Sentiment - Fanfic - Sherlock - PG
Title: Sentiment
Rated: PG -13
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Wordcount: ~4100
Warning: Spoilers for The Reichenbach Fall. Some language.
Disclaimer: I do not own the show Sherlock or the character.
Summary: Five times Sherlock had to put on a disguise in order to see John and one time he didn’t. Post-Reichenbach.
1.
“Who was she?” Mary asked. It was their first date. John had no idea how he had let Harry talk him into it, but she did. Mary was rather nice, and very pretty. He decided to take Mary to Angelo’s, mostly because Angelo still gave him free meals.
“Who was who?” John asked in confusion. He took another sip of his wine and tried to keep his hand from shaking.
“The woman who left you,” Mary explained delicately. John quirked a questioning eyebrow at her a motion he had not used in eight months.
“Why do you say that?” John was not angry at the assumption. He wasn’t anything.
“When you smile it never really reaches your eyes, like your just doing it for the sake of other people, not because you’re actually happy,” Mary said. John had to admit he was impressed. For just a moment he felt the sting of his old life. He pushed it away, down, faraway.
John gave no response and hoped the subject was dropped as their waiter chose that moment to return with their food. He was a tall man with sandy blond hair and a nose just a little too big for his face. The waiter set down John’s plate but John could suddenly not bring himself to feel hungry.
“She’s a fool,” Mary continued as the waiter set her plate down as well, “to have left you.”
The waiter began to refill Mary’s wineglass. She meant it as a compliment. She meant it to be nice. But something was broken inside of John, something no one, not even beautiful, funny, well meaning Mary Morstan, could fix.
“He,” John stressed the word and swallowed hard before continuing, “died.”
The waiter stumbled, mumbled an apology, and began to fill John’s wineglass. Mary looked sheepish and her face began to turn blotchy with embarrassment.
“I’m so sorry, John, Harry didn’t say-”
“It’s fine,” John choked on the words and quietly added, “it’s all fine.”
“How long were you together?” Mary asked, looking at her plate with disinterest. She looked up at John and began to stammer out another apology upon seeing his face.
“Eighteen months,” John answered. The waiter had moved to the empty table next to theirs and began to shuffle around the silverware. John could not shake the feeling that he was listening to their conversation but really couldn’t bring himself to care.
“Did you love him?” she asked. They both knew the answer would determine how the rest of the night went. John looked her in the eyes, his own red rimmed.
“Yes,” was his easy answer. Next to them the waiter stopped his movement and seemed to hold himself rigid. He began to turn as though about to say something to them, but stopped midway. Without a word he walked briskly back to the kitchen.
2.
It was a truly horrible little bookstore. It smelt of mothballs and dust. John had no idea how Mary had managed to talk him into going. He supposed he owed her after their disastrous first, and only, date. She was the only friend he had managed to make since the incident.
“It’s just around the corner,” she had said. “You need to get out of this flat.”
Everyone said that. Everyone told him he should leave the flat more often. Mrs Hudson had to physically push him out the door most of the time. It hurt too much to leave. Sometimes, late at night when the whole world, even London, was silent, John could still hear him. Still smell him. Most of the time it would make John want to never leave, but once in a while he wanted nothing more than to never see their flat again. Either way he could never bring himself to walk out the door.
“Do you like it?” Mary asked as they entered the small bookshop, the little bell over the door jingling. John smiled softly and nodded. She wandered off into the romance section and left him to his own devices. John felt a sudden desire to run and never stop running.
“Help you?” a voice asked. John turned to see an old man with white hair and a long gray beard sitting on a stool behind the checkout counter. John was about to politely decline, until he looked at the man’s eyes. They were a sudden, haunting reminder. John sucked in a lungful of air and felt his heart leap in his chest. He released the breath and felt his heart fall heavy once again.
“No, thank you,” John stammered out. Mary returned than, carrying three books with her. She placed them on the counter and the old man rang them up without a word. She thanked him and turned to John.
“Are you alright, John?” she asked with worry. He looked away from the old man, who had long since turned his attention to a magazine. John looked down to Mary, concern etched on her face.
“Yes, I’m fine,” he said in a hollow voice. She put a supportive arm around his waist and they headed back outside together. It took all of John’s might not to look back at the old man. Just to see his eyes. Just to remember what they looked like. Just to feel something again.
3.
It was a bad day. Granted, everyday was a bad day. This, however, was particularly a bad day. Mrs Hudson was in the flat already when John woke up and came down for breakfast. She was dusting but as soon as she saw him she gave him a sad sort of smile and went into the kitchen to make him tea. John sat in his chair and stared at the empty one across from him, exactly as he had one year ago to the day.
Mrs Hudson handed him the mug and he looked down into the contents sadly. He had been given the mug last Christmas. Sherlock had said he wasn’t sure what else John liked other than tea and horrible jumpers. John was suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to throw it against the wall. He closed his eyes and breathed deep. Mrs Hudson returned to dusting, prattling on about one thing or another.
On the back of his eyelids John saw the sun shining, the white of a building, the blur of something falling, the red of blood, the emptiness of once lively eyes. John jolted out of the memory so forcefully that Mrs Hudson looked startled.
“Are you alright, dear?” she asked, one hand clutched to her chest.
“Fine,” John managed to get past the lump in his throat. He attempted to cough the feeling away and set aside his tea. “I think I need some air.”
Mrs Hudson did not seem agreeable to the prospect. John did not heed this and in a daze walked out the door and down the stairs. He stared at the back of the front door and let himself hope as he hadn’t in a year. He put his hand on the doorknob.
Please. Let him be there.
John opened the door. There he found pedestrians walking about, his neighbors going into and out of their front doors. Across the street a particularly striking ginger man stood against a wall, cigarette between his lips. John looked around, still grasping to hope. There was a wrenching pain in his chest and he felt like crumpling to the ground.
He could feel the cold pavement, the arms restraining him, the lack of pulse beneath his fingertips.
John’s knee began to buckle and he stumbled. The ginger across the street pushed off the wall but restrained from running across the road. John managed to navigate himself into one of the chairs outside of the café. He put his face in his hands. As much as he tried to stop it, he could feel the dampness on his cheeks greet him.
Once he had managed to pull himself together, he looked around to make sure no one had seen him. The ginger had put on a pair of sunglasses and was walking toward him. When he reached John he took out a crumpled cigarette packet. John looked at it to see one cigarette left inside.
“Looks like you could use it more than me,” the man said. The accent was Scottish but there was something oddly familiar about it. John figured it was because he had grown up around various family members with the same brogue.
“Ta, I don’t smoke,” John said politely. The man continued to hold the packet out as though to tempt John, but John once again waved it off. The ginger set it down on the table. He leaned just a little too close. John did not feel as though it were an invasion but a reunion.
“Just in case you change your mind,” the ginger said, still leaning close to John. With that the stranger walked away. John watched him in curiosity, kept staring until he turned the corner and was out of sight. John took the packet and tucked it into his sweater pocket. He stood, attuning himself once again to the world that insisted on turning. He squared his shoulders and returned to his flat, a mask pasted on his face for all to see.
4.
John went to therapy once a week. It had been twice, right after. Then he started going to dinner with Mary almost every night. He would go to the pub every Friday night with Greg. He had gotten himself a job teaching at St. Bart’s. John wasn’t sure who to thank more for it, Mike Stamford or Mycroft Holmes. To everyone it seemed that John was moving on with life. His heart, however, told him something completely different.
Ella had once told John, a few months after, that he needed to forgive Mycroft. He had flat out rejected the idea. Since, Mycroft had done everything he could to make it up to John, including paying the rent on 221b. John was still not in a forgiving mood.
Ella insisted that it would get easier now that he’d made it past the first year. John wished she was right. Truth was he still had the same dream every night. Still woke up in a cold sweat every morning. He still kept the door at the end of the first floor hall securely shut.
At their last session John told her about the door and the room beyond. He realized it was a mistake the minute he said it. She wanted him to open that door, to go into the room, and to pack away one thing in it once a day, every day, until their next session.
The first day he stood with his hand wrapped around the knob outside the bedroom for two hours before walking away and making tea. The second day he had managed to open the door. The floor was littered with various objects. Nearest the door were crumpled pieces of paper with scribbled notes, a pack of unused cleaning gloves, three almonds, and a pen. The bed was still unmade, the sheets thrown aside, an indentation still on the pillow.
John vomited in the bathroom. He didn’t try again.
When their next appointment came John was almost nervous to tell Ella that he had been unable to do what she had assigned. He arrived early and paced outside the building, trying to decide whether to tell her the truth or not. Just as he set his mind to lying to her and began to walk up the stairs, the front door opened and he was surprised to nearly run into a thin man.
John looked up to see the man wore thick glasses, a fedora, a tweed suit jacket with matching trousers, a crisply pressed white dress shirt, and shining dress shoes. The man’s greenish eyes looked far too large, distorted by the lenses he wore. The man nodded an apology while taking hold of John’s arm to help him keep his balance.
John flinched as he felt the warmth of the touch. The man looked just as startled by John’s reaction, but he did not release his grip on John’s bicep, in fact his fingers dug in just a little too tight. They stared at one another for a moment and something in John’s memory flared to life: Sherlock, leaning over him one morning, magnifying glass poised between them. All John had been able to see was how enlarged Sherlock’s eye looked. Experiment, Sherlock had said.
“Sorry,” John said, his voice raspy. The man let his hand fall back to his side and John felt a sudden wave of cold swallow him. The man gave a sad smile before walking away. John did not watch him go. Instead, he drew himself into a soldier’s posture and marched into Ella’s office.
5.
John was not a fan of the theatre. But Mary had insisted. She brought a man she worked with. John would have protested being in the way of their date but it became apparent that Mary had meant the co-worker for John.
Andrew was a decent enough bloke and it hurt John too much to explain that he had only ever loved one man. So John went along with it. The play was enjoyable but the party in some posh hotel afterward was even better. John was on the verge of actually feeling happy when everything in his world went completely sideways.
John had been talking to a man in uniform, asking him where he had served, the two of them exchanging stories. John ended up spending more time with Colonel Moran than with his “date.” Andrew did not seem fazed by this as he ended up leaving in a cab with one of the actors from the play. The night was winding down and Mary had returned to John, laid her head on his shoulder, and told him they should be going soon.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Colonel Moran,” John said as he shook hands with the man.
“The pleasure was all mine, Doctor Watson,” the colonel replied, giving a strong handshake in return. He downed what was left of his scotch and left. It was in that moment there was a flash of a long dark coat from the bar.
John had barely caught it and when he looked back he saw a figure moving across the room, walking toward a door the colonel had just exited. John peered around several bystanders to see the figure was a tall man wearing a familiar coat and an even more familiar mop of unruly dark hair.
John’s heart stopped. He dropped his glass of whiskey, a chip broke off, and the liquid began to seep into the carpet. Several people looked in his direction to see what had happened but John could only focus on the figure. The air in John’s lungs stopped mid-way up his windpipe. Distantly he heard Mary calling to him. The figure turned just enough so that John could see the face once stained with blood was now pristine and unscarred.
“Are you alright, sir?” a man stepped in front of John’s vantage point. John shook out of his shock to look up at the man. “It’s okay, sir, I’m a doctor.”
“Brilliant,” John mumbled as he moved around the man. He looked back to where he had seen the figure but it was gone now. John managed his way as quickly as possible through the crowd toward the exit. He pushed the door open and found himself alone in an alley. He looked down the dead-end only to find it empty. He ran the opposite way toward the street.
He looked frantically but he was washed away in the sea of people.
John reached into his pocket, intent on getting his phone to send a text to a number that he had never been able to make himself erase. Instead he found a crumbled up ball. He took it out in confusion. It was the cigarette packet the ginger stranger had given him. In a sudden anger John ripped at it, needing to destroy something. When he got to the cigarette he tried to break it in half but found the paper was too strong. He looked at it in disbelief and noticed there was something written on the outside of the paper.
I believe in John Watson -SH
For the first time in 18 months John crumbled to the ground and wept.
+1
There was a great yawning space between them. Sherlock stood in the door of the flat and John leaned heavily against the window on the other side of the room. They stared at one another for a long silent moment. The warm glow of the setting sun filtered in behind John.
“You’re alive,” John said, stammering slightly. Sherlock made no response, not even an insult about how obvious of a deduction that was. Instead he held up a plastic bag.
“I brought takeaway,” Sherlock answered. He wore his usual coat and scarf, the ones that had once been splattered with his blood. Just peaking out underneath were a pair of dark trousers and a dark shirt.
“Why?” John furrowed his brow and clenched his hands into a fist.
“It’s your favorite,” Sherlock replied, outstretching the arm that held the bag of takeaway.
“Sherlock,” John warned through gritted teeth. The silence returned, now laced with tension, hatred, love, and a thousand indescribable emotions. Sherlock walked into the flat, closing the door behind him and placed the bag on the floor. He looked at John with a blank face, unsure of what to do.
“I had to,” Sherlock mumbled out. “He would have killed you.”
“You fell,” John said, “I saw you fall.”
“You saw what you needed to see,” Sherlock said. He dared to take a step closer to John, who had not moved from the window. John glared at him and Sherlock did not make another move.
“I really didn’t,” John said, almost snarling. He pushed himself off the window, but did not make to get any closer.
“I did it for you,” Sherlock tried to defend himself. He needed John to understand. “You said it yourself, ‘Friends protect people.’”
To this John had no immediate reply. He could not find an argument, as much as he wanted to. He wanted to scream until he was hoarse and he wanted to throw punches until the skin peeled off his knuckles. Most of all he wanted to draw himself as close as possible to Sherlock, to feel how solid he was, how real he was.
“Why wouldn’t you tell me?” John asked, his voice shaking. He forced himself to be calm, to breathe carefully.
“They would come after you,” Sherlock answered. He fidgeted, not knowing what to do. He had never felt so out of place in Baker Street. He wondered if he should take off his coat or if he should toe off his shoes. More than anything he wanted to touch John, to just sit with him and have tea, to go on the way they had been before. The greatest fear Sherlock had was that normal, their version of normal, was impossible to regain.
“And they won’t now?” John asked, almost afraid of the answer.
“I took care of it,” Sherlock replied. He did not seem ready to elaborate but John caught enough from Sherlock’s demeanor to know what he meant. Silence descended upon them again. This time it was less tense, but just as violent. Suddenly John strode forward and for a moment Sherlock feared it was to punch him. Instead, John grabbed Sherlock around the wrist, two of his fingers pushed down onto Sherlock’s pulse point.
“Jesus Christ, Sherlock,” John whispered as he felt the flutter of a quick heartbeat. He could not hide the hopeful tone of his voice.
“The comparison is quite accurate,” Sherlock retorted. He nearly panicked when he felt John’s arms wrap around him. He thought that John might be trying to squeeze him to death until he realized that it was in fact a hug. John buried his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck and breathed in deep.
“I swear if you ever do that again,” John said, his voice muffled by Sherlock’s neck, “I will fucking kill you.”
Sherlock awkwardly patted John on the back. John moved his arms to tug at the lapels of Sherlock’s coat and ran his thumb over one of the buttonholes. He need to make sure it was all real. He had dreamed of this once and when he woke up alone there was no amount of alcohol that could numb the pain. It had to be real this time. He couldn’t make it if it weren’t.
“I’ve missed you,” Sherlock whispered as he stared down at John, who stared at Sherlock’s chest to make certain it was moving. John looked up at him. He was so close. John felt the floor drop out from under him. He couldn’t help but let out a gleeful giggle from his chest.
“I hate you so much,” John answered him with a smile. John could not feel his own body, but he knew every part of it was tense, the way it always was when adrenaline overtook his senses. Sherlock, much to both of their surprise, leaned forward and put his lips to John’s, just barely. It was a quick brush and John did not have the chance to enjoy the soft wetness.
“No you don’t,” Sherlock said, still standing close, “I know you don’t.”
John opened his mouth to reply but chocked on his words, unable to focus as the situation was beginning to weigh on him. Sherlock was alive. Sherlock was standing in front of him in one piece. John felt a welling of happiness in his chest that he had not felt in over a year. He let out another laugh and could feel the heat wash over his face.
He pulled Sherlock down and buried their mouths together. Sherlock let out a surprised huff of air through his nose but did not pull away. John felt his chest tighten and his head spin. He never wanted to let go. He could feel Sherlock begin to relax against the kiss. John took this as permission to run his tongue along Sherlock’s bottom lip. Sherlock jerked slightly as though a shock was sent through him.
Sherlock did not pull away, however. Instead he parted his lips, just slightly, but enough that John could snake his tongue along the top row of teeth. Sherlock felt John’s hand cup his neck, index finger rubbing over his first vertebrae. The hand felt reassuring, protective, loving; everything Sherlock associated with John.
The tongue moved deeper and pushed against Sherlock’s own. Sherlock felt his skin burst out in goose bumps. He felt his arms move, his hands going to John’s face, cupping either side of his jaw. Sherlock pressed closer against the warm body. He wanted to swallow John whole. He pushed his tongue back against John’s, moved his face slightly to the side of John’s nose in order to press their mouths closer together.
Sherlock experienced something that had never happened before: his mind shut down. And yet somehow Sherlock felt that his brain had never felt more alive. There was nothing but the smell of John’s skin, the taste of his mouth, the warmth of his flesh. When John pulled away in order to breath Sherlock could not help but think how boring breathing was, more so now than ever.
Sherlock could feel his skin burn and John was likewise flushed. There was a split second of uncertainty before they burst out in a fits of laughter. Sherlock unconsciously ran a hand in John’s hair, it had gotten longer since the last time he had seen John. Their laughter stopped just as suddenly as it started.
“We don’t need to…unless you do…I’d be alright with…if you were,” John coughed nervously, adjusting himself. Sherlock glanced down and could see the outline of arousal through John’s trousers. Sherlock let out a breathy laugh.
“You’re worse at this than I am,” Sherlock responded with a genuine smile. John laughed nervously, ducking his head to keep the flush on his neck hidden.
“You kept all my things?” Sherlock asked, seeing his lab equipment exactly where he left them on the kitchen table.
“Of course I did, knew you’d be back,” John replied with a shinning smile.
“No you didn’t,” Sherlock retorted matter-of-factly. He furrowed his brow in the way he did when he was actually uncertain of something. “Sentiment?”
“Yes, Sherlock,” John said as he gave him a quick, soft kiss, “sentiment.”
Rated: PG -13
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Wordcount: ~4100
Warning: Spoilers for The Reichenbach Fall. Some language.
Disclaimer: I do not own the show Sherlock or the character.
Summary: Five times Sherlock had to put on a disguise in order to see John and one time he didn’t. Post-Reichenbach.
1.
“Who was she?” Mary asked. It was their first date. John had no idea how he had let Harry talk him into it, but she did. Mary was rather nice, and very pretty. He decided to take Mary to Angelo’s, mostly because Angelo still gave him free meals.
“Who was who?” John asked in confusion. He took another sip of his wine and tried to keep his hand from shaking.
“The woman who left you,” Mary explained delicately. John quirked a questioning eyebrow at her a motion he had not used in eight months.
“Why do you say that?” John was not angry at the assumption. He wasn’t anything.
“When you smile it never really reaches your eyes, like your just doing it for the sake of other people, not because you’re actually happy,” Mary said. John had to admit he was impressed. For just a moment he felt the sting of his old life. He pushed it away, down, faraway.
John gave no response and hoped the subject was dropped as their waiter chose that moment to return with their food. He was a tall man with sandy blond hair and a nose just a little too big for his face. The waiter set down John’s plate but John could suddenly not bring himself to feel hungry.
“She’s a fool,” Mary continued as the waiter set her plate down as well, “to have left you.”
The waiter began to refill Mary’s wineglass. She meant it as a compliment. She meant it to be nice. But something was broken inside of John, something no one, not even beautiful, funny, well meaning Mary Morstan, could fix.
“He,” John stressed the word and swallowed hard before continuing, “died.”
The waiter stumbled, mumbled an apology, and began to fill John’s wineglass. Mary looked sheepish and her face began to turn blotchy with embarrassment.
“I’m so sorry, John, Harry didn’t say-”
“It’s fine,” John choked on the words and quietly added, “it’s all fine.”
“How long were you together?” Mary asked, looking at her plate with disinterest. She looked up at John and began to stammer out another apology upon seeing his face.
“Eighteen months,” John answered. The waiter had moved to the empty table next to theirs and began to shuffle around the silverware. John could not shake the feeling that he was listening to their conversation but really couldn’t bring himself to care.
“Did you love him?” she asked. They both knew the answer would determine how the rest of the night went. John looked her in the eyes, his own red rimmed.
“Yes,” was his easy answer. Next to them the waiter stopped his movement and seemed to hold himself rigid. He began to turn as though about to say something to them, but stopped midway. Without a word he walked briskly back to the kitchen.
2.
It was a truly horrible little bookstore. It smelt of mothballs and dust. John had no idea how Mary had managed to talk him into going. He supposed he owed her after their disastrous first, and only, date. She was the only friend he had managed to make since the incident.
“It’s just around the corner,” she had said. “You need to get out of this flat.”
Everyone said that. Everyone told him he should leave the flat more often. Mrs Hudson had to physically push him out the door most of the time. It hurt too much to leave. Sometimes, late at night when the whole world, even London, was silent, John could still hear him. Still smell him. Most of the time it would make John want to never leave, but once in a while he wanted nothing more than to never see their flat again. Either way he could never bring himself to walk out the door.
“Do you like it?” Mary asked as they entered the small bookshop, the little bell over the door jingling. John smiled softly and nodded. She wandered off into the romance section and left him to his own devices. John felt a sudden desire to run and never stop running.
“Help you?” a voice asked. John turned to see an old man with white hair and a long gray beard sitting on a stool behind the checkout counter. John was about to politely decline, until he looked at the man’s eyes. They were a sudden, haunting reminder. John sucked in a lungful of air and felt his heart leap in his chest. He released the breath and felt his heart fall heavy once again.
“No, thank you,” John stammered out. Mary returned than, carrying three books with her. She placed them on the counter and the old man rang them up without a word. She thanked him and turned to John.
“Are you alright, John?” she asked with worry. He looked away from the old man, who had long since turned his attention to a magazine. John looked down to Mary, concern etched on her face.
“Yes, I’m fine,” he said in a hollow voice. She put a supportive arm around his waist and they headed back outside together. It took all of John’s might not to look back at the old man. Just to see his eyes. Just to remember what they looked like. Just to feel something again.
3.
It was a bad day. Granted, everyday was a bad day. This, however, was particularly a bad day. Mrs Hudson was in the flat already when John woke up and came down for breakfast. She was dusting but as soon as she saw him she gave him a sad sort of smile and went into the kitchen to make him tea. John sat in his chair and stared at the empty one across from him, exactly as he had one year ago to the day.
Mrs Hudson handed him the mug and he looked down into the contents sadly. He had been given the mug last Christmas. Sherlock had said he wasn’t sure what else John liked other than tea and horrible jumpers. John was suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to throw it against the wall. He closed his eyes and breathed deep. Mrs Hudson returned to dusting, prattling on about one thing or another.
On the back of his eyelids John saw the sun shining, the white of a building, the blur of something falling, the red of blood, the emptiness of once lively eyes. John jolted out of the memory so forcefully that Mrs Hudson looked startled.
“Are you alright, dear?” she asked, one hand clutched to her chest.
“Fine,” John managed to get past the lump in his throat. He attempted to cough the feeling away and set aside his tea. “I think I need some air.”
Mrs Hudson did not seem agreeable to the prospect. John did not heed this and in a daze walked out the door and down the stairs. He stared at the back of the front door and let himself hope as he hadn’t in a year. He put his hand on the doorknob.
Please. Let him be there.
John opened the door. There he found pedestrians walking about, his neighbors going into and out of their front doors. Across the street a particularly striking ginger man stood against a wall, cigarette between his lips. John looked around, still grasping to hope. There was a wrenching pain in his chest and he felt like crumpling to the ground.
He could feel the cold pavement, the arms restraining him, the lack of pulse beneath his fingertips.
John’s knee began to buckle and he stumbled. The ginger across the street pushed off the wall but restrained from running across the road. John managed to navigate himself into one of the chairs outside of the café. He put his face in his hands. As much as he tried to stop it, he could feel the dampness on his cheeks greet him.
Once he had managed to pull himself together, he looked around to make sure no one had seen him. The ginger had put on a pair of sunglasses and was walking toward him. When he reached John he took out a crumpled cigarette packet. John looked at it to see one cigarette left inside.
“Looks like you could use it more than me,” the man said. The accent was Scottish but there was something oddly familiar about it. John figured it was because he had grown up around various family members with the same brogue.
“Ta, I don’t smoke,” John said politely. The man continued to hold the packet out as though to tempt John, but John once again waved it off. The ginger set it down on the table. He leaned just a little too close. John did not feel as though it were an invasion but a reunion.
“Just in case you change your mind,” the ginger said, still leaning close to John. With that the stranger walked away. John watched him in curiosity, kept staring until he turned the corner and was out of sight. John took the packet and tucked it into his sweater pocket. He stood, attuning himself once again to the world that insisted on turning. He squared his shoulders and returned to his flat, a mask pasted on his face for all to see.
4.
John went to therapy once a week. It had been twice, right after. Then he started going to dinner with Mary almost every night. He would go to the pub every Friday night with Greg. He had gotten himself a job teaching at St. Bart’s. John wasn’t sure who to thank more for it, Mike Stamford or Mycroft Holmes. To everyone it seemed that John was moving on with life. His heart, however, told him something completely different.
Ella had once told John, a few months after, that he needed to forgive Mycroft. He had flat out rejected the idea. Since, Mycroft had done everything he could to make it up to John, including paying the rent on 221b. John was still not in a forgiving mood.
Ella insisted that it would get easier now that he’d made it past the first year. John wished she was right. Truth was he still had the same dream every night. Still woke up in a cold sweat every morning. He still kept the door at the end of the first floor hall securely shut.
At their last session John told her about the door and the room beyond. He realized it was a mistake the minute he said it. She wanted him to open that door, to go into the room, and to pack away one thing in it once a day, every day, until their next session.
The first day he stood with his hand wrapped around the knob outside the bedroom for two hours before walking away and making tea. The second day he had managed to open the door. The floor was littered with various objects. Nearest the door were crumpled pieces of paper with scribbled notes, a pack of unused cleaning gloves, three almonds, and a pen. The bed was still unmade, the sheets thrown aside, an indentation still on the pillow.
John vomited in the bathroom. He didn’t try again.
When their next appointment came John was almost nervous to tell Ella that he had been unable to do what she had assigned. He arrived early and paced outside the building, trying to decide whether to tell her the truth or not. Just as he set his mind to lying to her and began to walk up the stairs, the front door opened and he was surprised to nearly run into a thin man.
John looked up to see the man wore thick glasses, a fedora, a tweed suit jacket with matching trousers, a crisply pressed white dress shirt, and shining dress shoes. The man’s greenish eyes looked far too large, distorted by the lenses he wore. The man nodded an apology while taking hold of John’s arm to help him keep his balance.
John flinched as he felt the warmth of the touch. The man looked just as startled by John’s reaction, but he did not release his grip on John’s bicep, in fact his fingers dug in just a little too tight. They stared at one another for a moment and something in John’s memory flared to life: Sherlock, leaning over him one morning, magnifying glass poised between them. All John had been able to see was how enlarged Sherlock’s eye looked. Experiment, Sherlock had said.
“Sorry,” John said, his voice raspy. The man let his hand fall back to his side and John felt a sudden wave of cold swallow him. The man gave a sad smile before walking away. John did not watch him go. Instead, he drew himself into a soldier’s posture and marched into Ella’s office.
5.
John was not a fan of the theatre. But Mary had insisted. She brought a man she worked with. John would have protested being in the way of their date but it became apparent that Mary had meant the co-worker for John.
Andrew was a decent enough bloke and it hurt John too much to explain that he had only ever loved one man. So John went along with it. The play was enjoyable but the party in some posh hotel afterward was even better. John was on the verge of actually feeling happy when everything in his world went completely sideways.
John had been talking to a man in uniform, asking him where he had served, the two of them exchanging stories. John ended up spending more time with Colonel Moran than with his “date.” Andrew did not seem fazed by this as he ended up leaving in a cab with one of the actors from the play. The night was winding down and Mary had returned to John, laid her head on his shoulder, and told him they should be going soon.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Colonel Moran,” John said as he shook hands with the man.
“The pleasure was all mine, Doctor Watson,” the colonel replied, giving a strong handshake in return. He downed what was left of his scotch and left. It was in that moment there was a flash of a long dark coat from the bar.
John had barely caught it and when he looked back he saw a figure moving across the room, walking toward a door the colonel had just exited. John peered around several bystanders to see the figure was a tall man wearing a familiar coat and an even more familiar mop of unruly dark hair.
John’s heart stopped. He dropped his glass of whiskey, a chip broke off, and the liquid began to seep into the carpet. Several people looked in his direction to see what had happened but John could only focus on the figure. The air in John’s lungs stopped mid-way up his windpipe. Distantly he heard Mary calling to him. The figure turned just enough so that John could see the face once stained with blood was now pristine and unscarred.
“Are you alright, sir?” a man stepped in front of John’s vantage point. John shook out of his shock to look up at the man. “It’s okay, sir, I’m a doctor.”
“Brilliant,” John mumbled as he moved around the man. He looked back to where he had seen the figure but it was gone now. John managed his way as quickly as possible through the crowd toward the exit. He pushed the door open and found himself alone in an alley. He looked down the dead-end only to find it empty. He ran the opposite way toward the street.
He looked frantically but he was washed away in the sea of people.
John reached into his pocket, intent on getting his phone to send a text to a number that he had never been able to make himself erase. Instead he found a crumbled up ball. He took it out in confusion. It was the cigarette packet the ginger stranger had given him. In a sudden anger John ripped at it, needing to destroy something. When he got to the cigarette he tried to break it in half but found the paper was too strong. He looked at it in disbelief and noticed there was something written on the outside of the paper.
I believe in John Watson -SH
For the first time in 18 months John crumbled to the ground and wept.
+1
There was a great yawning space between them. Sherlock stood in the door of the flat and John leaned heavily against the window on the other side of the room. They stared at one another for a long silent moment. The warm glow of the setting sun filtered in behind John.
“You’re alive,” John said, stammering slightly. Sherlock made no response, not even an insult about how obvious of a deduction that was. Instead he held up a plastic bag.
“I brought takeaway,” Sherlock answered. He wore his usual coat and scarf, the ones that had once been splattered with his blood. Just peaking out underneath were a pair of dark trousers and a dark shirt.
“Why?” John furrowed his brow and clenched his hands into a fist.
“It’s your favorite,” Sherlock replied, outstretching the arm that held the bag of takeaway.
“Sherlock,” John warned through gritted teeth. The silence returned, now laced with tension, hatred, love, and a thousand indescribable emotions. Sherlock walked into the flat, closing the door behind him and placed the bag on the floor. He looked at John with a blank face, unsure of what to do.
“I had to,” Sherlock mumbled out. “He would have killed you.”
“You fell,” John said, “I saw you fall.”
“You saw what you needed to see,” Sherlock said. He dared to take a step closer to John, who had not moved from the window. John glared at him and Sherlock did not make another move.
“I really didn’t,” John said, almost snarling. He pushed himself off the window, but did not make to get any closer.
“I did it for you,” Sherlock tried to defend himself. He needed John to understand. “You said it yourself, ‘Friends protect people.’”
To this John had no immediate reply. He could not find an argument, as much as he wanted to. He wanted to scream until he was hoarse and he wanted to throw punches until the skin peeled off his knuckles. Most of all he wanted to draw himself as close as possible to Sherlock, to feel how solid he was, how real he was.
“Why wouldn’t you tell me?” John asked, his voice shaking. He forced himself to be calm, to breathe carefully.
“They would come after you,” Sherlock answered. He fidgeted, not knowing what to do. He had never felt so out of place in Baker Street. He wondered if he should take off his coat or if he should toe off his shoes. More than anything he wanted to touch John, to just sit with him and have tea, to go on the way they had been before. The greatest fear Sherlock had was that normal, their version of normal, was impossible to regain.
“And they won’t now?” John asked, almost afraid of the answer.
“I took care of it,” Sherlock replied. He did not seem ready to elaborate but John caught enough from Sherlock’s demeanor to know what he meant. Silence descended upon them again. This time it was less tense, but just as violent. Suddenly John strode forward and for a moment Sherlock feared it was to punch him. Instead, John grabbed Sherlock around the wrist, two of his fingers pushed down onto Sherlock’s pulse point.
“Jesus Christ, Sherlock,” John whispered as he felt the flutter of a quick heartbeat. He could not hide the hopeful tone of his voice.
“The comparison is quite accurate,” Sherlock retorted. He nearly panicked when he felt John’s arms wrap around him. He thought that John might be trying to squeeze him to death until he realized that it was in fact a hug. John buried his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck and breathed in deep.
“I swear if you ever do that again,” John said, his voice muffled by Sherlock’s neck, “I will fucking kill you.”
Sherlock awkwardly patted John on the back. John moved his arms to tug at the lapels of Sherlock’s coat and ran his thumb over one of the buttonholes. He need to make sure it was all real. He had dreamed of this once and when he woke up alone there was no amount of alcohol that could numb the pain. It had to be real this time. He couldn’t make it if it weren’t.
“I’ve missed you,” Sherlock whispered as he stared down at John, who stared at Sherlock’s chest to make certain it was moving. John looked up at him. He was so close. John felt the floor drop out from under him. He couldn’t help but let out a gleeful giggle from his chest.
“I hate you so much,” John answered him with a smile. John could not feel his own body, but he knew every part of it was tense, the way it always was when adrenaline overtook his senses. Sherlock, much to both of their surprise, leaned forward and put his lips to John’s, just barely. It was a quick brush and John did not have the chance to enjoy the soft wetness.
“No you don’t,” Sherlock said, still standing close, “I know you don’t.”
John opened his mouth to reply but chocked on his words, unable to focus as the situation was beginning to weigh on him. Sherlock was alive. Sherlock was standing in front of him in one piece. John felt a welling of happiness in his chest that he had not felt in over a year. He let out another laugh and could feel the heat wash over his face.
He pulled Sherlock down and buried their mouths together. Sherlock let out a surprised huff of air through his nose but did not pull away. John felt his chest tighten and his head spin. He never wanted to let go. He could feel Sherlock begin to relax against the kiss. John took this as permission to run his tongue along Sherlock’s bottom lip. Sherlock jerked slightly as though a shock was sent through him.
Sherlock did not pull away, however. Instead he parted his lips, just slightly, but enough that John could snake his tongue along the top row of teeth. Sherlock felt John’s hand cup his neck, index finger rubbing over his first vertebrae. The hand felt reassuring, protective, loving; everything Sherlock associated with John.
The tongue moved deeper and pushed against Sherlock’s own. Sherlock felt his skin burst out in goose bumps. He felt his arms move, his hands going to John’s face, cupping either side of his jaw. Sherlock pressed closer against the warm body. He wanted to swallow John whole. He pushed his tongue back against John’s, moved his face slightly to the side of John’s nose in order to press their mouths closer together.
Sherlock experienced something that had never happened before: his mind shut down. And yet somehow Sherlock felt that his brain had never felt more alive. There was nothing but the smell of John’s skin, the taste of his mouth, the warmth of his flesh. When John pulled away in order to breath Sherlock could not help but think how boring breathing was, more so now than ever.
Sherlock could feel his skin burn and John was likewise flushed. There was a split second of uncertainty before they burst out in a fits of laughter. Sherlock unconsciously ran a hand in John’s hair, it had gotten longer since the last time he had seen John. Their laughter stopped just as suddenly as it started.
“We don’t need to…unless you do…I’d be alright with…if you were,” John coughed nervously, adjusting himself. Sherlock glanced down and could see the outline of arousal through John’s trousers. Sherlock let out a breathy laugh.
“You’re worse at this than I am,” Sherlock responded with a genuine smile. John laughed nervously, ducking his head to keep the flush on his neck hidden.
“You kept all my things?” Sherlock asked, seeing his lab equipment exactly where he left them on the kitchen table.
“Of course I did, knew you’d be back,” John replied with a shinning smile.
“No you didn’t,” Sherlock retorted matter-of-factly. He furrowed his brow in the way he did when he was actually uncertain of something. “Sentiment?”
“Yes, Sherlock,” John said as he gave him a quick, soft kiss, “sentiment.”