Wounded With His Wounded Heart, Ch. 11
Disclaimer: I do not own any part of Sherlock; it all belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, et al. I write these stories purely for enjoyment; no copyright infringement is intended.
Wounded With His Wounded Heart, Ch. 11
Before he left Mycroft’s home on Friday morning to go to work, John sought out Willoughby, to thank the butler once again and to say goodbye. Since they would be back at Baker Street before nightfall, John wasn’t sure when they would see Willoughby again, and he felt grateful for the butler’s care and his obvious love for Sherlock, as well as the small insights into the detective’s past.
He found Willoughby in the kitchen, apparently pondering over that evening’s dinner menu. When he knocked hesitantly on the doorframe, Willoughby looked up and smiled, his eyes crinkling in welcome.
“Come in, Dr. Watson, come in,” he beckoned.
“Good morning, Willoughby,” John said with a smile. “I’m off to work, and Sherlock and I are heading to Baker Street this afternoon. I just wanted to find you and thank you for everything you’ve done for us this week. - and for everything you did for Sherlock, when he needed someone so badly and I wasn’t there,” John added, his voice low.
Willoughby nodded in understanding. “I have always been very - very fond of Sherlock, John,” he answered earnestly. “I always hoped he would find someone who would love him the way he deserved - and I have no doubt that you do,” the butler finished.
John beamed. “I do,” he affirmed, holding out a hand. Willoughby took it, shaking it firmly.
“Bring him back to visit every once in a while, Dr. Watson,” Willoughby requested, his eyes wistful. “I do miss him when he stays away so long.”
“I’ll do my best,” John promised with a grin, and with that he was off to the surgery.
The day, thankfully, was busy and went by rapidly, and John was grateful for the distraction. By the afternoon, had John been any other kind of person, he would have been shaking with nerves. He packed a small bag before leaving the clinic, just in case, prepared to treat Mrs. Hudson for anything from shock to a panic attack, and he noticed absently that his hands were completely steady. He felt the cool detachment flowing through him that had served him so well on the battlefield: do his job first and deal with his emotions later.
As he left the office, he found one of Mycroft’s cars waiting for him as expected. He slid in the back next to Sherlock, who was staring pensively out the window, and across from Mycroft, who looked - well, not tense, exactly, but not quite relaxed either. John took a kind of smug satisfaction in seeing that; Mycroft clearly knew that Mrs. Hudson was one of the few people that neither John nor Sherlock would tolerate anyone trifling with.
To be fair, Sherlock himself was nervous; the very stillness with which he kept his pose at the window told John how tight a hold he was keeping on his emotions. Sherlock would rather do just about anything than show weakness in front of his brother, and stillness was his best way of avoiding that. As John got into the car, Sherlock reached out a hand to him, the only movement he made or indication he gave that he noticed John and desired contact. John took his hand with a sure, tight grip, sitting close to him, and the three of them sat in silence as the car made its way to Baker Street.
When the black car pulled smoothly up to the curb next to 221B, John felt a wave of relief wash through him simply looking at the black door with its heavy knocker. Sherlock did not move a muscle, and John refused to move until he could talk to Sherlock, so he simply stared at Mycroft until the elder Holmes rolled his eyes and got out of the car.
Sherlock turned to John with a little smile. “Impressive. Mycroft usually stays in place in a situation like that simply to assert his dominance.”
“He knows when to pick his battles, and he wasn’t going to win that one,” John said firmly. He leaned over and kissed Sherlock softly. “It’s going to be fine, you know. We’re just doing it this way to make sure that Mrs. Hudson isn’t shocked out of her wits.”
“I know,” Sherlock answered, though there was the faintest thread of uncertainty underneath the confident tone. He looked out the window behind John, at the familiar storefront, and then let his eyes slide closed as his forehead dropped to John’s shoulder. “I have wanted to be home for so long, John,” he murmured, winding an arm around John’s waist.
John smiled into his hair. “My thoughts exactly. Give me and Mycroft a few minutes to talk to Mrs. Hudson before you come in, and we’ll be home again.”
Sherlock straightened up, struggling to put away his feelings under a bit of levity. “Quickly, please. I miss our couch.”
John laughed and kissed him again, giving his hand another brief squeeze before he left the car. He found Mycroft leaning impatiently on his umbrella (how could someone convey impatience in such a correct posture?), and John strode past him and put his key in the lock of 221B.
“Mrs. Hudson!” he called as he opened the door. “We’re here!”
Mrs. Hudson appeared immediately at her own door, wearing a smile. “Come in, John dear, come in. Hello, Mycroft,” she greeted the elder Holmes, and Mycroft managed a small smile for her.
“Mrs. Hudson,” he acknowledged.
“I’ve made your favorite cake, Mycroft, my angel food,” Mrs. Hudson said as they went back into 221A. “I know how fond you are of it. The tea’s just made, so it’s nice and hot.”
Mycroft’s smile was real this time, and with a shock, John realized that Mycroft, too, was nervous and attempting to hide it. The effort he had put into his smile in the hall was clear when John compared it to the genuine one that had appeared just now. He found, not for the first time in recent weeks, that he actually had some sympathy for Sherlock’s brother.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft said sincerely. “I do appreciate it. I have never found angel food cake to equal yours.”
Mrs. Hudson beamed. “Thank you. Why don’t you both have a seat? What was it you wanted to tell us, Mycroft? Something about Sherlock?”
She gestured to the kitchen chairs, and while John took the one nearest to him, Mycroft stayed standing, accepting the tea Mrs. Hudson handed him.
John looked up at Mycroft, and the older man gave a minute, helpless shrug of his shoulders. No matter how it was phrased, this was not going to be easy.
“Well, as it turns out, Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft said slowly, “there is one particular piece of that puzzle that was my brother’s death that Scotland Yard did not manage to discern. Hardly surprising, given Sherlock’s intellect,” he added, with a touch of his usual hauteur. “They proved the authenticity of the cases he solved, cleared him of all the things Moriarty accused him of, but they did not find out the actual reason behind Sherlock’s . . . fall.”
Mrs. Hudson had been slicing the angel food cake and putting it on plates while Mycroft talked, and now her hands slowed, her eyes going from Mycroft’s face to John’s as she took that in.
“The actual reason?” she said carefully. “So there was another one, besides all of the terrible things that were being said about him? He didn’t . . . it wasn’t because . . .”
She didn’t finish, but John knew what she was going to say, because he had wondered it every day. It wasn’t because we didn’t love him enough?
“No. It wasn’t,” John said softly. “It was the opposite, really.”
Mrs. Hudson took the other chair, sitting across from John at the table. “I don’t understand, John. If he didn’t care about the papers, if he knew that we didn’t believe it, why would he . . . ?”
John reached out and put a hand over hers where it rested on the table. “There were snipers, Mrs. Hudson,” he said, as gently as possible. “Snipers on you, me, and Greg Lestrade. It was Moriarty’s way of getting Sherlock to jump; if he jumped, then we lived.”
Mrs. Hudson pressed a shaking hand to her mouth. “So he did it for us? To save us?” she confirmed, her eyes wide and suspiciously bright.
John nodded. “He did. There was one thing Moriarty didn’t account for, though. Sherlock was on to him. He knew how everything might end; he knew how Moriarty wanted it to end. He had time to plan. Not much, but enough.”
“Enough time for what?” Mrs. Hudson asked, looking perplexedly at John. She pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “Oh, that dear man. I always knew he cared.”
John held tightly to her hand. “Enough time to create an illusion. To make his death look real when it . . . wasn’t,” he said slowly, wanting Mrs. Hudson to understand. “To make himself invisible so that he could take apart Moriarty’s organization.”
“It’s what he spent the last year doing,” Mycroft added solemnly. “I was the only one who knew for certain that he was alive, and he did not even inform me until several months later. He relied on my help and I relied on his skill, and he has accomplished a feat that I was, in all honesty, not sure was possible.”
“And so . . . he’s alive?” Mrs. Hudson asked, her voice trembling. John could tell she couldn’t quite believe it, and he understood; he could hardly comprehend it when Sherlock was standing in front of him at the Diogenes. “Sherlock is alive?”
“Most assuredly,” said a deep voice from behind them, softly, and John smiled as Mrs. Hudson looked up toward the doorway and her face transformed.
“Oh, Sherlock,” she cried, flying up from her chair. She wrapped her arms around the tall frame of the consulting detective and sobbed happily into his shoulder, while Sherlock simply held her.
“You are impossible, Sherlock Holmes!” she chastised him when she could speak again, though she hadn’t let go of him. “What were you thinking, jumping off of a building that way? Risking your life in a fall like that?”
Sherlock smiled, recognizing the scolding for the act that it was. “My options were rather limited at the time, Mrs. Hudson.”
“You could have been killed regardless! We all thought you were dead!” she exclaimed.
Sherlock leaned down and kissed her cheek. “But you are still here, and England still stands,” he said warmly, and Mrs. Hudson began to cry again.
“You shouldn’t have done it,” she wept. “Not for me. I know John was your primary worry; anyone with eyes would know that, but really, Sherlock.”
Sherlock folded his arms around her even more tenderly than before. “Nonsense. I would never let anything happen to you, Mrs. Hudson.”
“Thank you, Sherlock dear,” she murmured, and after one more brief squeeze, she let him go and shook herself, wiping at her cheeks.
“Look at me! Blubbering while the tea’s getting cold!” she said, moving back toward the table. “Sherlock, you take my chair and have a cuppa. John, Mycroft, did you need more?”
“Yes, please,” Mycroft said, holding out his teacup, and Mrs. Hudson refilled it quickly before bustling to the cupboard to get another cup for Sherlock.
“Come here, Mrs. Hudson,” John commanded - it was kind, but it was nevertheless an order, and Mrs. Hudson recognized it as she turned from the cupboard and raised an eyebrow at him. John gestured her over with his hand, immediately clasping her wrist and counting once she got close enough.
“Oh, John! I’m fine,” she tutted. “Shocked, but fine. There isn’t much that can get to you after finding out your husband is a thief and a murderer. And I’ve lived with Sherlock longer than you have, dear; resurrection’s about the only trick he hasn’t pulled, up to now.”
“Nevertheless, I’ll feel better if I check,” John said firmly. “Why do you think we told you this way? The last thing we wanted was you going into shock, or your blood pressure going through the floor. Your pulse is steady, though.”
He stood and took a penlight from his pocket, checking her pupils for dilation and responsiveness, and turned her face to the light to make sure her color was good. Satisfied, he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
“Resilient as always,” he said with a smile. “You’re a marvel, Mrs. Hudson.”
“Nonsense, just weathered and used to storms in life!” Mrs. Hudson said breezily, going back to her pouring. “And this is the best kind of upheaval.”
Sherlock took the chair next to John and smiled at him, and John returned the look, feeling as though his heart might burst from the reunion he had just witnessed and the warmth that had settled in his chest with the realization that they were all finally home. Sherlock eased himself back into his chair, but he was moving stiffly, and John frowned, reaching into his pocket.
“Take these. No arguments,” he warned, holding out three ibuprofen tablets.
Sherlock accepted them wordlessly and waited until Mrs. Hudson handed him his teacup before complying.
Mrs. Hudson looked from John to Sherlock’s face, and worry creased her brow.
“Sherlock, what is it? What have they done to you?” she asked anxiously.
“I’m all right, Mrs. Hudson. Nothing that won’t mend,” Sherlock said reassuringly, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “John won’t accept any other outcome, you know.”
“You’d better believe I won’t, and I’m sure Mrs. Hudson has no qualms about being my co-conspirator,” John said, directing a smile to his landlady. He reached out and took Sherlock’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “I will get you healed and healthy if I have to lock you into the flat to do it.”
“Useless,” Sherlock grinned, his eyes still closed.
“Well then, I’ll have to devise ways to keep you occupied, won’t I?” John said teasingly.
Sherlock raised his head and opened his eyes, giving John a smoldering look that was somewhere between a challenge and an invitation before sipping his tea again.
In his peripheral vision, John saw Mrs. Hudson observe their exchange and send an inquiring glance toward Mycroft, who merely shrugged his shoulders and rolled his eyes in exasperation. Mrs. Hudson covered her delighted smile with her hand, and John hid his own smile; might as well let her know now, since she would find out one way or another.
“Sherlock, you look exhausted,” Mrs. Hudson said, with a maternal pat on his shoulder. “Why don’t you go upstairs and get some rest? Thanks to John, the flat is cleaner than it’s been in years.”
“I had some help, Mrs. Hudson,” John reminded her, grinning, but she waved away his acknowledgement.
“I should be going as well, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, glancing at his watch. “I have a conference call with . . . well, it doesn’t matter, but I cannot be late. I’ll leave you in Doctor Watson’s capable hands, and I’ll be sure to have Inspector Lestrade’s files delivered on Monday, as we discussed.”
Sherlock gave a hum of what might have been acknowledgement, so John looked over at Mycroft. “Thank you. Having the weekend to get settled in will be helpful - and I rather think Sherlock could use the rest, before he takes whatever sort of greeting Greg and Molly are going to give him.”
“Undoubtedly,” Mycroft said dryly. “Good day, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you so much for the tea.”
“You’re welcome. Here, take this with you,” she answered, handing him a Tupperware container containing a generous portion of the angel food cake.
Mycroft looked torn between gratitude and embarrassment, and Sherlock didn’t restrain the chuckle that escaped him. Only John’s nudge kept him from saying anything, and Mycroft’s manners won out - to a point.
“My thanks, Mrs. Hudson. I shall enjoy it,” he said with a nod. “Sherlock, do try to listen to John and not get into any life-threatening situations in the next two days; I really do not have time for your games.”
The needling that passed for normal interaction between the Holmes brothers was back. John sighed.
“Please don’t darken our door again until you have another international crisis you can’t handle, brother dear,” Sherlock returned acerbically.
Mycroft tightened his lips, picked up his umbrella, and vanished. John shook his head.
“I suppose expecting you two to be even partially nice to each other for any length of time was too much to ask,” he said.
“Clearly,” Sherlock returned, not sounding repentant in the least. John shook his head again.
“Come on. Upstairs. You look like you could fall asleep where you sit, and there are a couple of things you’ll want to see before you get into bed,” John said, and Sherlock perked up.
“What? Why? What have you done?” the detective asked curiously, and John only grinned.
“You’ll find out. All right, Mrs. Hudson? Do you need any help?” John asked, and Mrs. Hudson shook her head, already clearing away the tea things.
“Oh, no, John, this is hardly anything at all. I’ll bring up some of the leftover cake for you boys in a tick,” Mrs. Hudson said, shooing them out.
John and Sherlock stood up, the latter moving slowly, and John put a hand at the small of the detective’s back in concern, but Sherlock gave a minute shake of his head. Their progress out of 221A and through the foyer was slow but steady. Sherlock winced as they began to ascend the stairs, but he kept moving, and he made it to the top before he paused to lean against the wall.
“Being injured is most inconvenient,” he grumbled, and John smiled at hearing the old crossness in his tone.
“It is,” John agreed. “You’re already doing better than you were, though, and you should be fine in a few more weeks. Come on.”
John held out a hand and Sherlock took it, and they stepped back into their flat together. Sherlock moved into the middle of the room, bringing John with him, taking everything in, and John’s happiness warmed him through as he saw the peace, the contentment, the quiet joy in Sherlock’s face at being home.
“I can actually see the surfaces,” Sherlock quipped, meeting John’s eyes. “I’m not sure I know what to do with them when they’re so clean.”
“I know they won’t stay that way, but I thought starting with a clean slate was probably best,” John said with a grin. He had cleaned until the flat was spotless; the table between the two tall windows was completely empty, save for his laptop and Sherlock’s that were both placed upon it. The sofa still occupied its place under the spray-painted smiley face and Sherlock’s bullet holes, and Mrs. Hudson’s cleaning had left it looking like new. The coffee table was free of dust. The upholstery on the two armchairs in front of the fireplace had been hoovered. John had straightened up the bookshelves and arranged all of the case files in neat boxes on the lower shelves next to the floor, with each box clearly labeled.
The kitchen was equally immaculate. All of the dishes were clean and put away in sparkling cupboards. There was a new light fixture above the table, one slight more ornate and in keeping with the Victorian feel of the flat. John had consulted with Mrs. Hudson to find something that matched. The table was clear of experiments of any kind; Sherlock frowned slightly as he noticed this.
“Mycroft said that Mrs. Hudson had gotten rid of the lab equipment. I’ll have to replace it,” he said thoughtfully.
“No, you won’t,” John said mischievously. “Mycroft had several boxes of new equipment delivered the other day. It’s just not down here.”
Sherlock raised his eyebrows, looking intrigued and alarmed in equal measure. “What do you mean, not down here? What have you done with it?”
“Can you make it up to my old room?” John inquired with concern. “It’s up there, but if you are tired it can wait, Sherlock. I don’t want you setting yourself back.”
“I am tired, but I can manage, John,” Sherlock promised him. “Please, let’s go up. I want to see everything.”
Once again, Sherlock led the way, with John following behind and watching sharply for any signs that Sherlock might be in physical distress. The shorter staircase to the upstairs bedroom was navigated without incident, and John released a silent sigh of relief.
Sherlock stopped just inside the doorway, his surprise written all over his face. “John,” he breathed.
“Do you like it? I hoped you would,” John said warmly, wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s waist.
In the few days he had been working in Baker Street, John had placed orders, made calls, and taken deliveries when he was present in Baker Street, and he had transformed their upstairs bedroom into a miniature lab. Cupboards and a counter and sink covered most of one wall. A small stainless steel refrigerator rested at the end of the cupboards, the same height as the counter. A long lab table stood in front of the cupboards, with the old rectangular fluorescent light from the kitchen hanging from the ceiling and illuminating the entire space. Sherlock’s new microscope and supply of beakers, Erlenmeyer flasks, petri dishes, pipettes, and glass slides were all arranged neatly and within easy reach, though John knew the detective would create his own system.
The room was large enough that they did not have to sacrifice the bed and wardrobe; they had been put into the corners that were farthest from the workspace, so that they would stay clear of anything toxic.
“It’s . . . amazing, John,” Sherlock said slowly, as if he were trying to simply comprehend the sight in front of him. “How did you do all of this?”
John laughed. “I mostly just coordinated everything. I did some of the work, but I had help getting it all installed. The workmen were very efficient. I was grateful they were willing to come so late in the day.”
He turned to face Sherlock, placing both arms about the detective’s waist instead of just one. “When I came back and started thinking about - well, about cleaning, and living space, and all of it, I thought it would be nice for you to have a lab up here. You’ll still have to keep bigger things in the downstairs fridge, but this way, you can conduct experiments in peace, we have the kitchen free for cooking and eating, and if you need to kip up here when you’re in the middle of something long and complicated, you can. I put some of your clothes and pajamas in the wardrobe. Otherwise, we’ll have it for a guest room - a slightly unconventional one, I grant you, but then nothing about us is really conventional, is it?”
Sherlock’s eyes scanned his face, rapidly, and John suddenly felt self-conscious. “Sherlock?” he questioned hesitantly, gently touching the detective’s cheek. “I’m sorry, did I - presume too much? I was hoping I hadn’t, but - it’s all fine, you know. Whatever you need.”
“John,” Sherlock breathed again, and then he pressed his lips to John’s in utter, fervent abandon. His hands swept up to cradle John’s face, and after a moment his tongue brushed across the seam of John’s lips. John moaned quietly, meeting Sherlock’s tongue with his own, feeling the thrill of arousal in his blood, but more than anything else simply feeling his overwhelming love for this man, his best friend and his savior and his home.
Sherlock pulled away from John’s mouth, only to kiss his cheekbones, his jawline, down to the pulse point in his neck, and over and down to the hollow of his throat.
“You are extraordinary, John Watson,” he murmured. “You are my own bundle of contradictions, and I want to spend the rest of my life discovering each and every facet of you. You could not possibly presume too much.”
“Sherlock,” John said raggedly, his voice shaking with the force of his emotion. He clung to the detective’s shoulders, breathing rapidly and trying to maintain his equilibrium, reminding himself forcefully that Sherlock was still healing and in pain.
Sherlock pulled John close, resting his lips on John’s hair, and his deep baritone voice washed over John like a benediction. “I love you,” he said, and John felt him smile. “I told you so many times while I was away, told the John in my Mind Palace, and I don’t think I will ever get tired of saying it to the real you.”
John breathed in the scent of Sherlock, ghosting his lips over the spot where Sherlock’s throat met his jaw. The happiness he felt was tempered slightly by the sobering reminder of Sherlock’s absence, but it only made him more grateful that they were here, standing together in their old home. “I can promise you I’ll never get tired of hearing it,” he murmured. “Thank you for staying alive so that I could.”
“You asked me to,” Sherlock reminded him. “You asked me not to be dead.”
John pulled back and looked up at him again, his eyes wide with wonder. “You were there,” he said in realization. “I felt as though you were, but I thought it was all in my head.”
“I was,” Sherlock confirmed. “I was hidden behind some trees, some distance away, but near enough to overhear you. I had to see you one more time before I left, just in case I didn’t come back. I knew then how you felt when you were shot.”
John’s brow furrowed. “How do you mean?”
“I desperately wanted to live,” Sherlock answered earnestly, brushing another kiss over John’s forehead. “I prayed to whatever goodness exists in the universe that I would live. For you, John. Always for you.”
John closed his eyes, tucking his head back into Sherlock’s neck and feeling the reassuring, steady beating of his heart. “I think we were meant to live for each other.”
Chapter Twelve
Wounded With His Wounded Heart, Ch. 11
Before he left Mycroft’s home on Friday morning to go to work, John sought out Willoughby, to thank the butler once again and to say goodbye. Since they would be back at Baker Street before nightfall, John wasn’t sure when they would see Willoughby again, and he felt grateful for the butler’s care and his obvious love for Sherlock, as well as the small insights into the detective’s past.
He found Willoughby in the kitchen, apparently pondering over that evening’s dinner menu. When he knocked hesitantly on the doorframe, Willoughby looked up and smiled, his eyes crinkling in welcome.
“Come in, Dr. Watson, come in,” he beckoned.
“Good morning, Willoughby,” John said with a smile. “I’m off to work, and Sherlock and I are heading to Baker Street this afternoon. I just wanted to find you and thank you for everything you’ve done for us this week. - and for everything you did for Sherlock, when he needed someone so badly and I wasn’t there,” John added, his voice low.
Willoughby nodded in understanding. “I have always been very - very fond of Sherlock, John,” he answered earnestly. “I always hoped he would find someone who would love him the way he deserved - and I have no doubt that you do,” the butler finished.
John beamed. “I do,” he affirmed, holding out a hand. Willoughby took it, shaking it firmly.
“Bring him back to visit every once in a while, Dr. Watson,” Willoughby requested, his eyes wistful. “I do miss him when he stays away so long.”
“I’ll do my best,” John promised with a grin, and with that he was off to the surgery.
The day, thankfully, was busy and went by rapidly, and John was grateful for the distraction. By the afternoon, had John been any other kind of person, he would have been shaking with nerves. He packed a small bag before leaving the clinic, just in case, prepared to treat Mrs. Hudson for anything from shock to a panic attack, and he noticed absently that his hands were completely steady. He felt the cool detachment flowing through him that had served him so well on the battlefield: do his job first and deal with his emotions later.
As he left the office, he found one of Mycroft’s cars waiting for him as expected. He slid in the back next to Sherlock, who was staring pensively out the window, and across from Mycroft, who looked - well, not tense, exactly, but not quite relaxed either. John took a kind of smug satisfaction in seeing that; Mycroft clearly knew that Mrs. Hudson was one of the few people that neither John nor Sherlock would tolerate anyone trifling with.
To be fair, Sherlock himself was nervous; the very stillness with which he kept his pose at the window told John how tight a hold he was keeping on his emotions. Sherlock would rather do just about anything than show weakness in front of his brother, and stillness was his best way of avoiding that. As John got into the car, Sherlock reached out a hand to him, the only movement he made or indication he gave that he noticed John and desired contact. John took his hand with a sure, tight grip, sitting close to him, and the three of them sat in silence as the car made its way to Baker Street.
When the black car pulled smoothly up to the curb next to 221B, John felt a wave of relief wash through him simply looking at the black door with its heavy knocker. Sherlock did not move a muscle, and John refused to move until he could talk to Sherlock, so he simply stared at Mycroft until the elder Holmes rolled his eyes and got out of the car.
Sherlock turned to John with a little smile. “Impressive. Mycroft usually stays in place in a situation like that simply to assert his dominance.”
“He knows when to pick his battles, and he wasn’t going to win that one,” John said firmly. He leaned over and kissed Sherlock softly. “It’s going to be fine, you know. We’re just doing it this way to make sure that Mrs. Hudson isn’t shocked out of her wits.”
“I know,” Sherlock answered, though there was the faintest thread of uncertainty underneath the confident tone. He looked out the window behind John, at the familiar storefront, and then let his eyes slide closed as his forehead dropped to John’s shoulder. “I have wanted to be home for so long, John,” he murmured, winding an arm around John’s waist.
John smiled into his hair. “My thoughts exactly. Give me and Mycroft a few minutes to talk to Mrs. Hudson before you come in, and we’ll be home again.”
Sherlock straightened up, struggling to put away his feelings under a bit of levity. “Quickly, please. I miss our couch.”
John laughed and kissed him again, giving his hand another brief squeeze before he left the car. He found Mycroft leaning impatiently on his umbrella (how could someone convey impatience in such a correct posture?), and John strode past him and put his key in the lock of 221B.
“Mrs. Hudson!” he called as he opened the door. “We’re here!”
Mrs. Hudson appeared immediately at her own door, wearing a smile. “Come in, John dear, come in. Hello, Mycroft,” she greeted the elder Holmes, and Mycroft managed a small smile for her.
“Mrs. Hudson,” he acknowledged.
“I’ve made your favorite cake, Mycroft, my angel food,” Mrs. Hudson said as they went back into 221A. “I know how fond you are of it. The tea’s just made, so it’s nice and hot.”
Mycroft’s smile was real this time, and with a shock, John realized that Mycroft, too, was nervous and attempting to hide it. The effort he had put into his smile in the hall was clear when John compared it to the genuine one that had appeared just now. He found, not for the first time in recent weeks, that he actually had some sympathy for Sherlock’s brother.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft said sincerely. “I do appreciate it. I have never found angel food cake to equal yours.”
Mrs. Hudson beamed. “Thank you. Why don’t you both have a seat? What was it you wanted to tell us, Mycroft? Something about Sherlock?”
She gestured to the kitchen chairs, and while John took the one nearest to him, Mycroft stayed standing, accepting the tea Mrs. Hudson handed him.
John looked up at Mycroft, and the older man gave a minute, helpless shrug of his shoulders. No matter how it was phrased, this was not going to be easy.
“Well, as it turns out, Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft said slowly, “there is one particular piece of that puzzle that was my brother’s death that Scotland Yard did not manage to discern. Hardly surprising, given Sherlock’s intellect,” he added, with a touch of his usual hauteur. “They proved the authenticity of the cases he solved, cleared him of all the things Moriarty accused him of, but they did not find out the actual reason behind Sherlock’s . . . fall.”
Mrs. Hudson had been slicing the angel food cake and putting it on plates while Mycroft talked, and now her hands slowed, her eyes going from Mycroft’s face to John’s as she took that in.
“The actual reason?” she said carefully. “So there was another one, besides all of the terrible things that were being said about him? He didn’t . . . it wasn’t because . . .”
She didn’t finish, but John knew what she was going to say, because he had wondered it every day. It wasn’t because we didn’t love him enough?
“No. It wasn’t,” John said softly. “It was the opposite, really.”
Mrs. Hudson took the other chair, sitting across from John at the table. “I don’t understand, John. If he didn’t care about the papers, if he knew that we didn’t believe it, why would he . . . ?”
John reached out and put a hand over hers where it rested on the table. “There were snipers, Mrs. Hudson,” he said, as gently as possible. “Snipers on you, me, and Greg Lestrade. It was Moriarty’s way of getting Sherlock to jump; if he jumped, then we lived.”
Mrs. Hudson pressed a shaking hand to her mouth. “So he did it for us? To save us?” she confirmed, her eyes wide and suspiciously bright.
John nodded. “He did. There was one thing Moriarty didn’t account for, though. Sherlock was on to him. He knew how everything might end; he knew how Moriarty wanted it to end. He had time to plan. Not much, but enough.”
“Enough time for what?” Mrs. Hudson asked, looking perplexedly at John. She pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “Oh, that dear man. I always knew he cared.”
John held tightly to her hand. “Enough time to create an illusion. To make his death look real when it . . . wasn’t,” he said slowly, wanting Mrs. Hudson to understand. “To make himself invisible so that he could take apart Moriarty’s organization.”
“It’s what he spent the last year doing,” Mycroft added solemnly. “I was the only one who knew for certain that he was alive, and he did not even inform me until several months later. He relied on my help and I relied on his skill, and he has accomplished a feat that I was, in all honesty, not sure was possible.”
“And so . . . he’s alive?” Mrs. Hudson asked, her voice trembling. John could tell she couldn’t quite believe it, and he understood; he could hardly comprehend it when Sherlock was standing in front of him at the Diogenes. “Sherlock is alive?”
“Most assuredly,” said a deep voice from behind them, softly, and John smiled as Mrs. Hudson looked up toward the doorway and her face transformed.
“Oh, Sherlock,” she cried, flying up from her chair. She wrapped her arms around the tall frame of the consulting detective and sobbed happily into his shoulder, while Sherlock simply held her.
“You are impossible, Sherlock Holmes!” she chastised him when she could speak again, though she hadn’t let go of him. “What were you thinking, jumping off of a building that way? Risking your life in a fall like that?”
Sherlock smiled, recognizing the scolding for the act that it was. “My options were rather limited at the time, Mrs. Hudson.”
“You could have been killed regardless! We all thought you were dead!” she exclaimed.
Sherlock leaned down and kissed her cheek. “But you are still here, and England still stands,” he said warmly, and Mrs. Hudson began to cry again.
“You shouldn’t have done it,” she wept. “Not for me. I know John was your primary worry; anyone with eyes would know that, but really, Sherlock.”
Sherlock folded his arms around her even more tenderly than before. “Nonsense. I would never let anything happen to you, Mrs. Hudson.”
“Thank you, Sherlock dear,” she murmured, and after one more brief squeeze, she let him go and shook herself, wiping at her cheeks.
“Look at me! Blubbering while the tea’s getting cold!” she said, moving back toward the table. “Sherlock, you take my chair and have a cuppa. John, Mycroft, did you need more?”
“Yes, please,” Mycroft said, holding out his teacup, and Mrs. Hudson refilled it quickly before bustling to the cupboard to get another cup for Sherlock.
“Come here, Mrs. Hudson,” John commanded - it was kind, but it was nevertheless an order, and Mrs. Hudson recognized it as she turned from the cupboard and raised an eyebrow at him. John gestured her over with his hand, immediately clasping her wrist and counting once she got close enough.
“Oh, John! I’m fine,” she tutted. “Shocked, but fine. There isn’t much that can get to you after finding out your husband is a thief and a murderer. And I’ve lived with Sherlock longer than you have, dear; resurrection’s about the only trick he hasn’t pulled, up to now.”
“Nevertheless, I’ll feel better if I check,” John said firmly. “Why do you think we told you this way? The last thing we wanted was you going into shock, or your blood pressure going through the floor. Your pulse is steady, though.”
He stood and took a penlight from his pocket, checking her pupils for dilation and responsiveness, and turned her face to the light to make sure her color was good. Satisfied, he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
“Resilient as always,” he said with a smile. “You’re a marvel, Mrs. Hudson.”
“Nonsense, just weathered and used to storms in life!” Mrs. Hudson said breezily, going back to her pouring. “And this is the best kind of upheaval.”
Sherlock took the chair next to John and smiled at him, and John returned the look, feeling as though his heart might burst from the reunion he had just witnessed and the warmth that had settled in his chest with the realization that they were all finally home. Sherlock eased himself back into his chair, but he was moving stiffly, and John frowned, reaching into his pocket.
“Take these. No arguments,” he warned, holding out three ibuprofen tablets.
Sherlock accepted them wordlessly and waited until Mrs. Hudson handed him his teacup before complying.
Mrs. Hudson looked from John to Sherlock’s face, and worry creased her brow.
“Sherlock, what is it? What have they done to you?” she asked anxiously.
“I’m all right, Mrs. Hudson. Nothing that won’t mend,” Sherlock said reassuringly, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “John won’t accept any other outcome, you know.”
“You’d better believe I won’t, and I’m sure Mrs. Hudson has no qualms about being my co-conspirator,” John said, directing a smile to his landlady. He reached out and took Sherlock’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “I will get you healed and healthy if I have to lock you into the flat to do it.”
“Useless,” Sherlock grinned, his eyes still closed.
“Well then, I’ll have to devise ways to keep you occupied, won’t I?” John said teasingly.
Sherlock raised his head and opened his eyes, giving John a smoldering look that was somewhere between a challenge and an invitation before sipping his tea again.
In his peripheral vision, John saw Mrs. Hudson observe their exchange and send an inquiring glance toward Mycroft, who merely shrugged his shoulders and rolled his eyes in exasperation. Mrs. Hudson covered her delighted smile with her hand, and John hid his own smile; might as well let her know now, since she would find out one way or another.
“Sherlock, you look exhausted,” Mrs. Hudson said, with a maternal pat on his shoulder. “Why don’t you go upstairs and get some rest? Thanks to John, the flat is cleaner than it’s been in years.”
“I had some help, Mrs. Hudson,” John reminded her, grinning, but she waved away his acknowledgement.
“I should be going as well, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, glancing at his watch. “I have a conference call with . . . well, it doesn’t matter, but I cannot be late. I’ll leave you in Doctor Watson’s capable hands, and I’ll be sure to have Inspector Lestrade’s files delivered on Monday, as we discussed.”
Sherlock gave a hum of what might have been acknowledgement, so John looked over at Mycroft. “Thank you. Having the weekend to get settled in will be helpful - and I rather think Sherlock could use the rest, before he takes whatever sort of greeting Greg and Molly are going to give him.”
“Undoubtedly,” Mycroft said dryly. “Good day, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you so much for the tea.”
“You’re welcome. Here, take this with you,” she answered, handing him a Tupperware container containing a generous portion of the angel food cake.
Mycroft looked torn between gratitude and embarrassment, and Sherlock didn’t restrain the chuckle that escaped him. Only John’s nudge kept him from saying anything, and Mycroft’s manners won out - to a point.
“My thanks, Mrs. Hudson. I shall enjoy it,” he said with a nod. “Sherlock, do try to listen to John and not get into any life-threatening situations in the next two days; I really do not have time for your games.”
The needling that passed for normal interaction between the Holmes brothers was back. John sighed.
“Please don’t darken our door again until you have another international crisis you can’t handle, brother dear,” Sherlock returned acerbically.
Mycroft tightened his lips, picked up his umbrella, and vanished. John shook his head.
“I suppose expecting you two to be even partially nice to each other for any length of time was too much to ask,” he said.
“Clearly,” Sherlock returned, not sounding repentant in the least. John shook his head again.
“Come on. Upstairs. You look like you could fall asleep where you sit, and there are a couple of things you’ll want to see before you get into bed,” John said, and Sherlock perked up.
“What? Why? What have you done?” the detective asked curiously, and John only grinned.
“You’ll find out. All right, Mrs. Hudson? Do you need any help?” John asked, and Mrs. Hudson shook her head, already clearing away the tea things.
“Oh, no, John, this is hardly anything at all. I’ll bring up some of the leftover cake for you boys in a tick,” Mrs. Hudson said, shooing them out.
John and Sherlock stood up, the latter moving slowly, and John put a hand at the small of the detective’s back in concern, but Sherlock gave a minute shake of his head. Their progress out of 221A and through the foyer was slow but steady. Sherlock winced as they began to ascend the stairs, but he kept moving, and he made it to the top before he paused to lean against the wall.
“Being injured is most inconvenient,” he grumbled, and John smiled at hearing the old crossness in his tone.
“It is,” John agreed. “You’re already doing better than you were, though, and you should be fine in a few more weeks. Come on.”
John held out a hand and Sherlock took it, and they stepped back into their flat together. Sherlock moved into the middle of the room, bringing John with him, taking everything in, and John’s happiness warmed him through as he saw the peace, the contentment, the quiet joy in Sherlock’s face at being home.
“I can actually see the surfaces,” Sherlock quipped, meeting John’s eyes. “I’m not sure I know what to do with them when they’re so clean.”
“I know they won’t stay that way, but I thought starting with a clean slate was probably best,” John said with a grin. He had cleaned until the flat was spotless; the table between the two tall windows was completely empty, save for his laptop and Sherlock’s that were both placed upon it. The sofa still occupied its place under the spray-painted smiley face and Sherlock’s bullet holes, and Mrs. Hudson’s cleaning had left it looking like new. The coffee table was free of dust. The upholstery on the two armchairs in front of the fireplace had been hoovered. John had straightened up the bookshelves and arranged all of the case files in neat boxes on the lower shelves next to the floor, with each box clearly labeled.
The kitchen was equally immaculate. All of the dishes were clean and put away in sparkling cupboards. There was a new light fixture above the table, one slight more ornate and in keeping with the Victorian feel of the flat. John had consulted with Mrs. Hudson to find something that matched. The table was clear of experiments of any kind; Sherlock frowned slightly as he noticed this.
“Mycroft said that Mrs. Hudson had gotten rid of the lab equipment. I’ll have to replace it,” he said thoughtfully.
“No, you won’t,” John said mischievously. “Mycroft had several boxes of new equipment delivered the other day. It’s just not down here.”
Sherlock raised his eyebrows, looking intrigued and alarmed in equal measure. “What do you mean, not down here? What have you done with it?”
“Can you make it up to my old room?” John inquired with concern. “It’s up there, but if you are tired it can wait, Sherlock. I don’t want you setting yourself back.”
“I am tired, but I can manage, John,” Sherlock promised him. “Please, let’s go up. I want to see everything.”
Once again, Sherlock led the way, with John following behind and watching sharply for any signs that Sherlock might be in physical distress. The shorter staircase to the upstairs bedroom was navigated without incident, and John released a silent sigh of relief.
Sherlock stopped just inside the doorway, his surprise written all over his face. “John,” he breathed.
“Do you like it? I hoped you would,” John said warmly, wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s waist.
In the few days he had been working in Baker Street, John had placed orders, made calls, and taken deliveries when he was present in Baker Street, and he had transformed their upstairs bedroom into a miniature lab. Cupboards and a counter and sink covered most of one wall. A small stainless steel refrigerator rested at the end of the cupboards, the same height as the counter. A long lab table stood in front of the cupboards, with the old rectangular fluorescent light from the kitchen hanging from the ceiling and illuminating the entire space. Sherlock’s new microscope and supply of beakers, Erlenmeyer flasks, petri dishes, pipettes, and glass slides were all arranged neatly and within easy reach, though John knew the detective would create his own system.
The room was large enough that they did not have to sacrifice the bed and wardrobe; they had been put into the corners that were farthest from the workspace, so that they would stay clear of anything toxic.
“It’s . . . amazing, John,” Sherlock said slowly, as if he were trying to simply comprehend the sight in front of him. “How did you do all of this?”
John laughed. “I mostly just coordinated everything. I did some of the work, but I had help getting it all installed. The workmen were very efficient. I was grateful they were willing to come so late in the day.”
He turned to face Sherlock, placing both arms about the detective’s waist instead of just one. “When I came back and started thinking about - well, about cleaning, and living space, and all of it, I thought it would be nice for you to have a lab up here. You’ll still have to keep bigger things in the downstairs fridge, but this way, you can conduct experiments in peace, we have the kitchen free for cooking and eating, and if you need to kip up here when you’re in the middle of something long and complicated, you can. I put some of your clothes and pajamas in the wardrobe. Otherwise, we’ll have it for a guest room - a slightly unconventional one, I grant you, but then nothing about us is really conventional, is it?”
Sherlock’s eyes scanned his face, rapidly, and John suddenly felt self-conscious. “Sherlock?” he questioned hesitantly, gently touching the detective’s cheek. “I’m sorry, did I - presume too much? I was hoping I hadn’t, but - it’s all fine, you know. Whatever you need.”
“John,” Sherlock breathed again, and then he pressed his lips to John’s in utter, fervent abandon. His hands swept up to cradle John’s face, and after a moment his tongue brushed across the seam of John’s lips. John moaned quietly, meeting Sherlock’s tongue with his own, feeling the thrill of arousal in his blood, but more than anything else simply feeling his overwhelming love for this man, his best friend and his savior and his home.
Sherlock pulled away from John’s mouth, only to kiss his cheekbones, his jawline, down to the pulse point in his neck, and over and down to the hollow of his throat.
“You are extraordinary, John Watson,” he murmured. “You are my own bundle of contradictions, and I want to spend the rest of my life discovering each and every facet of you. You could not possibly presume too much.”
“Sherlock,” John said raggedly, his voice shaking with the force of his emotion. He clung to the detective’s shoulders, breathing rapidly and trying to maintain his equilibrium, reminding himself forcefully that Sherlock was still healing and in pain.
Sherlock pulled John close, resting his lips on John’s hair, and his deep baritone voice washed over John like a benediction. “I love you,” he said, and John felt him smile. “I told you so many times while I was away, told the John in my Mind Palace, and I don’t think I will ever get tired of saying it to the real you.”
John breathed in the scent of Sherlock, ghosting his lips over the spot where Sherlock’s throat met his jaw. The happiness he felt was tempered slightly by the sobering reminder of Sherlock’s absence, but it only made him more grateful that they were here, standing together in their old home. “I can promise you I’ll never get tired of hearing it,” he murmured. “Thank you for staying alive so that I could.”
“You asked me to,” Sherlock reminded him. “You asked me not to be dead.”
John pulled back and looked up at him again, his eyes wide with wonder. “You were there,” he said in realization. “I felt as though you were, but I thought it was all in my head.”
“I was,” Sherlock confirmed. “I was hidden behind some trees, some distance away, but near enough to overhear you. I had to see you one more time before I left, just in case I didn’t come back. I knew then how you felt when you were shot.”
John’s brow furrowed. “How do you mean?”
“I desperately wanted to live,” Sherlock answered earnestly, brushing another kiss over John’s forehead. “I prayed to whatever goodness exists in the universe that I would live. For you, John. Always for you.”
John closed his eyes, tucking his head back into Sherlock’s neck and feeling the reassuring, steady beating of his heart. “I think we were meant to live for each other.”
Chapter Twelve