‘amazing’. John was undoubtedly already thinking of his next blog post, where he would sing Sherlock’s praises. The increase of media attention was problematic, yes, but it was also true that Sherlock had received more clients in the months since John had moved in, than during his entire time living on Montague Street.
“Wonder how the readers will take it,” he continued before turning back to the window, not really expecting a reply.
John’s eyes were bright, his posture comfortable, his smile easy. His left hand was open and steady on his thigh.
Sherlock grunted and turned away. The damage was already done anyway, the blog might as well stay.
2
Sherlock stalked into the alley, John’s footsteps striking the pavement behind him. Turning around he pulled off his scarf and stuffed it into his pocket.
He blew out a breath. He turned to face John with a smidge of trepidation.
This was going to hurt.
“Are we here?” John asked.
“Two streets away, but this’ll do.” He widened his stance and shook out his arms, meeting John’s gaze. He rolled his shoulders a bit.
John looked at him blankly. “For what?”
“Punch me in the face,” Sherlock ordered, gesturing to his left cheek. He noticed with embarrassment that his breathing and heartrate were slightly elevated. Sherlock knew the strength his friend hid under those unassuming jumpers, and was not excited for what was going to happen next.
For the case, he reminded himself.
John shifted. “Punch you,” he repeated, squinting at him.
Was his hearing going? He was graying but he wasn’t that old. “Yes, punch me. In the face.” He gestured again. “Didn’t you hear me?” His brow furrowed.
Completely deadpan, John replied, “I always hear ‘punch me in the face’ when you’re speaking, but it’s usually subtext.”
Sherlock looked skyward. “Oh, for God’s sakes.” John couldn’t make this easy could he? Well, Sherlock could provide a little encouragement. Before he could think twice, Sherlock struck John’s face, knocking the ex-army doctor over with a huff of pain.
Sherlock took another deep breath, adrenaline pumping, and shook out his arms again in preparation. John got back up and eyed him with a gaze that promised retribution. Sherlock felt his stomach drop. Oh, God.
With a quick wind up and a rush forward, John slammed his fist into Sherlock’s cheekbone.
The force of the punch dropped Sherlock hard onto the pavement, his teeth rattling in his skull. The level of pain was quite impressive actually, he had underestimated how hard that hit would be. How a man could dress like John did, yet throw a punch of that velocity was beyond him.
With a hand pressed to his throbbing cheek, Sherlock stood a bit unsteadily. That had been perfect – yes, that would show up quite nicely. Sherlock could always trust John to do what needed to be done. “Thank you. That was – that was—”
John’s body suddenly collided with his, forcing him back onto the ground. A strong arm wrapped around his neck and Sherlock gripped the strangling forearm with both hands. “Okay!” he forced out through his closing trachea. “I think we’re done now. John!”
Having John wrap his arms around him was a recurring fantasy for Sherlock, but he’d never imagined it quite like this.
He shuffled his feet to stop from falling over as John pressed up behind him and forced him to bend awkwardly.
“You want to remember, Sherlock, I was a soldier,” John ground out, voice close to his ear. “I killed people.” He jerked his arms tighter and Sherlock clenched his teeth.
“You were a doctor!” he protested.
“I had bad days!”
Sherlock groaned and pushed hard to break out of John’s grip, only managing when they both tripped and fell over. They lay sprawled on the pavement for a moment, panting. Sherlock wasn’t sure whether to be terrified or aroused.
“Sorry,” John muttered, still breathless. “Kind of.”
Sherlock ignored him and got up, forcing his mind back to the case. “You need a newspaper,” he muttered, thinking of fire and smoke detectors.
3
“So did you find it eventually, your lottery ticket?” Sherlock asked dutifully, stepping over the coffee table and onto the couch between his sitting parents. He scanned the case details on the wall, listening to Mummy prattle on with half an ear. His patience was particularly short, what with the case demanding his attention.
Without John around, Sherlock’s progress on this case felt particularly slow-going. Usually he had someone to bounce ideas off of, someone to rant at. Someone to make him tea. While he had been ‘dead’, John’s absence had been distracting. Sherlock had hundreds of unsent texts still on his phone, asking John questions, listing facts, and explaining deductions. Now, back on Baker Street, the distraction was worse. Sherlock was in the flat, ergo John should be in the flat. The fact that he wasn’t was so discrepant that Sherlock almost felt handicapped, like he was missing a limb. It was surprisingly difficult to adjust to.
“…but they weren’t letting anyone into Parliament.”
Sherlock glanced at his mother suddenly.
“Some big debate going on.”
Important, that could be important. Was it important? Why was it?
The door opening had Sherlock whipping around, and the man that entered had his eyes widening.
“John!” he exclaimed. The new cuts on his face were barely scabbed over, angry red.
“Sorry, you’re busy.” John’s hand was still on the doorknob, like he was ready to walk back out again.
Quickly Sherlock bent down to pull Mummy up. “No, no, no, they were just leaving.” This was the first communication John had initiated since his return, no way was Sherlock turning him away.
“Oh, were we?” Mummy asked, standing.
“Yes,” Sherlock insisted, drawing out the word.
“No, no, if you’ve got a case…”
“No, not a case, no, no, no,” he assured, ushering his parents out the door as Mummy kept talking.
His attempt at closing the door was stopped by the solid black shoe Mummy stamped down.
“I can’t tell you how glad we are, Sherlock,” Mummy whispered, and Sherlock glanced at John, praying the man couldn’t hear. John’s back was turned and he was taking in the wall of newspaper clippings and photos.
“Ring up more often, won’t you?”
Oh, God, why wouldn’t they just leave? Sherlock hummed quickly in agreement, his finger twitching on the doorknob.
“Promise,” Mummy insisted.
Sherlock glanced at John again, who still had his back turned. Quickly, he muttered, “Promise.”
Mummy smiled and reached out to stroke his face. “Oh, for God’s…” Desperately, he slammed the door shut, and this time she let him. With a deep breath, he turned to face John, who, after ignoring Sherlock’s texts and calls for weeks, looked like he was finally willing to talk.
“Sorry about that,” he offered casually, clasping his hands in front of him. That felt awkward. He unclasped his hands.
“No, it’s fine.” John pursed his lips, and the habit was so familiar it hurt Sherlock a bit. “Clients?”
“Just my parents.”
John, who thought his parents were ordinary, and laughed when Sherlock joked, “It’s a cross I have to bear.” Sherlock had missed him so much.
“Did they know, too?” John asked then, and there it was, that unwanted tension they could not escape.
Sherlock averted his eyes, feigned ignorance. “Hm?”
“That you spent the last two years playing hide and seek.”
Uncomfortable, Sherlock hesitated. He knew where this was going and he was sick of it. Of the inevitable anger and arguments. “Maybe.”
“So that’s why they weren’t at the funeral!” John exclaimed, pacing away from him.
“Sorry! Sorry again,” Sherlock replied insincerely. No matter how many times he said it, it didn’t make a difference.
John turned away from him and Sherlock instantly regretted his defensiveness. He’d hurt John deeply by his choice to fake his death, he knew. For John it had been real, and everyone had warned Sherlock that it would take time for John to forgive him. It took time for anger to work its way out of your system.
“Sorry,” Sherlock murmured, meaning it. John took a deep breath and met his gaze, and for once there was no accusation there, no anger. Just weariness. It didn’t suit John at all – made him look much too old. “So, you’ve shaved it off then?” Sherlock continued, hoping to break the tension by stating the obvious. Sherlock could see that John had – thankfully – shaved off the mustache, but he’d been informed (by Molly, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade) that commenting on such things was a good way to ‘make conversation’.
“Yeah, wasn’t working for me.”
For Mary, you mean. Sagely, Sherlock simply nodded. “I’m glad.”
“You didn’t like it?” John ambled towards his chair.
Made you look ancient. “I prefer my doctors clean-shaven,” Sherlock smirked and privately rejoiced at seeing John’s answering grin.
“That’s not a sentence you hear every day,” he replied, lowering himself into his chair with a grunt.
Sherlock observed him, noticing the bags under his eyes, the abrasions at his temple, the expensive scarf he wore that was undoubtedly a gift from Mary. Things were different now, would never be the same as before his apparent suicide, but with John sitting there, in his chair, Sherlock felt some hope. Things were different, but that didn’t mean their relationship was unsalvageable. All Sherlock had to do was offer John a thrill, some danger, a chase, and John would return to his side. John was Mary’s now, and the knowledge burned jealously in the back of Sherlock’s throat, but Sherlock could provide John with something that Mary could not: a case.
4
With a burst of strength induced by frustration, Sherlock threw the flimsy wooden door out of the way with a fist. “For God’s sake, John, I’m on a case!”
“A month, that’s all it took!” John nagged angrily, following him down the stairs. “One!”
“I’m working!” Sherlock jumped over the railing, onto a rubbish bin and onto the pavement. If that wasn’t a display of his sobriety he didn’t know what was. The high had worn off nearly an hour before John had shown up. In truth, the circumstances were perfect. What better way to make a scene than by having a row in the middle of the street. Unfortunately, Sherlock had never responded well to shouting.
“Sherlock Holmes in a drug den! How’s that gonna look?” John continued, making his way more slowly to the ground.
He’d needed this, this excitement, Sherlock could tell. Living the dull married life was obviously taking its toll if the doctor was resorting to biking on busy London streets to get a thrill. The extra physical activity was working wonders though. John looked…good. Really good.
“I’m undercover,” Sherlock retorted.
“No, you’re not!”
“Well I’m not now!” Sherlock shouted, feeling sulky. The squeal of tires ruined his mood further – he didn’t need Mary driving him around like a toddler. It was her fault he hadn’t seen John in a month. Stupid Sex Holiday.
John had no idea the magnitude of the case Sherlock was working on. How trivial a little drug abuse was in the grand scheme that was Magnussen. This was just a way of catching the blackmailer’s attention. Sherlock would do this and much more if it meant he could put Magnussen behind bars.
Besides, John’s anger was indefensible – he had no right to be put out by Sherlock’s choices. It wasn’t like the drugs would affect John, not now that they weren’t flatmates. They had not seen each other in ages – what Sherlock did was none of John’s business. Why did he even care?
“We’re not going home, we’re going to Bart’s. I’m calling Molly,” John told Mary.
Sherlock wiped the dirt and makeup off his face with a silk handkerchief.
“Why?” Mary demanded.
“Because Sherlock Holmes needs to pee in a jar.”
Sherlock closed his eyes in frustration. In a way, he supposed he should be grateful to Mary for monopolizing John’s attention. Had John still been at Baker Street, he never would have allowed Sherlock to visit the drug dens as he had been for the last week. John was genetically incapable of resisting the nosy doctor impulse.
5
Sherlock gazed out the small window as the plane took off, watching as John’s figure got smaller and smaller until finally disappearing. He replayed their final encounter in his head, wondering if he should have done something differently. If he should have said something more meaningful, if he should have pulled John into his arms like he’d wanted to. But, no, a hug would have been so uncharacteristic of him that it would have worried John.
“Sherlock is actually a girl’s name,” he’d said and John had laughed, his eyes crinkling and lips splitting into a wide smile. The glib words had been worth it for that smile.
This separation would be much more permanent than the last one, but somehow it didn’t hurt so much this time. Things were different now: John had a family to take care of, he would not be alone. And Sherlock would be dead in six months anyway. No use in moping – he wouldn’t be without John for long.
“Sir?” the flight attendant caught his attention, holding out a mobile phone. “It’s your brother.”
Sherlock took the phone and returned his gaze out the window. “Mycroft.”
“Hello, little brother, how’s the exile going?” Mycroft’s voice was flat over the phone.
Sherlock nearly scowled in exasperation. Was peace from childish bickering too much to ask for? “I’ve only been gone four minutes.”
“Well, I certainly hope you’ve learned your lesson. As it turns out, you’re needed.”
Sherlock raised his head in surprise. “Oh, for God’s sake, make up your mind.” All this manipulation was more than tiresome. First they wanted to send him away, now they wanted his help. “Who needs me this time?”
Over the phone, Sherlock could hear a tinny voice, repeating a phrase like a mantra. What was it?
…Did you miss me?...Did you miss me?...Did you miss me?...
“England,” Mycroft sighed.
When the plane turned around, Sherlock watched as John’s figure grew and grew. The relief was breathtaking.
+1
Sherlock pressed his scarf hard against John’s thigh, heart hammering as blood soaked through the expensive material. Winter was prostrate on the ground, blood dripping from the gash on his head, the rise and fall of his back the only indication of life. Sherlock rather wished the villain was dead.
Sherlock’s phone lay on the ground, screen sticky with blood, 999 still on the line.
John’s eyelids fluttered closed.
“John, for God’s sake, don’t do this,” Sherlock hissed, leaning over the man to bring their faces closer. He wanted to tap John’s cheek to keep him awake, but couldn’t spare the hand. “John! Think of Sophie.”
Muddled blue eyes squinted at him from a face that was much too pale. “She won’t be alone,” John argued, words slurred. “She’s got you.”
The tears that Sherlock had been desperately fighting stung his eyes. His throat tightened and he swallowed painfully. “She needs you,” he choked out, pressing hard against the hemorrhaging gunshot wound. I need you.
John grimaced in pain. “’Sides, ‘m not going anywhere.”
His breathing was alarmingly shallow, blood staining Sherlock’s hands and soaking into his trousers where he knelt. John’s eyes closed again and Sherlock’s heart clenched. “John, please!” Sherlock’s hands shook. The average arrival time for a London ambulance was eight minutes. It had been six. “I love you,” he gasped out, words he’d promised himself he’d never say. “You can’t do this. I love you.”
A small smile pulled on John’s lips, but his eyes remained closed, and Sherlock’s gasp sounded like a sob. He could hear sirens now, but the blood loss was significant. If Sherlock could focus, he would estimate the amount, but his mind was a supernova of panic. His hands were cramping and he wondered if maybe they’d stick that way. He found he wouldn’t mind, if his hands froze and he never let John go. He would never let John go.
Sherlock barely heard the front door crashing open, or the pounding of running steps down the hall. When the emergency responders found them, Sherlock’s head was on John’s chest, listening for breath and heartbeat.
They wouldn’t let him in the ambulance.
Sherlock stood there, on the steps outside Garrideb’s home, the sodden scarf clenched in his fist. He didn’t know how much time passed, but the blood on his hands was beginning to flake when Lestrade pulled up. The cop swore when he saw Sherlock and ushered the unresisting consulting detective into his cruiser.
“I’m taking you to the hospital.” He made it sound like an order, as if Sherlock was about to run off elsewhere. “Where’s Sophie at?”
Sherlock swallowed a few times. “With Mrs. Hudson,” he croaked. He couldn’t stop staring at his red hands. They wouldn’t stop trembling.
“Alright, I’ll let her know she’ll need to watch Sophie for the next little while.”
“No.”
Lestrade glanced at him in surprise. “Eh?”
“Bring her. Bring her to the hospital.”
“Who, Sophie?” Lestrade asked incredulously. “Are you mad? I’m trying to spare a little girl a second round of waiting for a parent in ICU.”
Sherlock flinched visibly. All his shields and masks were in tatters. There was nothing for him to hide behind.
“Sorry,” Lestrade said gruffly. “That was uncalled for. It’s just – it’s hard, when it’s a mate.”
Sherlock looked out the window, London a blur of colours and lights flashing by. “She’s too smart for her own good,” he rumbled. “The moment she wakes up and realizes John isn’t there, she’ll know something’s wrong.”
When John had heard of Mary’s attack, Sophie, all of two-years-old, had immediately picked up on his distress. She had become inconsolable and inseparable from her father. John had been forced to take her with him to the hospital waiting room, where Sherlock had met up with them. The three of them had waited, Sophie alternating between mewling and dozing, and John cutting off the blood circulation in Sherlock’s fingers with his grip.
“Alright, I’ll bring her,” Lestrade conceded, as he pulled into the drop-off zone. “And a change of clothes for you.”
Sherlock nodded before fleeing the car.
The next hours were the worse of his life. He compiled a mental list of his most terrible experiences – being pushed into a pool as a child, all of his books ruined; Redbeard being put down, his soft body going horribly still; the withdrawal from drugs, the unending chills and pain; being tortured in Serbia, the whip rending his flesh; holding John while he sobbed, trying to stay quiet so as not to wake the baby. All of these horrible memories, and yet this, sitting in this white room with John’s daughter curled up in his lap, not knowing if he would be taking her home parentless, this was nightmarish.
And Sophie, she knew. Sherlock saw in her wide, tearful eyes, that she knew. Her silence was uncanny – her usual exuberance and curiosity were replaced by a somberness that no four-year-old should know. Sherlock just held her tighter, burying his face in her blond hair. She smelled like strawberries.
Sherlock nearly ran when the doctor gave him permission to see John. As it was, he lacked the patience for Sophie’s clumsy stride, so simply pulled her close to his chest, encouraging her to link her arms around his neck.
“Going to see Daddy?” she whispered, voice wobbling, and Sherlock nodded fervently, eyes stinging.
“Yes, yes, Sophie. You mustn’t be frightened, alright?”
“Okay.” She buried her wet face into his neck and Sherlock breathed deeply against the tightness his chest. She was so trusting of him.
He paused just outside John’s room to calm himself, and then forced himself to enter at a sedate speed.
His eyes instantly flicked over the small figure on the hospital bed. John’s left leg was swaddled in bandages, and various fluids were being fed into his arm, but other than that he appeared fine. He smiled when he saw his visitors, though his eyelids were heavy under morphine’s influence.
“Sophie, love, what are you doing out of bed at this hour?” John teased, and Sophie wiggled in Sherlock’s arms, trying to reach her father.
“Gently, now,” he warned her, and placed her in the small space between John’s right arm and his side. Sherlock stood stock-still as John soothed her, and within moments she was asleep. Sherlock’s arms felt empty and awkward at his sides.
With his first priority taken care of, John raised his eyes to where Sherlock was looming. His eyes were compassionate, because he was John, and Sherlock shouldn’t expect anything different, but it still shocked him, that compassion. John was hurt. John had been shot. John had bled all over Sherlock and Sherlock had said those secret, dreaded words, and maybe John had heard them, and maybe he hadn’t, and this was so far beyond not good that Sherlock was lost.
“Alright, Sherlock?” John murmured, his brow furrowing.
Sherlock stared at him for a moment before lowering himself shakily into the chair next to John’s bed. He placed his head into his shaking hands. He’d washed them before Lestrade had brought Sophie to him, but there was still pink under his nails. He realized he was hyperventilating.
“Sherlock. Sherlock, come on.” John’s gasp of pain had Sherlock jerking forward.
“Don’t move, idiot,” he snapped, pushing John back down.
“Then come here,” John insisted, redundantly. Sherlock was already here.
John caught his hand, his eyes guileless and maybe a little hazy, and Sherlock knew John knew. John had heard him.
Sherlock suddenly wanted to be elsewhere. Anywhere else. He tugged his hand, but John held firm, and his lips pursed.
“It’s fine, Sherlock. It’s all fine.”
Was that his way of letting him down easily? I realize you feel this undying love for me, but it’s fine, Sherlock, we can just ignore it.
“John—”
“You never said anything, you git!” John accused quietly but fervently, and Sherlock froze, unsure. “Even after Mary… God, I’m an idiot.”
Sherlock’s head was spinning. His hand was sweating in John’s grip. “Yes.”
“Shut up. You were always there for me. And for Sophie,” John continued, and Sherlock just stared, feeling like he was looking over the edge of a cliff. Over the edge of the hospital roof. Only this time John was on the roof with him, his grip the only thing stopping Sherlock from falling. “You were always there. I just thought your great heart was making an appearance for your old friend, but…”
Sherlock held his breath, body tense with the urge to flee.
“Did you mean it, Sherlock?”
John gazed up at him, Sophie tucked close to his side, his hand still gripping Sherlock’s. Maybe it was the morphine, but his eyes seemed even more open than usual, and they held a desperation that Sherlock understood on a primal level. It was the same desperation Sherlock had felt when the American had ordered ‘On the count of three, shoot Doctor Watson.’ The same desperation he’d felt as he’d lain limp on the pavement outside Bart’s, fake blood on his face and John’s ragged voice in his ear. The same desperation he’d felt when he’d seen the life John was building with Mary, the one he would have no part in.
“Yes,” he choked out, the word ripping itself free, and when John pulled him, he followed. He let John lead for once, allowed his head to be tilted as John’s lips moved against his. He wanted to climb onto the bed and straddle John, wanted to seize his head and explore his mouth with his tongue, but John was already going limp beneath him, the drugs pulling him under their tide.
“Stay?” John mumbled as Sherlock pulled away, his eyes still closed.
“Of course.” Sherlock pulled the hard chair closer, so that he could lean his crossed arms on the cot.
“Wanna kiss you mo’,” John slurred and Sherlock smiled so hard it hurt, laying his head on his arms and gripping John’s wrist.
“When you’re well you may kiss me all you like,” he promised.
“S’good.”
“Sleep, John.”
John hummed two syllables, nearly unintelligible, but Sherlock knew nearly all John-sounds, so he made it out.
Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling like his chest would explode. Thank God, he thought.
I love you more, he thought.
Then, gripping John’s hand and listening to John’s breath, he didn’t think at all.