Someone send a runner for the feeling that I lost today, 3/3, part 2
Title: Someone send a runner for the feeling that I lost today, 3/3, part 2
Fandom: Sherlock
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock nor am I earning any financial gains from this work.
Pairing/Characters: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John Watson/Mary Morstan, Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft Holmes
Word Count: 16,117
Rating: PG-13
Summary: John wants to spend the rest of his life with her, every day and night, every up and down, every fight and every joy, stupid things and exciting things. He wants to see how far this joy can go because nothing since Sherlock Holmes has felt so right in his life - so perfect - as Mary Morstan.
Sherlock has one thing left to do, one person left in this long line of plots and crimes. He can see the horizon now and the one thing he wants waiting there. Sherlock is not asking John to love him, no, just stay with him forever.
The three years in between when Sherlock 'dies' and then comes back again.
Author Notes:
CHAPTER 1: Year 1
CHAPTER 2: Year 2
This is a prequel to my 'after three years' story And I'm five years ago and three thousand miles away. It is meant to be connected to that story but you could read it on its own too. (The title comes from a song by The National).
Part 1 is HERE
Cross posted at A03
John walks in the door of the posh townhouse after checking in at the curb, odd enough to have his name on the list for a private government ‘gala.’ He did not know until tonight Mycroft owned such a large townhouse in London but it's not really a surprise.
"I feel like any second someone is going to realize we don't belong," Mary whispers in his ear.
"With that red dress no one will care," John whispers back, brushing the top of the bateau neckline of her dress.
Mary snorts quietly as they walk in the door. "Well, you in that tux. I better keep an eye on all the closeted parliament pages."
"You think they get an invite?"
Mary laughs as she hands her shawl to an attendant. John kisses her cheek and they bravely step into the government party full of tuxedos and thousand pound dresses. They mingle for about ten minutes, champagne somehow ending up in their hands, until Mycroft touches John's shoulder.
"John."
"Mycroft."
"Hello," Mary smiles, "we've met a few times, I'm -"
"I know who you are Dr. Morstan, do not fear."
Mary's mouth clicks shut and she smiles. "Good to see you again."
Suddenly a pair of woman come up behind Mary and spin her around. "Hello!"
"I -"
The woman on the right squeezes Mary's arm. "Let me guess, new wife? Beautiful dress."
"No, no," the woman on the left says, "newly elected. It is a stunning dress."
"I'm not -"
"Come with us, we'll show you around."
The women hook their arms around Mary's and lead her through the crowd toward a bar John sees in the far corner. John purses his lips as Mary shoots fearful glances over her shoulder.
John turns back to Mycroft. "Should I save her?"
Mycroft shrugs. "I doubt she will be seriously harmed but you may owe her some sort of reparations for the experience."
John swallows. "Right." John pivots to face Mycroft. "So, you throwing a party?"
Mycroft makes one of his nauseated faces. "Yes. Unfortunately despite my all but autonomous position it does occasionally require stoking the fire of prestige and opulence."
"Yeah, well, the food looks like." John waves a hand at the long table by one wall. "And I'm not sure I should even chance the bar."
Mycroft smiles. "Yes, must keep the gears of progress greased."
"With food and drink?"
"Exactly."
John takes a small sip of his champagne. "And why exactly did you invite Mary and I?"
Mycroft takes a glass of red wine from a passing server. "My schedule is very busy, John. This seemed like a good time for us to catch up."
John blinks slowly. "You invited me to your upscale government party to catch up?"
"Of course." Mycroft tilts his head. "I can also use you as an excuse against various individuals I would wish to avoid speaking to."
"Ah, well, you're welcome."
"How are you, John?"
John breathes out through his nose and smiles. "Good. I'm good. I am."
"Mary?"
"Ha," John taps his glass on Mycroft, "yes, yes, it's Mary." John clears his throat and looks across the room to where Mary laughs with a younger, brown haired woman. "I... she's perfect. I never thought someone could fit so well."
"Better than Sherlock?"
John turns sharply and his mouth falls open slightly. "I..."
"Do you miss him?"
John's mouth clicks closed again. Mycroft gives him the same calm, still look he so often wears. Yet John feels his knows Mycroft well enough now to tell when deeper feelings hide under layers of intelligence and status. John reaches out and grips Mycroft's arm. Mycroft tenses slightly as if people never actually touch him.
"Of course I miss him, Mycroft, I always will. I’m not about to forget him." John lets go of Mycroft's arm. "I just know how to live without him now."
Mycroft nods and his mouth almost forms a smile. "Good. I am pleased to hear that."
"What about you?"
Mycroft's face twitches. "Me?"
"How are you? Do you miss him?"
Mycroft chuckles and turns away to regard the room, "I'm waiting."
John's brow furrows with confusion. "Waiting, for what?"
Mycroft sips his champagne and does not answer John.
----------
Sherlock sits at the bar in a pub in Belgium - obviously high drinking time from the amount of people jammed into such a small space. Sherlock sits at the far side, booth behind him close enough that if Sherlock wants to lean back against it on his stool he can. In general Sherlock refrains from drinking - never helpful for the deductive process - but tonight is an exception with no criminals of the Moriarty persuasion left to chase in this town.
Sherlock raises a hand and the bar tender flashes him a look. Sherlock points down at his empty glass. “Another.”
Luckily, as he is in Brussels, everyone speaks English along with whatever local language they speak from their NATO country. Sherlock cannot be bothered to pull out French or German right now and his Dutch was never one of his strong languages. Just about everyone in the bar Sherlock pegs as politically connected - Belgian government, NATO, EU - It is a sea of suits and properly clipped ties. Thus Sherlock in his usual black suit and white shirt fits in, even if the lack of tie shifts him into the newly employed or entry level category to everyone else in the pub. As if Sherlock even cares.
At the moment Sherlock cares only for the brown notebook open on the bar top before him. Despite the three - no four - drinks, Sherlock reads the words on the top of the page quite clearly: March, Prague, Sebastian. Sherlock thinks of nothing else, counts down the days like some teenager excited for a date. Prague is a date but not in any desire for romance.
Suddenly a man squeezes in between Sherlock and woman sitting on his right to put a hand on the bar. He shifts to his side toward Sherlock so he can fit better in the small space but keeps gazing at the bar tender, trying to attract his attention by staring. The man looks remarkably like John - short dirty blond hair, cut just above his ears, short but still average height, red buttoned shirt and tie loose at his neck, hard shoulders and calloused hands; Local government, not EU or NATO, more simple law enforcement.
Then he turns and looks at Sherlock. He pauses and smiles a little. “Hej.”
“You remind me of someone,” Sherlock says without preamble.
The man chuckles, “Oh yes?”
“Yes.”
He smiles - charming, even Sherlock can tell - and shrugs. “I am Jens.”
Sherlock swallows and for a moment he cannot say anything at all - coincidences do not exist. “Sherlock.”
Jens raises his eyebrows. “English?”
“Yes.”
“Not one of these,” he points his finger around the pub at the many suited people. Sherlock tilts his head in question. Jens chuckles and touches Sherlock just below his throat. “The men would never be caught without a tie.”
The bar tender chooses this moment to finally bring Sherlock a new drink. Sherlock slides the glass toward him then points at Jens. “I believe you need a drink.”
Jens smiles and pulls his hand away from Sherlock. He turns to the bar tender and orders some type of beer, local, unimportant. They wait in silence for a minute until the bar tender hands Jens his bottle and Jens hands him some money. Bottle in hand, Jens returns his attention to Sherlock.
“So, why are you in Brussels?”
“Work and you are police officer.”
Jens eyebrows shoot up. “Am I obvious?”
“Quite.” Sherlock takes a large sip of his gin and tonic. “But my line of work often coincides with the police.”
Jens frowns. “Not a criminal are you?”
“Only occasionally.”
Jens lip quirks with amusement and Sherlock sees John - when the phone rings and Sherlock tells Lestrade the stolen jewels are obviously still with the supposed victim, when typing at his blog and he reaches the climax, when Sherlock asks him ‘how are you?’ Jens shifts closer, leg brushes Sherlock’s knee.
“So, occasional criminal,” he takes a sip of his beer and purses his lips, “but usually a… what?”
Sherlock knocks back more of his drink - eye sight compromised, edges blurry, lights brighter, balance will be affected - then points at Jens with the hand holding his glass. “You are not interested in my work.”
Jens takes another sip of his beer. “No?”
“No.” Sherlock takes another sip, nearly empty now, Jens watching him intently.
Jens tips up his beer and takes a long chug. Then he puts the beer on the bar, takes Sherlock’s glass from him and puts it on the bar as well. He grips Sherlock’s jacket and pulls his forward off his chair, Sherlock only swaying slightly on his feet. Jens glances up at Sherlock, now obviously taller, and smiles. He turns and pulls Sherlock by his jacket through the crowd. From the back - his hair, short, straight line across, red shirt collar not quite reaching - Sherlock sees John guiding Sherlock, taking him away from a crime scene or a confrontation or another witness reduced to tears.
“John…” Sherlock whispers, the name lost among the noise of the pub to anyone but him.
Jens finds a dark corner and pushes Sherlock against the wall. “No more talking.”
Sherlock touches Jens hair - John’s hair, so military, so perfect for him - then Jens presses up against him and kisses Sherlock. He touches Sherlock’s neck, pulls him down closer, touches Sherlock’s chest but it’s not like John.
Sherlock pulls back and tilts his head at Jens - red lips, paler skin, strange part of the hair, dark brown eyes. He laughs once, “Is this what people do?”
Jens scrunches his eyebrows but when Sherlock makes no move to push him away, he pulls Sherlock down again by the back of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock kisses back this time when their lips meet - skin and heat and tongues - and Jens grinds his crotch up into Sherlock so he gasps into the kiss.
But everything is wrong. Jens is a few centimeters too tall; his hair feels too coarse; Sherlock clutches Jens shoulder - no scar under the cloth; He tastes like beer and flowers, nothing like John smells; Jens weighs less, more than Sherlock but still too thin to be John. Jens kisses him harder, slips his fingers under the band at the back of Sherlock’s pants trying to reach past tucked in shirt. Sherlock imagines John would never be so forward, so sloppy.
Sherlock grips both of Jens shoulders and pushes him back, shakes his head. “No.”
Jens frowns. “No? I -“
Sherlock lets go of Jens - not John, not John at all - and steps away from the wall.
“Wait,” Jens touches Sherlock’s arm, “I am sorry, have I -“
“It’s all wrong,” Sherlock mutters and walks around Jens back into the crush of the pub, the drunk people and the knots of business conversation.
Sherlock feels the impact on his senses, the sound swirling together and heavy footsteps. He forces his way back to the bar and grabs his brown notebook from right where he left it.
Sherlock stares at the page, ‘March, Prague, Sebastian,’ and burns the words into his mind. He cannot unravel, cannot give in to sentiment. Sherlock is so close to home, to the real thing, he cannot afford to break down and fall apart now. He will not allow it.
Sherlock snaps the book closed and slips it into an inside pocket of his jacket. Then he weaves through the crowd, steady as a sober man, and leaves the pub.
----------
Mary and John sit across from each other in the window of a small restaurant, which hardly deserves the name, close to her work. They meet for lunch sometimes, especially Wednesdays and especially over busy and hellish days. By now they are down to the basket of chips in the middle of the table, coffee for John and one beer for Mary.
“I swear, if I read one more paper on Pride and Prejudice I will renounce Mr. Darcy forever.”
“Renounce?”
Mary shakes her head. “The Regency can have him and enough about the wet shirt scene. That should not be in a university paper!”
John snorts until Mary shoots him a look. He clears his throat. “At least you didn’t do surgery on a ten year old today.”
Mary’s eyes widen. "Oh god, for what?”
“Car accident.”
Mary picks up a chip and dips it in ketchup. “Awful.”
“She’ll be all right though.”
Mary nods and chews. “Good. Silver lining?”
“More like gold to her parents.”
“And now my woes are in perspective.” Mary makes a vague circle in the air with one hand while grabbing another chip with the other.
John picks up a chip and eats it without condiments. He watched Mary for a moment as she shifts through the basket, moving chips around looking for which ever she deems the best one. John chews his lip then clasps his hands together on the table.
John clears his throat significantly. “So…”
Mary’s eyes tick up. She raises an eyebrow.
“What do you think about getting married some time?”
Mary stares at him for a full beat without moving, hand still in the chips basket. “Are you proposing right now?” John laughs. “Because despite how appropriate this situation is as a metaphor for our relationship it would really be a shit proposal.”
“I’m not proposing.”
“Okay.” Mary finally pulls her hand out of the basket and wipes it on a napkin before clasping hers on the table like John’s.
“I was just asking what you thought about it.”
“About marriage in general or about us getting married?”
John tilts his head. “Both.”
She laughs in a throaty way and smiles. “Well… I think it can be complicated?”
John frowns. “Interesting answer.”
“It’s, uh…” She pushes the basket of chips in a distracted manner. “I…” She gazes out the window to her left then turns to John. “I tend to scare away men. Either I’m too smart or too confident, too independent. That hasn’t been a problem with you yet but -“
“No ‘yet;’ It’s not at all.” John shakes his head with surprise. “It won’t be, don’t you know that?”
“You think it won’t be, John, until it is.”
“Mary, I happen to like all those things about you.”
Mary nods and shrugs. “True but we’re dating, marriage is different.”
“Well, that’s why I asked what you thought.” John flattens his hands on the table and looks at the window, one woman running by and nearly tripping over a crack in the pavement. “Are you saying, no you wouldn’t like to get married ever?”
“I didn’t say that.” John jerks his eyes back to her. “Why would you want to marry me?” She asks.
“That’s easy,” John smiles.
She holds up her hand. “Don’t just say, ‘because I love you.’”
John shakes his head. “Not that, though I think that’s pretty important too, yeah?” Mary chuckles and John reaches across the table to thread their fingers together. “No, because you are the most perfect fit I’ve had in my life. Everything wrong with me you turn around and whatever you might lack…” She makes a small mock offended face. John grins. “Anything you lack I’ve got for you.”
Mary’s lip trembles for just a moment before she bites down on it. She nods but does not say anything.
John rubs the back of her hand clasped in his with his free one. “I love so much about you, quoting Shakespeare in the morning and making tea stronger than anything,” she laughs, “I’d like to add to the list.”
She smiles and squeezes his hand. “Oh well, you can go now if you like.”
John chuckles with her and they sit for a moment just looking at each other until the bell on the door rings when another person enters the establishment. John sits up straight and they let go of each other’s hands.
“So, uh,” John touches his forehead, “something to think about.”
“Right.”
“Good.”
“You know I love it when you make that face,” Mary says suddenly.
John pauses with his hand above the chips basket. “What face?”
She leans forward then touches his cheek. John smiles without thinking and Mary taps her finger against his skin. “That ‘I can’t believe how happy I am’ face.” She drops her hand and sits back in her chair. “I think that might be a sign.”
---------
Prague.
Sherlock walks in the door of the British ambassador party - black tuxedo, white waist coat, white tie, fake invitation - and weaves through the crowd. Sherlock eyes every person in the room, picks out other ambassadors, dates of ambassadors, lower level attaches, affairs and the few oddities who gained invitations in a variety of ways - one appears to be blackmail but Sherlock would have to get a closer look at her to be sure. Sherlock walks past them all toward the main ballroom where a small cluster of circular tables line the walls. The middle is a dance floor with at least two dozen couples twirling and bunches of people talking loudly.
Sherlock stands just inside the main doorway to the right. He scans the crowd looking for one face. Sherlock’s eyes stop half way through his sweep and his lip twitches. Taking a step forward, Sherlock cuts through the dancers toward the wall across from the door. Two tables to the left he stops behind a man seated with one other couple, his back to the dance floor. Sherlock waits until he turns and looks up.
Sherlock holds out his hand. “Dance?”
Sebastian stares, blinks twice with shock, then bites the edge of his lip. “Right.” He takes Sherlock’s hand and stands.
Sebastian follows Sherlock out onto the floor, until Sherlock turns suddenly and grabs the knife from Sebastian’s other hand as they press together.
“Don’t need that,” Sherlock says letting it slip to the floor and shoving it somewhere behind him with his foot.
Sebastian smirks and puts his hand on Sherlock’s waist. “Never hurts to try.” He turns Sherlock sharply with the music. “Why don’t I lead this dance since last time you tried to lead didn’t end too well for you, did it?”
“All the more reason to try, try again,” Sherlock says as he pulls them into a spin by their clasped hands.
Sebastian chuckles. “Good plan this, ambassador party, can’t have any of my guns on me, can I?”
“Or so you’d prefer I think.”
“Don’t you?”
“I don’t second guess you.”
Sebastian nods and abruptly dips Sherlock. When they come up, he yanks Sherlock flush against him, arm around Sherlock’s back and holds Sherlock’s phone in his other hand. “Planning on phoning the cavalry again?”
Sherlock tilts his head, hair nearly brushing Sebastian’s forehead. “Perhaps.”
“No,” Sebastian backs up a step, “you’re not.” He drops Sherlock’s phone which Sherlock catches at their waists.
He slips it into his pocket and takes Sebastian’s hand again, pulling them into a gentle twirl across the floor. “No, I believe this time it can only end one way.”
“Are you here to kill me, Mr. Holmes?”
Sherlock stares at Sebastian as they dance, spinning around and neither stepping on the other’s feet. He does not answer.
Sebastian smiles. “Interesting. I thought you were the good man?”
“Thinking wasn’t your specialty, was it? You were good for your shot.”
“I still am.”
“But without an employer.”
Sebastian skips a step and shifts the lead back to him, turning them around the way they danced before. “A good shot is never unemployed, not really.”
“Going to start off on your own, are you? Seems unlikely, not after how loyal you were to the whole operation, every hit Moriarty asked, every crime he made you complicit in. All your clients were his clients and if all his clients are slowly and surely gone. Where does that leave you?”
Sebastian frowns just slightly and leans in as though they were lovers. “Perhaps that leaves me a bit angry.”
“Oh, it does.”
Sebastian turns them sharply, tugging Sherlock tight against him and quick as a shot slides a knife against Sherlock’s throat. The couples dance around them, spin to the Spanish guitar, and Sebastian holds Sherlock so close none can see the knife between them.
“Maybe I’ll relieve that anger right now.” He presses the knife harder against Sherlock’s throat but he does not slice. “Maybe it is time this was over.”
“I agree.”
Sherlock hooks his foot around Sebastian’s ankle and in five seconds total - shoves his weight forward into Sebastian, Sebastian blinks in surprise, balance falters, grabs Sebastian’s knife hand and turns what would be a fall into a speedy dip. When he pulls Sebastian back up after one second the second knife lands on a passing waiter’s tray.
“How many knives to you have hidden in that coat?” Sherlock purses his lips. “And I thought you were all for guns.”
Sebastian frowns. “Sometimes you have to make due.”
“Shame.”
Sebastian pushes Sherlock to arm’s length then yanks him back in as in some sort of whip snapping parody of charm. “Let’s talk about him then.”
“What?”
“You’ve been chasing me, doing all of this, because of him.” He slides his hand to Sherlock’s side and digs in his nails. “Why?”
Sherlock frowns. “Why did you?”
“Why did I what?”
“Keep it all going after he died?”
“After you killed him, you mean.”
Sherlock almost bares his teeth. “I did not kill him; he shot himself.”
Sebastian turns them sharply. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Hmm.” Sebastian dances backward like an odd waltz. “Whatever you say, Mr. Holmes, but tell me this then, why did you like him?”
“Like him?”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t.”
Sebastian snorts. “Yes, you did.”
“Like is a strong word.” Sherlock purses his lips. “He was interesting.”
Sebastian smiles slowly. “There.”
The music slows to a stop with Sherlock and Sebastian in the middle of the dance floor. As the couples stop twirling and start up conversation instead, Sherlock lets go of Sebastian and folds his hands behind his back.
“I’ll give you one chance now.”
Sebastian raises an eyebrow. “You mean I haven’t had enough chances already?”
Sherlock frowns and leans forward, voice low. “Give up. Turn yourself in.”
Sebastian chuckles. “Oh, is that it?”
Sherlock slides his hands back around slowly, cocking out his arm just enough so the small gun concealed up his sleeve slips down into his palm. He pulls his hand up but Sebastian grabs his wrist so suddenly Sherlock nearly cries out.
“You may be smart, Mr. Holmes, but I know guns better than just about anyone.” He peers down at the gun between them. “NAA .22LR Mini Revolver.” He makes a ‘tch’ noise. “And did you really think that would be enough?”
“One chance,” Sherlock growls, “I won’t give you another.”
“I don’t need your chances.”
Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Care to wager on which is faster, your disarming or my trigger finger?”
Sebastian takes the third option and punches Sherlock in the gut so hard he falls to his knees, the gun clattering to the floor. A few people turn at seeing him fall but Sebastian shushes them away with, ‘too much to drink.’ He crouches down in front of Sherlock doubled over and gasping. Sherlock notices him glance around for the gun but Sherlock knows it slid away and was subsequently kicked by a bystander so neither of them can reach it.
Sebastian shakes his head. “Why are you making this difficult? Can’t you give in?”
“I don’t give in.”
Sebastian growls in frustration. “I should kill you right now.”
Sherlock breathes in deeply and sits up with a smile. “Well at least then you would be arrested as I offered, killing someone at an embassy is hard to get out of with the courts.”
“I think I’ve decided I hate you.”
“You’ll have many friends in that.”
Suddenly Sebastian grabs Sherlock’s head and smashes him face first into the floor. Sherlock hears a woman scream in surprise, a man shouting, Sebastian rising to his feet…
Sherlock thinks how troublesome this 'force before thought' method is with Sebastian. Why can’t he ask to be thrown off a building or shoot himself in the head like his dear departed employer? Then Sherlock falls into a cushion of black unconsciousness.
-------
John opens his eyes slowly as light filters in the window through white curtains. He blinks twice and looks at the clock to his left - 9:47. John shakes his head, no need to get up yet on a Saturday. He rolls his head the other way to see Mary still asleep, head on the pillow and some blond hair draped over one eye. John reaches out and carefully slides it away behind her ear. Mary’s face twitches slightly in sleep but no more than that. John lets his arm fall back and he rolls on to his side toward Mary. He quite enjoys this sight in the mornings; Mary wakes up first only one time out of a hundred.
John knows he can fall into things fast - his first love Becky Brix, becoming a doctor, the army, Sherlock. When he falls fast like this, like with Mary, it is because it’s something that will last. John cannot stop thinking about how perfect Mary is, how every day is just what he wants, just how he wants to live.
Mary when she laughs - “Look at me, look at me, John Watson,” laugh like a bell or gong or a trumpet, loud and full and a melody you want to harmonize with and when she giggles like she’s twenty years old and does not care. “This game of strip poker has gone on far too long.”
John smiles and laughs. “Because you know you’re going to lose your bra next?”
“Ha!” She throws down four of a kind much to John-only-in-his-pants’ dismay. “And now you are naked!” And she laughs, high and long and hard as she pounces on him.
Mary in the kitchen - “Fuck!”
“What?”
“I can do it!”
John pokes his head in. “Did you burn yourself?”
“I can do it!” She slams the door of the oven closed. “This recipe will not defeat me!”
“You burnt yourself.”
Mary sucks on her thumb. “Yeah.”
He loves her hair - short and blond and a straight canopy around her face. He loves her eyes - green then hazel then brown then green again, all with that dark brown ring around the outside to draw you in. He loves the way she rises up onto her toes for a kiss when she really doesn’t need to.
Mary’s smile - “Hi.” All eyes and cheeks and teeth and you cannot look away because that smile says ‘I love you,’ ‘I want you,’ ‘You are the only thing I see right now.’
“Hi.”
And she smiles when he holds her and smiles when he kisses her and smiles when he can’t even see her but can hear it through the phone; her teeth click and the gentle press of her lips together before they spread apart into the smile that turns her face into light, into the definition of happiness.
Mary’s mismatched dress sense - “Blue and black go together right?”
John frowns. “With brown shoes?”
“What?”
“Trying to keep that scattered professor look intact, are you?”
She looks down at her shoes. “It’s raining out and I like these boots.”
“Then wear your gray suit.”
“I…” She opens the closet and sticks her head in. “Oh, yeah, that works. Pink socks, you think?”
“Now you’re just teasing.”
He loves how she sneaks cigarettes when really stressed but only about her sisters or death or if Shakespeare is performed subpar. He loves the way she can knock back a beer but drinking wine is such a chore. He loves the way she’ll hold his hand in her sleep, more than once waking up with fingers entwined and no other parts touching. He loves the way she scratches her nails through his hair when they have sex, sharp but perfect and somehow still a delicious surprise. He loves her walking beside him, sitting beside him, cheering in the pub at the football match and jumping into his arms with screams of sports fueled joy.
“Hi.” Mary opens her eyes and slips her hand under her pillow. “What time is it?”
“Near ten.”
“Hmm.” She closes her eyes and pushes her hands against the head board, stretching down and curving her stomach into the mattress. The covers slip off her naked back down toward her waist. Mary goes slack again and opens her eyes. “Been up long?”
“Not really.” John rubs her ankle with his toes. “Just watching you sleep.”
“Hmm, creepy.”
“Yeah.”
She giggles quietly then scoots across the bed and nestles her face into his neck, one leg sliding between his. John puts his arm around the small of her back and kisses her hair.
“Good dreams?”
“Zombie apocalypse but I only had a machete.”
John snorts. “I bet you killed them all.”
“I did. Harry was there with a machine gun too and we had to save you from this building made up only of stairs.”
“I love your brain.”
Mary kisses his neck. “That may be the best thing you’ve ever said to me.”
John wants to spend the rest of his life with her, every day and night, every up and down, every fight and every joy, stupid things and exciting things. He wants to see how far this joy can go because nothing since Sherlock Holmes has felt so right in his life - so perfect - as Mary Morstan.
---------
Sherlock waits in line, only one person ahead of him, at the FedEx store nearest the airport in Zurich. His cab waits outside, meter running, but the cost hardly matters. The package Sherlock holds is the last pieces of information, last stacks of proof, to set the records straight on James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes.
The woman in front of Sherlock takes her receipt and moves out of his way. Sherlock places the package on the counter and pulls his wallet out of his pocket. “England.”
The woman nods and rings it up - the box, one of the prepay sizes found in every store around the globe. Sherlock gives her exact change before she can even tell him the cost then swoops away without waiting for a ‘thank you’ or receipt. Sherlock pushes the door open, walks three steps across the sidewalk then opens the door of his cab and climbs in.
“To the hotel,” Sherlock says and his driver only nods, foot back on the gas.
Sherlock sits perfectly still, hand against his lips. He has one thing left to do, one person left in this long line of plots and crimes. He can see the horizon now and the one thing he wants waiting there. Sherlock’s eyes shift to the empty seat beside him. He remembers John - questioning his deductions, praising his intelligence, chastising his tact. Sherlock smiles and remembers a hundred cab rides, a thousand smiles, what felt like a life time of moments. Could they really only have known each other two years? A year and a half?
Sherlock knows things will be different when he finally returns; time passes, people change, and adjust. All he wants is to take that time and turn it round again, bring everything back to almost three years ago when it was just him and John, together. He wants John running beside, John with his gun in hand, John crouching over a corpse when Sherlock already knows the cause of death, John snapping at him, John making tea in the kitchen, John blogging away early in the morning. Sherlock wants his John back, he wants their life back.
Sherlock wants John awake before seven making eggs, “Sherlock, its Tuesday. You are eating.”
John blogging their recent case adding flowery words and a twinge of adventure even if he does leave out some of the most interesting details about their murder victim. “People don’t care about the effects of his hair dye on his scalp, Sherlock.”
He wants John falling asleep on the couch, half curled up like some lazy cat with his laptop nearly falling on the floor, his toes just touching Sherlock leg as he sits on the other end. Sherlock wants to watch John sleep for an hour without anyone else in the world knowing or caring or talking, without John even knowing how Sherlock catalogs the exact moment John begins to dream.
John moaning about money, “you can’t spend the entire case’s profits on a spectrometer. You’ll use it what, twice? Plus we have this thing called rent.”
Sherlock just wants their everyday life back - cases and clients and crimes and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and the chemistry kitchen and taxis and money between them and even Mycroft and double homicides and missing jewels and painting thieves and John pulling rank and buying milk and experiments in pie making and Cluedo and that stupid blog and John and John. Sherlock only wants their life again, just as it perfectly was. Sherlock is not asking John to love him, no, just stay with him forever.
The taxi finally stops outside a modest hotel, ten floors and a good coat of paint. Sherlock pays and steps out of the car. Inside he walks up to the desk and pulls a small, thin wallet out of an inner pocket inside a zipped inner pocket of his coat.
“One room, uncertain length of stay.” Sherlock slides the ID reading ‘Sherlock Holmes’ across the counter.
This time he will not be chasing, not researching, not investigating. This time all Sherlock plans to do it wait.
“Third time's the charm,” Sherlock says.
The man behind the counter raises his eyebrows. “Sir?”
Sherlock shakes his head. “Nothing.”
This time Sebastian Moran will come to him and it will be the end of the chase, trap slammed shut, and Sherlock will finish this.
---------
John sits at the end of the table in the slightly posh restaurant, Mary to his right and four of her friends across and the further down the table. Luckily the seat across from John is vacant so when the lunch topics turn to something like Gucci he stares out the window and zones through. Mary does have some excellent friends - professors, school friends, Tina and Ted from the pub that are basically their clones and best drinking companions - but these friends are Mary’s in town from Manchester. She knows a few of them from back in primary school and they run the gamut of personality and conversation. One John would describe as ‘vapid’ quite readily. But, John is a good boyfriend this time.
“I’m sorry but I only wear boots now.”
“God, Cheri, really?”
She snorts and flips her long hair. “Boots are made for walking.”
Sandy who spoke earlier rolls her eyes. “You just want an excuse to wear shorter skirts. ‘Oh my legs are covered so I can show more thigh.’”
Mary snorts but catches it quickly.
Cheri glares at them all then shakes her head. “If you’ve got it.”
“Put boots on it?” Alex replies.
John smiles but keeps the laugh at bay. He rather likes Alex the best out of the group.
“Put skirts on it,” Mary adds with a wink at Cheri. Cheri only sips her wine and takes a dramatic bite of her Caesar salad.
John smiles again and squeezes Mary’s hand under the table. She flashes him some eyebrows and grins, taking a big swig of her white wine.
“How about we talk about something other than Cheri’s dress sense?” Amanda says from the far corner of the table diagonally from John.
“Here here,” John mutters.
“Oh good, wouldn’t want you too interested,” Mary whispers back.
John bites his sandwich and shrugs. “I was going to jump on that when you weren’t looking but I’m not partial to boots.”
“Because then she’d be taller than you?” Mary flutters her eyelashes.
John kisses her on the cheek so she blushes.
“You two done?”
John and Mary turn to see the rest of the table giving them a combination of pleased and annoyed looks - Cheri winning with the multi look of envious, perturbed confusion. Mary sighs at the same time John clears his throat awkwardly making them both laugh.
“I may puke,” Alex says with a smile.
Mary makes a ‘tch’ noise combined with a wink. Then she sits up straight in her seat and folds her hands on the table. “You said something about new topic?”
John chuckles quietly as Alex snorts and Amanda starts into a conversation about a mutual acquaintance in Manchester. After a minute of talking, speculations about if Greg really is straight because David could not just be his roommate, and then Mary slips her hand back under the table to thread it together with John’s. John smiles - Mary’s hand warm and solid - then gazes toward the window across from him.
He wonders what Sherlock would have thought of Mary.
“Another, John?” That frown of disdain or a I-know-everything-of-importance scoff. “When are you going to stop this cycle?”
“This time I am, Sherlock.”
Sherlock and Mary would have had some excellent arguments, probably on things like university procedure or the quality of academic writings. Sherlock would have bemoaned fiction writing and Mary would have cited serial killers who were inspired by literature. John smiles at the thought of the two of them shouting in the living room, Sherlock perched on his chair and Mary pacing, fisting hands in her hair. Mary would end up forcing Sherlock to attend some production of a Wilde play and Sherlock would have pretended very hard not to like it.
John imagines - no, he knows - if Sherlock had given Mary a chance he would have liked her in the end.
“You really believe this one will stay?” Sherlock would say. “You won’t drop her like, which one was that?”
“She’s going to stay, Sherlock.”
Sherlock would pout, complain, and then Mary and Sherlock would sit on the couch together playing Cluedo, arguing about nonfiction books they found in common, drinking tea just watching John blog because Sherlock, just like Mary, sometimes just needs to sit. The two of them have more in common than either would have admitted.
John sighs quietly as he looks out the window, the figure of Sherlock absent from the chair. Sometimes thinking about ‘if only’ can be a good thing and remembering Sherlock no longer makes John fill with sorrow.
“Staring off into space?” Mary whispers in his ear.
John chuckles. “Without a doubt.”
“You are missing an excellent conversation about how many blokes must be gay because they aren’t interested in Cheri.”
Amanda scoffs loudly down the table and Sandy begins to squeal with laughter, clinking her wine glass with Alex’s. Cheri snorts and spills some of her salad on the floor.
John purses his lips and looks out of the corner of his eye at Mary. “Does that make me gay?”
Mary nods and squeezes his hand. “Absolutely.”
“Well, nowhere near the first accusation of that.”
Mary giggles once then kisses John’s temple just as his hairline. “You may be the very best man in the world, John Watson.”
John turns and looks at her, hears Sherlock say ‘well… perhaps she is acceptable,’ and he smiles wide. “Only because I have the best woman in the world.”
Mary grins and kisses his lips. “Damn right.”
---------
Sherlock catches the red light of the rifle sight reflected in the surface of his coffee, held at just the lucky angle, for one millisecond as it moves to focus on his chest. If not for that he would have been dead.
Sherlock sees the red, sees it move upward, and he jolts to the right out of his chair. The shot makes almost no sound until the woman sitting in the chair behind him spasms and falls to the ground, her girlfriend screaming in alarm. Sherlock knocks his table over, solid cover toward where the shot came from, and puts his back against it. The table is metal but that is no guarantee - distance rifle, caliber of bullet… But Sherlock is having trouble thinking straight because every person in the restaurant patio and the surrounding street begins screaming, running, knocking into chairs. Glasses hit the ground and newspapers fly into the air like metaphoric leaves.
“Sebastian,” Sherlock smiles despite his disadvantageous position in the fight. It has finally come, the last time, third time the charm.
He hears two more shots, one hits his table and one hits the ground two centimeters away from his hand. The bullet that hit the table, up and to his left, punches right through into the wall in front of him.
“Ah.” Sherlock frowns. “Moving then.”
Sherlock glances at the two bullet holes, compensates for horizontal movement and calculates the angle of the shots. Sherlock looks left then right, chooses right as the closer option and then kicks the chair to his left over with an echoing clatter in the now empty Zurich street. A shot hits the chair at the same time Sherlock grabs a leg of the table and shoves it to the right, moving himself with it. Another bullet punctures the metal where his head would have been a second earlier then Sherlock reaches the edge of the building and leaps out into the narrow alley.
Sherlock puts his back to the building wall and grins toward the street. “Lost your line of sight there, Sebastian.”
Sherlock runs down the alley, cuts to the left into another alley and then left again so he ends up on the other side of the street from where he most recently crawled for his life. Sherlock glances up at the rooftop, glances back to his ruined restaurant chair then runs to the correct building. Twelve flights up, Sherlock passes through the restricted access sign and comes out onto the roof.
“Sebastian!”
At the end of the roof, rifle in place on its stand, Sebastian whirls around. Sherlock pulls the gun from his jacket just as Sebastian reaches for the rifle. Sherlock shoots and the rifle flies off the edge of the roof.
Sebastian stands with his hands hanging in the air for a moment then drops them. “This it then?”
“You did come when I called.”
“Is that what that was? Hotel room under ‘Sherlock Holmes.’”
“I thought it was an obvious enough invitation.”
Sebastian nods. “I am getting a bit tired of this back and forth.”
“Stop running then.”
Sebastian smiles without humor. “Cheeky, are you?”
Sherlock shakes his head. “We both know someone else who was much more for the cheek and he died nearly three years ago now.”
“It’s about time you joined him,” Sebastian reaches toward the inside of his coat but Sherlock takes a large step forward and cocks his gun again.
“I think not.”
Sherlock waves his gun and Sebastian pulls his gun out slowly, throwing it aside so it actually bounces down a set of steps to the lower roof.
Sebastian then puts up his hands. “Don’t want a fair fight?”
“I have no illusions about who is the better shot.”
Sebastian nods and starts walking forward slowly. "So, going to try and bring me in this time or are you thinking of going for the straight kill shot?" Sebastian makes a gun with his forefinger and thumb. "Fancy a trip to the other side of the law?"
Sherlock tilts his head. "This has to end sometime, Mr. Moran." Sherlock takes one step forward. "But I think the jail option is not going to come to pass."
"Then why don't you -" Sebastian cuts himself off and lunges for the gun in Sherlock's hand.
Sherlock shoots but misses as Sebastian grabs the gun. Sherlock pulls it backward, trying to keep the control but Sebastian still has the strength of the soldier and moves with him. They grapple back and forth for a moment, face to face, hands clasped around the weapon. Then Sherlock twists and the gun flies out of both their hands, clattering away across the roof.
"You -" Sebastian plants his foot and punches Sherlock square in the chest.
The air leaves Sherlock lungs for six seconds and he staggers but does not fall. The air comes back just as Sebastian lunges into Sherlock's personal space, punching him in the jaw twice. Sherlock falls to one knee, eyes blurring but he calculates, turns and smashes his fist into Sebastian's knee. Sebastian yelps with pain and jumps away from Sherlock. Sherlock lays his hand on the ground, tries to recuperate but the moment he pulls up his head Sebastian is on him.
"Enough, you -" Sherlock starts as Sebastian knocks Sherlock back onto the ground.
Sebastian growls with anger and smashes Sherlock's head down on the cement. Sherlock makes a choking noise in his throat, grabs at Sebastian's hand - he cannot lose now. Sherlock twists Sebastian's wrist hard so he hears something crack. Sebastian shouts and tries to pull away, less of his body weight pinning Sherlock. Sherlock heaves to the right so Sebastian falls off him. Sherlock whirls around and kicks Sebastian in the stomach. He pulls himself onto his knees, tries to stand but his head keeps spinning.
"Give up," Sherlock gasps.
"You son of a..."
Sebastian lunges for Sherlock again, grabbing him by his scarf. Sherlock curses his haste and lack of foresight there, not the first time. Sebastian yanks Sherlock forward and head butts him. Sherlock feels blood at his nose but Sebastian does not let go. Sherlock punches Sebastian in the face, jams a knee into his gut to make him let go. Sebastian groans but holds on, the scarf tightening more around Sherlock's throat.
"Stop..." Sherlock gasps.
"Die and I will!" Sebastian snaps.
Sherlock feels his head getting lighter but he shifts his waist, pulls his leg up and kicks Sebastian in the groin. Sebastian falls, hand off the scarf, groaning as Sherlock gasps sharply, gulping in air and coughing,
They stare at each for a moment, gasping then everything becomes movement - Sebastian grabs Sherlock's head, Sherlock punches Sebastian's chest, clawing and punching and Sherlock spits blood. They roll over the roof hitting and kneeing and every breath starts to hurt. Sherlock will not give up, will not give into the rise of pain.
Suddenly Sebastian grabs at his ankle and Sherlock feels the knife slice his arm before he even sees it. Sherlock shouts, shoves himself back away from the glint of metal.
"Didn't bring that out at the start?" Sherlock gasps.
Sebastian only laughs and lunges forward for Sherlock's chest. Sherlock tries to roll but Sebastian has Sherlock's legs pinned. Sherlock sees the knife, two seconds, focuses, one second, and he twists enough that the knife stabs under his rips, just below the target, missing his lung. Sherlock screams and grasps Sebastian's hand around the knife.
"Missed the heart," Sherlock growls, though the pain turns his vision white .
"Try, try again," Sebastian growls right back and tries to pull the knife out but Sherlock holds his hand hard, holds the knife in his chest. "Just let me kill you!" Sebastian twists the knife.
Sherlock groans sharply in pain, "No," but then suddenly lets go of Sebastian's hand so he flies back, off balance with the force of his pull.
Sherlock shoves himself backward and kicks Sebastian again, managing to hit the hand holding the knife and it flies behind Sebastian. Sherlock falls back, his chest burning then he sees it - the gun, arms length, the gun where he can reach it, the gun. Sherlock twists back through the pain, grabs the gun as he hears Sebastian slice his knife across the concrete.
Sherlock sits up at the same time as Sebastian, face to face, and the gun pressed into Sebastian’s stomach - Sherlock fires. Sebastian blinks slowly with shock and his hand tightens on Sherlock’s arm, drops the knife. Sherlock’s lip quirks up - all the pain so far away in the background - and he fires twice more into Sebastian’s stomach. Sebastian’s mouth falls open very slowly, eyes locked in place on Sherlock’s, then his hand goes slack and he falls to the ground, completely still.
Sherlock stares, drops the gun with a clatter, then collapses onto his back. Sherlock stares up, seeing nothing, hardly feeling the wounds, and begins to laugh and laugh and laugh.
---------
John hangs up his doctor’s coat in his locker. He has another at home but always keeps at least two at work as well - one clean one in case of accidental body fluids. He grabs his coat and his keys, twists the combination on his locker and walks back into the hall.
“Out for the night?” Janice calls from behind the nurse’s desk.
John pivots around and waves at her, “yeah, no night shift for me.”
“And now my shift is ruined.”
John grins, walking backward. “Don’t let Mary hear you say that.”
She snorts. “She’d only encourage me to pinch your arse when you least expect it.”
John laughs and turns back around. He hits the front doors and pushes his way through. John blows air out of his mouth in a slow line then swallows. He has one chore to do, one very important chore before be heads back to Baker Street. John grabs a cab and ten minutes later he hops out and into the store he has been peering at for weeks.
“Hello,” the woman behind the desk beams at him, all lips and eyes, “can I help you?”
John smiles back and lays a hand on the glass between them. “Yes, I need a ring.”
She raises an eyebrow. “What kind specifically?”
John breathes slowly but the smile stays, completely certain. “An engagement ring.”
---------
Sherlock spends a month in the hospital, thirty-four days to be exact - the knife wound more severe than realized. He tries as hard as he can to stay civil, leave the nurses alone, do not shout at his doctor - John would have helped with that - but he only lasts a week. Every single false smile and turn of his sheets and small paper cup with more pills causes him to growl and snap and complain - he almost tears his stitches. He just wants to leave this infernal place and return to England, to London, to home. After a week and a half he becomes ‘the patient in room 310’ always said with a tone of fear and annoyance. Sherlock calls them the idiotic medical team of hell.
He waits and heals and waits more, nothing he can do to speed up the time it takes for his body to recover from the beating and the stabbing it took. His mind races and the track keeps looping around London, round one then two then three then five hundred. The path of Moriarty is finally over and now all Sherlock needs are the words in his mind ‘I can go home now, John.’
“Mr. Holmes?”
Sherlock glares as his doctor comes in the room. “If you have more medication for me I should inform you I didn’t take the last dose so I won’t take this one.”
“No.” She frowns and looks far more pleased than she probably should. “That is not it. You are to be released.”
Sherlock’s lip quirks. “How soon?”
“Today.”
Sherlock’s lips pull up into a smile. “I believe now would be even better.”
---------
John and Mary ride in a capsule of the London Eye. Though normally each one fits twenty-five people and it is just eight at night, no one else shares their capsule. They stand by the glass, Mary with one hand pressed against it.
“I’ve only been up here once, you know.” She chuckles. “It’s always, ‘oh I’ll go sometime.’”
“Guess this is sometime.”
Mary bumps John with her shoulder. “Aren’t you smart?” She glances back behind them once then looks at John. “And we get the cab to ourselves, did you threaten someone with your mean army training?”
John chuckles and swallows awkwardly. “More like paid extra and begged.”
Mary’s smile sticks suddenly and her teeth click. “What?”
The wheel keeps turning slowly, their cab almost at the top. John and Mary stare at each other, John slipping one hand into Mary’s. Her other hand on the glass falls down as she stares at him.
“John, what…”
“I, uh…” John clears his throat. “Well, wanted to ask you something.”
“You…” she makes a throaty sort of laugh, “wanted to ask me…”
John squeezes her hand and bends down on to one knee.
“Oh my god…” Mary gasps sharply.
John pulls a small black box out of his pocket with his free hand. He manages to flip it open one handed since Mary’s hand has locked like a vice around his other. John smiles and holds up the box - small silver ring with one cushion cut diamond.
“Shit…” Mary mutters and her lip trembles once.
“So, Mary.” John smiles and his pulse keeps rising but his hands stay still.
“You corny bastard,” Mary gasps again quietly.
John laughs and squeezes her hand. “Dr. Mary Morstan, will you marry me?”
“Oh yes, definitely.”
She yanks his hand in hers so he bounces up to his feet, hand with the ring squished between them. She lets go of his hand and wraps her arms around him and rises up on her toes. John gets there first and kisses her, pulls his arm around her, ring still in hand, and buries his other hand in her hair. She kisses him harder and mutters, “yes, John, yes,” against his lips, “I love you, yes.”
“I love you,” he whispers back into the kiss, London laid out below them.
----------
Sherlock exits through double doors of the Heathrow Airport, one bag over his shoulder. He wears his long gray coat, collar turned up though the weather is hardly cold. He waits in the cab line, fingers twitching around the strap of his bag. His other hand grips his phone in his pocket but not dialing anything. Sherlock watches the clouds, the familiar sky, and breathes the sweet London air.
When Sherlock climbs into the cab he puts his bag on the seat beside him and holds on to the handle of the door to steady his heart.
“Where to?” the cabbie asks.
Sherlock breathes sharply through his nose, a face in his mind as bright as a beacon. Sherlock smiles despite his erratic pulse. “221B Baker Street.”
THE END
Fandom: Sherlock
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock nor am I earning any financial gains from this work.
Pairing/Characters: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John Watson/Mary Morstan, Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft Holmes
Word Count: 16,117
Rating: PG-13
Summary: John wants to spend the rest of his life with her, every day and night, every up and down, every fight and every joy, stupid things and exciting things. He wants to see how far this joy can go because nothing since Sherlock Holmes has felt so right in his life - so perfect - as Mary Morstan.
Sherlock has one thing left to do, one person left in this long line of plots and crimes. He can see the horizon now and the one thing he wants waiting there. Sherlock is not asking John to love him, no, just stay with him forever.
The three years in between when Sherlock 'dies' and then comes back again.
Author Notes:
CHAPTER 1: Year 1
CHAPTER 2: Year 2
This is a prequel to my 'after three years' story And I'm five years ago and three thousand miles away. It is meant to be connected to that story but you could read it on its own too. (The title comes from a song by The National).
Part 1 is HERE
Cross posted at A03
John walks in the door of the posh townhouse after checking in at the curb, odd enough to have his name on the list for a private government ‘gala.’ He did not know until tonight Mycroft owned such a large townhouse in London but it's not really a surprise.
"I feel like any second someone is going to realize we don't belong," Mary whispers in his ear.
"With that red dress no one will care," John whispers back, brushing the top of the bateau neckline of her dress.
Mary snorts quietly as they walk in the door. "Well, you in that tux. I better keep an eye on all the closeted parliament pages."
"You think they get an invite?"
Mary laughs as she hands her shawl to an attendant. John kisses her cheek and they bravely step into the government party full of tuxedos and thousand pound dresses. They mingle for about ten minutes, champagne somehow ending up in their hands, until Mycroft touches John's shoulder.
"John."
"Mycroft."
"Hello," Mary smiles, "we've met a few times, I'm -"
"I know who you are Dr. Morstan, do not fear."
Mary's mouth clicks shut and she smiles. "Good to see you again."
Suddenly a pair of woman come up behind Mary and spin her around. "Hello!"
"I -"
The woman on the right squeezes Mary's arm. "Let me guess, new wife? Beautiful dress."
"No, no," the woman on the left says, "newly elected. It is a stunning dress."
"I'm not -"
"Come with us, we'll show you around."
The women hook their arms around Mary's and lead her through the crowd toward a bar John sees in the far corner. John purses his lips as Mary shoots fearful glances over her shoulder.
John turns back to Mycroft. "Should I save her?"
Mycroft shrugs. "I doubt she will be seriously harmed but you may owe her some sort of reparations for the experience."
John swallows. "Right." John pivots to face Mycroft. "So, you throwing a party?"
Mycroft makes one of his nauseated faces. "Yes. Unfortunately despite my all but autonomous position it does occasionally require stoking the fire of prestige and opulence."
"Yeah, well, the food looks like." John waves a hand at the long table by one wall. "And I'm not sure I should even chance the bar."
Mycroft smiles. "Yes, must keep the gears of progress greased."
"With food and drink?"
"Exactly."
John takes a small sip of his champagne. "And why exactly did you invite Mary and I?"
Mycroft takes a glass of red wine from a passing server. "My schedule is very busy, John. This seemed like a good time for us to catch up."
John blinks slowly. "You invited me to your upscale government party to catch up?"
"Of course." Mycroft tilts his head. "I can also use you as an excuse against various individuals I would wish to avoid speaking to."
"Ah, well, you're welcome."
"How are you, John?"
John breathes out through his nose and smiles. "Good. I'm good. I am."
"Mary?"
"Ha," John taps his glass on Mycroft, "yes, yes, it's Mary." John clears his throat and looks across the room to where Mary laughs with a younger, brown haired woman. "I... she's perfect. I never thought someone could fit so well."
"Better than Sherlock?"
John turns sharply and his mouth falls open slightly. "I..."
"Do you miss him?"
John's mouth clicks closed again. Mycroft gives him the same calm, still look he so often wears. Yet John feels his knows Mycroft well enough now to tell when deeper feelings hide under layers of intelligence and status. John reaches out and grips Mycroft's arm. Mycroft tenses slightly as if people never actually touch him.
"Of course I miss him, Mycroft, I always will. I’m not about to forget him." John lets go of Mycroft's arm. "I just know how to live without him now."
Mycroft nods and his mouth almost forms a smile. "Good. I am pleased to hear that."
"What about you?"
Mycroft's face twitches. "Me?"
"How are you? Do you miss him?"
Mycroft chuckles and turns away to regard the room, "I'm waiting."
John's brow furrows with confusion. "Waiting, for what?"
Mycroft sips his champagne and does not answer John.
----------
Sherlock sits at the bar in a pub in Belgium - obviously high drinking time from the amount of people jammed into such a small space. Sherlock sits at the far side, booth behind him close enough that if Sherlock wants to lean back against it on his stool he can. In general Sherlock refrains from drinking - never helpful for the deductive process - but tonight is an exception with no criminals of the Moriarty persuasion left to chase in this town.
Sherlock raises a hand and the bar tender flashes him a look. Sherlock points down at his empty glass. “Another.”
Luckily, as he is in Brussels, everyone speaks English along with whatever local language they speak from their NATO country. Sherlock cannot be bothered to pull out French or German right now and his Dutch was never one of his strong languages. Just about everyone in the bar Sherlock pegs as politically connected - Belgian government, NATO, EU - It is a sea of suits and properly clipped ties. Thus Sherlock in his usual black suit and white shirt fits in, even if the lack of tie shifts him into the newly employed or entry level category to everyone else in the pub. As if Sherlock even cares.
At the moment Sherlock cares only for the brown notebook open on the bar top before him. Despite the three - no four - drinks, Sherlock reads the words on the top of the page quite clearly: March, Prague, Sebastian. Sherlock thinks of nothing else, counts down the days like some teenager excited for a date. Prague is a date but not in any desire for romance.
Suddenly a man squeezes in between Sherlock and woman sitting on his right to put a hand on the bar. He shifts to his side toward Sherlock so he can fit better in the small space but keeps gazing at the bar tender, trying to attract his attention by staring. The man looks remarkably like John - short dirty blond hair, cut just above his ears, short but still average height, red buttoned shirt and tie loose at his neck, hard shoulders and calloused hands; Local government, not EU or NATO, more simple law enforcement.
Then he turns and looks at Sherlock. He pauses and smiles a little. “Hej.”
“You remind me of someone,” Sherlock says without preamble.
The man chuckles, “Oh yes?”
“Yes.”
He smiles - charming, even Sherlock can tell - and shrugs. “I am Jens.”
Sherlock swallows and for a moment he cannot say anything at all - coincidences do not exist. “Sherlock.”
Jens raises his eyebrows. “English?”
“Yes.”
“Not one of these,” he points his finger around the pub at the many suited people. Sherlock tilts his head in question. Jens chuckles and touches Sherlock just below his throat. “The men would never be caught without a tie.”
The bar tender chooses this moment to finally bring Sherlock a new drink. Sherlock slides the glass toward him then points at Jens. “I believe you need a drink.”
Jens smiles and pulls his hand away from Sherlock. He turns to the bar tender and orders some type of beer, local, unimportant. They wait in silence for a minute until the bar tender hands Jens his bottle and Jens hands him some money. Bottle in hand, Jens returns his attention to Sherlock.
“So, why are you in Brussels?”
“Work and you are police officer.”
Jens eyebrows shoot up. “Am I obvious?”
“Quite.” Sherlock takes a large sip of his gin and tonic. “But my line of work often coincides with the police.”
Jens frowns. “Not a criminal are you?”
“Only occasionally.”
Jens lip quirks with amusement and Sherlock sees John - when the phone rings and Sherlock tells Lestrade the stolen jewels are obviously still with the supposed victim, when typing at his blog and he reaches the climax, when Sherlock asks him ‘how are you?’ Jens shifts closer, leg brushes Sherlock’s knee.
“So, occasional criminal,” he takes a sip of his beer and purses his lips, “but usually a… what?”
Sherlock knocks back more of his drink - eye sight compromised, edges blurry, lights brighter, balance will be affected - then points at Jens with the hand holding his glass. “You are not interested in my work.”
Jens takes another sip of his beer. “No?”
“No.” Sherlock takes another sip, nearly empty now, Jens watching him intently.
Jens tips up his beer and takes a long chug. Then he puts the beer on the bar, takes Sherlock’s glass from him and puts it on the bar as well. He grips Sherlock’s jacket and pulls his forward off his chair, Sherlock only swaying slightly on his feet. Jens glances up at Sherlock, now obviously taller, and smiles. He turns and pulls Sherlock by his jacket through the crowd. From the back - his hair, short, straight line across, red shirt collar not quite reaching - Sherlock sees John guiding Sherlock, taking him away from a crime scene or a confrontation or another witness reduced to tears.
“John…” Sherlock whispers, the name lost among the noise of the pub to anyone but him.
Jens finds a dark corner and pushes Sherlock against the wall. “No more talking.”
Sherlock touches Jens hair - John’s hair, so military, so perfect for him - then Jens presses up against him and kisses Sherlock. He touches Sherlock’s neck, pulls him down closer, touches Sherlock’s chest but it’s not like John.
Sherlock pulls back and tilts his head at Jens - red lips, paler skin, strange part of the hair, dark brown eyes. He laughs once, “Is this what people do?”
Jens scrunches his eyebrows but when Sherlock makes no move to push him away, he pulls Sherlock down again by the back of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock kisses back this time when their lips meet - skin and heat and tongues - and Jens grinds his crotch up into Sherlock so he gasps into the kiss.
But everything is wrong. Jens is a few centimeters too tall; his hair feels too coarse; Sherlock clutches Jens shoulder - no scar under the cloth; He tastes like beer and flowers, nothing like John smells; Jens weighs less, more than Sherlock but still too thin to be John. Jens kisses him harder, slips his fingers under the band at the back of Sherlock’s pants trying to reach past tucked in shirt. Sherlock imagines John would never be so forward, so sloppy.
Sherlock grips both of Jens shoulders and pushes him back, shakes his head. “No.”
Jens frowns. “No? I -“
Sherlock lets go of Jens - not John, not John at all - and steps away from the wall.
“Wait,” Jens touches Sherlock’s arm, “I am sorry, have I -“
“It’s all wrong,” Sherlock mutters and walks around Jens back into the crush of the pub, the drunk people and the knots of business conversation.
Sherlock feels the impact on his senses, the sound swirling together and heavy footsteps. He forces his way back to the bar and grabs his brown notebook from right where he left it.
Sherlock stares at the page, ‘March, Prague, Sebastian,’ and burns the words into his mind. He cannot unravel, cannot give in to sentiment. Sherlock is so close to home, to the real thing, he cannot afford to break down and fall apart now. He will not allow it.
Sherlock snaps the book closed and slips it into an inside pocket of his jacket. Then he weaves through the crowd, steady as a sober man, and leaves the pub.
----------
Mary and John sit across from each other in the window of a small restaurant, which hardly deserves the name, close to her work. They meet for lunch sometimes, especially Wednesdays and especially over busy and hellish days. By now they are down to the basket of chips in the middle of the table, coffee for John and one beer for Mary.
“I swear, if I read one more paper on Pride and Prejudice I will renounce Mr. Darcy forever.”
“Renounce?”
Mary shakes her head. “The Regency can have him and enough about the wet shirt scene. That should not be in a university paper!”
John snorts until Mary shoots him a look. He clears his throat. “At least you didn’t do surgery on a ten year old today.”
Mary’s eyes widen. "Oh god, for what?”
“Car accident.”
Mary picks up a chip and dips it in ketchup. “Awful.”
“She’ll be all right though.”
Mary nods and chews. “Good. Silver lining?”
“More like gold to her parents.”
“And now my woes are in perspective.” Mary makes a vague circle in the air with one hand while grabbing another chip with the other.
John picks up a chip and eats it without condiments. He watched Mary for a moment as she shifts through the basket, moving chips around looking for which ever she deems the best one. John chews his lip then clasps his hands together on the table.
John clears his throat significantly. “So…”
Mary’s eyes tick up. She raises an eyebrow.
“What do you think about getting married some time?”
Mary stares at him for a full beat without moving, hand still in the chips basket. “Are you proposing right now?” John laughs. “Because despite how appropriate this situation is as a metaphor for our relationship it would really be a shit proposal.”
“I’m not proposing.”
“Okay.” Mary finally pulls her hand out of the basket and wipes it on a napkin before clasping hers on the table like John’s.
“I was just asking what you thought about it.”
“About marriage in general or about us getting married?”
John tilts his head. “Both.”
She laughs in a throaty way and smiles. “Well… I think it can be complicated?”
John frowns. “Interesting answer.”
“It’s, uh…” She pushes the basket of chips in a distracted manner. “I…” She gazes out the window to her left then turns to John. “I tend to scare away men. Either I’m too smart or too confident, too independent. That hasn’t been a problem with you yet but -“
“No ‘yet;’ It’s not at all.” John shakes his head with surprise. “It won’t be, don’t you know that?”
“You think it won’t be, John, until it is.”
“Mary, I happen to like all those things about you.”
Mary nods and shrugs. “True but we’re dating, marriage is different.”
“Well, that’s why I asked what you thought.” John flattens his hands on the table and looks at the window, one woman running by and nearly tripping over a crack in the pavement. “Are you saying, no you wouldn’t like to get married ever?”
“I didn’t say that.” John jerks his eyes back to her. “Why would you want to marry me?” She asks.
“That’s easy,” John smiles.
She holds up her hand. “Don’t just say, ‘because I love you.’”
John shakes his head. “Not that, though I think that’s pretty important too, yeah?” Mary chuckles and John reaches across the table to thread their fingers together. “No, because you are the most perfect fit I’ve had in my life. Everything wrong with me you turn around and whatever you might lack…” She makes a small mock offended face. John grins. “Anything you lack I’ve got for you.”
Mary’s lip trembles for just a moment before she bites down on it. She nods but does not say anything.
John rubs the back of her hand clasped in his with his free one. “I love so much about you, quoting Shakespeare in the morning and making tea stronger than anything,” she laughs, “I’d like to add to the list.”
She smiles and squeezes his hand. “Oh well, you can go now if you like.”
John chuckles with her and they sit for a moment just looking at each other until the bell on the door rings when another person enters the establishment. John sits up straight and they let go of each other’s hands.
“So, uh,” John touches his forehead, “something to think about.”
“Right.”
“Good.”
“You know I love it when you make that face,” Mary says suddenly.
John pauses with his hand above the chips basket. “What face?”
She leans forward then touches his cheek. John smiles without thinking and Mary taps her finger against his skin. “That ‘I can’t believe how happy I am’ face.” She drops her hand and sits back in her chair. “I think that might be a sign.”
---------
Prague.
Sherlock walks in the door of the British ambassador party - black tuxedo, white waist coat, white tie, fake invitation - and weaves through the crowd. Sherlock eyes every person in the room, picks out other ambassadors, dates of ambassadors, lower level attaches, affairs and the few oddities who gained invitations in a variety of ways - one appears to be blackmail but Sherlock would have to get a closer look at her to be sure. Sherlock walks past them all toward the main ballroom where a small cluster of circular tables line the walls. The middle is a dance floor with at least two dozen couples twirling and bunches of people talking loudly.
Sherlock stands just inside the main doorway to the right. He scans the crowd looking for one face. Sherlock’s eyes stop half way through his sweep and his lip twitches. Taking a step forward, Sherlock cuts through the dancers toward the wall across from the door. Two tables to the left he stops behind a man seated with one other couple, his back to the dance floor. Sherlock waits until he turns and looks up.
Sherlock holds out his hand. “Dance?”
Sebastian stares, blinks twice with shock, then bites the edge of his lip. “Right.” He takes Sherlock’s hand and stands.
Sebastian follows Sherlock out onto the floor, until Sherlock turns suddenly and grabs the knife from Sebastian’s other hand as they press together.
“Don’t need that,” Sherlock says letting it slip to the floor and shoving it somewhere behind him with his foot.
Sebastian smirks and puts his hand on Sherlock’s waist. “Never hurts to try.” He turns Sherlock sharply with the music. “Why don’t I lead this dance since last time you tried to lead didn’t end too well for you, did it?”
“All the more reason to try, try again,” Sherlock says as he pulls them into a spin by their clasped hands.
Sebastian chuckles. “Good plan this, ambassador party, can’t have any of my guns on me, can I?”
“Or so you’d prefer I think.”
“Don’t you?”
“I don’t second guess you.”
Sebastian nods and abruptly dips Sherlock. When they come up, he yanks Sherlock flush against him, arm around Sherlock’s back and holds Sherlock’s phone in his other hand. “Planning on phoning the cavalry again?”
Sherlock tilts his head, hair nearly brushing Sebastian’s forehead. “Perhaps.”
“No,” Sebastian backs up a step, “you’re not.” He drops Sherlock’s phone which Sherlock catches at their waists.
He slips it into his pocket and takes Sebastian’s hand again, pulling them into a gentle twirl across the floor. “No, I believe this time it can only end one way.”
“Are you here to kill me, Mr. Holmes?”
Sherlock stares at Sebastian as they dance, spinning around and neither stepping on the other’s feet. He does not answer.
Sebastian smiles. “Interesting. I thought you were the good man?”
“Thinking wasn’t your specialty, was it? You were good for your shot.”
“I still am.”
“But without an employer.”
Sebastian skips a step and shifts the lead back to him, turning them around the way they danced before. “A good shot is never unemployed, not really.”
“Going to start off on your own, are you? Seems unlikely, not after how loyal you were to the whole operation, every hit Moriarty asked, every crime he made you complicit in. All your clients were his clients and if all his clients are slowly and surely gone. Where does that leave you?”
Sebastian frowns just slightly and leans in as though they were lovers. “Perhaps that leaves me a bit angry.”
“Oh, it does.”
Sebastian turns them sharply, tugging Sherlock tight against him and quick as a shot slides a knife against Sherlock’s throat. The couples dance around them, spin to the Spanish guitar, and Sebastian holds Sherlock so close none can see the knife between them.
“Maybe I’ll relieve that anger right now.” He presses the knife harder against Sherlock’s throat but he does not slice. “Maybe it is time this was over.”
“I agree.”
Sherlock hooks his foot around Sebastian’s ankle and in five seconds total - shoves his weight forward into Sebastian, Sebastian blinks in surprise, balance falters, grabs Sebastian’s knife hand and turns what would be a fall into a speedy dip. When he pulls Sebastian back up after one second the second knife lands on a passing waiter’s tray.
“How many knives to you have hidden in that coat?” Sherlock purses his lips. “And I thought you were all for guns.”
Sebastian frowns. “Sometimes you have to make due.”
“Shame.”
Sebastian pushes Sherlock to arm’s length then yanks him back in as in some sort of whip snapping parody of charm. “Let’s talk about him then.”
“What?”
“You’ve been chasing me, doing all of this, because of him.” He slides his hand to Sherlock’s side and digs in his nails. “Why?”
Sherlock frowns. “Why did you?”
“Why did I what?”
“Keep it all going after he died?”
“After you killed him, you mean.”
Sherlock almost bares his teeth. “I did not kill him; he shot himself.”
Sebastian turns them sharply. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Hmm.” Sebastian dances backward like an odd waltz. “Whatever you say, Mr. Holmes, but tell me this then, why did you like him?”
“Like him?”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t.”
Sebastian snorts. “Yes, you did.”
“Like is a strong word.” Sherlock purses his lips. “He was interesting.”
Sebastian smiles slowly. “There.”
The music slows to a stop with Sherlock and Sebastian in the middle of the dance floor. As the couples stop twirling and start up conversation instead, Sherlock lets go of Sebastian and folds his hands behind his back.
“I’ll give you one chance now.”
Sebastian raises an eyebrow. “You mean I haven’t had enough chances already?”
Sherlock frowns and leans forward, voice low. “Give up. Turn yourself in.”
Sebastian chuckles. “Oh, is that it?”
Sherlock slides his hands back around slowly, cocking out his arm just enough so the small gun concealed up his sleeve slips down into his palm. He pulls his hand up but Sebastian grabs his wrist so suddenly Sherlock nearly cries out.
“You may be smart, Mr. Holmes, but I know guns better than just about anyone.” He peers down at the gun between them. “NAA .22LR Mini Revolver.” He makes a ‘tch’ noise. “And did you really think that would be enough?”
“One chance,” Sherlock growls, “I won’t give you another.”
“I don’t need your chances.”
Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Care to wager on which is faster, your disarming or my trigger finger?”
Sebastian takes the third option and punches Sherlock in the gut so hard he falls to his knees, the gun clattering to the floor. A few people turn at seeing him fall but Sebastian shushes them away with, ‘too much to drink.’ He crouches down in front of Sherlock doubled over and gasping. Sherlock notices him glance around for the gun but Sherlock knows it slid away and was subsequently kicked by a bystander so neither of them can reach it.
Sebastian shakes his head. “Why are you making this difficult? Can’t you give in?”
“I don’t give in.”
Sebastian growls in frustration. “I should kill you right now.”
Sherlock breathes in deeply and sits up with a smile. “Well at least then you would be arrested as I offered, killing someone at an embassy is hard to get out of with the courts.”
“I think I’ve decided I hate you.”
“You’ll have many friends in that.”
Suddenly Sebastian grabs Sherlock’s head and smashes him face first into the floor. Sherlock hears a woman scream in surprise, a man shouting, Sebastian rising to his feet…
Sherlock thinks how troublesome this 'force before thought' method is with Sebastian. Why can’t he ask to be thrown off a building or shoot himself in the head like his dear departed employer? Then Sherlock falls into a cushion of black unconsciousness.
-------
John opens his eyes slowly as light filters in the window through white curtains. He blinks twice and looks at the clock to his left - 9:47. John shakes his head, no need to get up yet on a Saturday. He rolls his head the other way to see Mary still asleep, head on the pillow and some blond hair draped over one eye. John reaches out and carefully slides it away behind her ear. Mary’s face twitches slightly in sleep but no more than that. John lets his arm fall back and he rolls on to his side toward Mary. He quite enjoys this sight in the mornings; Mary wakes up first only one time out of a hundred.
John knows he can fall into things fast - his first love Becky Brix, becoming a doctor, the army, Sherlock. When he falls fast like this, like with Mary, it is because it’s something that will last. John cannot stop thinking about how perfect Mary is, how every day is just what he wants, just how he wants to live.
Mary when she laughs - “Look at me, look at me, John Watson,” laugh like a bell or gong or a trumpet, loud and full and a melody you want to harmonize with and when she giggles like she’s twenty years old and does not care. “This game of strip poker has gone on far too long.”
John smiles and laughs. “Because you know you’re going to lose your bra next?”
“Ha!” She throws down four of a kind much to John-only-in-his-pants’ dismay. “And now you are naked!” And she laughs, high and long and hard as she pounces on him.
Mary in the kitchen - “Fuck!”
“What?”
“I can do it!”
John pokes his head in. “Did you burn yourself?”
“I can do it!” She slams the door of the oven closed. “This recipe will not defeat me!”
“You burnt yourself.”
Mary sucks on her thumb. “Yeah.”
He loves her hair - short and blond and a straight canopy around her face. He loves her eyes - green then hazel then brown then green again, all with that dark brown ring around the outside to draw you in. He loves the way she rises up onto her toes for a kiss when she really doesn’t need to.
Mary’s smile - “Hi.” All eyes and cheeks and teeth and you cannot look away because that smile says ‘I love you,’ ‘I want you,’ ‘You are the only thing I see right now.’
“Hi.”
And she smiles when he holds her and smiles when he kisses her and smiles when he can’t even see her but can hear it through the phone; her teeth click and the gentle press of her lips together before they spread apart into the smile that turns her face into light, into the definition of happiness.
Mary’s mismatched dress sense - “Blue and black go together right?”
John frowns. “With brown shoes?”
“What?”
“Trying to keep that scattered professor look intact, are you?”
She looks down at her shoes. “It’s raining out and I like these boots.”
“Then wear your gray suit.”
“I…” She opens the closet and sticks her head in. “Oh, yeah, that works. Pink socks, you think?”
“Now you’re just teasing.”
He loves how she sneaks cigarettes when really stressed but only about her sisters or death or if Shakespeare is performed subpar. He loves the way she can knock back a beer but drinking wine is such a chore. He loves the way she’ll hold his hand in her sleep, more than once waking up with fingers entwined and no other parts touching. He loves the way she scratches her nails through his hair when they have sex, sharp but perfect and somehow still a delicious surprise. He loves her walking beside him, sitting beside him, cheering in the pub at the football match and jumping into his arms with screams of sports fueled joy.
“Hi.” Mary opens her eyes and slips her hand under her pillow. “What time is it?”
“Near ten.”
“Hmm.” She closes her eyes and pushes her hands against the head board, stretching down and curving her stomach into the mattress. The covers slip off her naked back down toward her waist. Mary goes slack again and opens her eyes. “Been up long?”
“Not really.” John rubs her ankle with his toes. “Just watching you sleep.”
“Hmm, creepy.”
“Yeah.”
She giggles quietly then scoots across the bed and nestles her face into his neck, one leg sliding between his. John puts his arm around the small of her back and kisses her hair.
“Good dreams?”
“Zombie apocalypse but I only had a machete.”
John snorts. “I bet you killed them all.”
“I did. Harry was there with a machine gun too and we had to save you from this building made up only of stairs.”
“I love your brain.”
Mary kisses his neck. “That may be the best thing you’ve ever said to me.”
John wants to spend the rest of his life with her, every day and night, every up and down, every fight and every joy, stupid things and exciting things. He wants to see how far this joy can go because nothing since Sherlock Holmes has felt so right in his life - so perfect - as Mary Morstan.
---------
Sherlock waits in line, only one person ahead of him, at the FedEx store nearest the airport in Zurich. His cab waits outside, meter running, but the cost hardly matters. The package Sherlock holds is the last pieces of information, last stacks of proof, to set the records straight on James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes.
The woman in front of Sherlock takes her receipt and moves out of his way. Sherlock places the package on the counter and pulls his wallet out of his pocket. “England.”
The woman nods and rings it up - the box, one of the prepay sizes found in every store around the globe. Sherlock gives her exact change before she can even tell him the cost then swoops away without waiting for a ‘thank you’ or receipt. Sherlock pushes the door open, walks three steps across the sidewalk then opens the door of his cab and climbs in.
“To the hotel,” Sherlock says and his driver only nods, foot back on the gas.
Sherlock sits perfectly still, hand against his lips. He has one thing left to do, one person left in this long line of plots and crimes. He can see the horizon now and the one thing he wants waiting there. Sherlock’s eyes shift to the empty seat beside him. He remembers John - questioning his deductions, praising his intelligence, chastising his tact. Sherlock smiles and remembers a hundred cab rides, a thousand smiles, what felt like a life time of moments. Could they really only have known each other two years? A year and a half?
Sherlock knows things will be different when he finally returns; time passes, people change, and adjust. All he wants is to take that time and turn it round again, bring everything back to almost three years ago when it was just him and John, together. He wants John running beside, John with his gun in hand, John crouching over a corpse when Sherlock already knows the cause of death, John snapping at him, John making tea in the kitchen, John blogging away early in the morning. Sherlock wants his John back, he wants their life back.
Sherlock wants John awake before seven making eggs, “Sherlock, its Tuesday. You are eating.”
John blogging their recent case adding flowery words and a twinge of adventure even if he does leave out some of the most interesting details about their murder victim. “People don’t care about the effects of his hair dye on his scalp, Sherlock.”
He wants John falling asleep on the couch, half curled up like some lazy cat with his laptop nearly falling on the floor, his toes just touching Sherlock leg as he sits on the other end. Sherlock wants to watch John sleep for an hour without anyone else in the world knowing or caring or talking, without John even knowing how Sherlock catalogs the exact moment John begins to dream.
John moaning about money, “you can’t spend the entire case’s profits on a spectrometer. You’ll use it what, twice? Plus we have this thing called rent.”
Sherlock just wants their everyday life back - cases and clients and crimes and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and the chemistry kitchen and taxis and money between them and even Mycroft and double homicides and missing jewels and painting thieves and John pulling rank and buying milk and experiments in pie making and Cluedo and that stupid blog and John and John. Sherlock only wants their life again, just as it perfectly was. Sherlock is not asking John to love him, no, just stay with him forever.
The taxi finally stops outside a modest hotel, ten floors and a good coat of paint. Sherlock pays and steps out of the car. Inside he walks up to the desk and pulls a small, thin wallet out of an inner pocket inside a zipped inner pocket of his coat.
“One room, uncertain length of stay.” Sherlock slides the ID reading ‘Sherlock Holmes’ across the counter.
This time he will not be chasing, not researching, not investigating. This time all Sherlock plans to do it wait.
“Third time's the charm,” Sherlock says.
The man behind the counter raises his eyebrows. “Sir?”
Sherlock shakes his head. “Nothing.”
This time Sebastian Moran will come to him and it will be the end of the chase, trap slammed shut, and Sherlock will finish this.
---------
John sits at the end of the table in the slightly posh restaurant, Mary to his right and four of her friends across and the further down the table. Luckily the seat across from John is vacant so when the lunch topics turn to something like Gucci he stares out the window and zones through. Mary does have some excellent friends - professors, school friends, Tina and Ted from the pub that are basically their clones and best drinking companions - but these friends are Mary’s in town from Manchester. She knows a few of them from back in primary school and they run the gamut of personality and conversation. One John would describe as ‘vapid’ quite readily. But, John is a good boyfriend this time.
“I’m sorry but I only wear boots now.”
“God, Cheri, really?”
She snorts and flips her long hair. “Boots are made for walking.”
Sandy who spoke earlier rolls her eyes. “You just want an excuse to wear shorter skirts. ‘Oh my legs are covered so I can show more thigh.’”
Mary snorts but catches it quickly.
Cheri glares at them all then shakes her head. “If you’ve got it.”
“Put boots on it?” Alex replies.
John smiles but keeps the laugh at bay. He rather likes Alex the best out of the group.
“Put skirts on it,” Mary adds with a wink at Cheri. Cheri only sips her wine and takes a dramatic bite of her Caesar salad.
John smiles again and squeezes Mary’s hand under the table. She flashes him some eyebrows and grins, taking a big swig of her white wine.
“How about we talk about something other than Cheri’s dress sense?” Amanda says from the far corner of the table diagonally from John.
“Here here,” John mutters.
“Oh good, wouldn’t want you too interested,” Mary whispers back.
John bites his sandwich and shrugs. “I was going to jump on that when you weren’t looking but I’m not partial to boots.”
“Because then she’d be taller than you?” Mary flutters her eyelashes.
John kisses her on the cheek so she blushes.
“You two done?”
John and Mary turn to see the rest of the table giving them a combination of pleased and annoyed looks - Cheri winning with the multi look of envious, perturbed confusion. Mary sighs at the same time John clears his throat awkwardly making them both laugh.
“I may puke,” Alex says with a smile.
Mary makes a ‘tch’ noise combined with a wink. Then she sits up straight in her seat and folds her hands on the table. “You said something about new topic?”
John chuckles quietly as Alex snorts and Amanda starts into a conversation about a mutual acquaintance in Manchester. After a minute of talking, speculations about if Greg really is straight because David could not just be his roommate, and then Mary slips her hand back under the table to thread it together with John’s. John smiles - Mary’s hand warm and solid - then gazes toward the window across from him.
He wonders what Sherlock would have thought of Mary.
“Another, John?” That frown of disdain or a I-know-everything-of-importance scoff. “When are you going to stop this cycle?”
“This time I am, Sherlock.”
Sherlock and Mary would have had some excellent arguments, probably on things like university procedure or the quality of academic writings. Sherlock would have bemoaned fiction writing and Mary would have cited serial killers who were inspired by literature. John smiles at the thought of the two of them shouting in the living room, Sherlock perched on his chair and Mary pacing, fisting hands in her hair. Mary would end up forcing Sherlock to attend some production of a Wilde play and Sherlock would have pretended very hard not to like it.
John imagines - no, he knows - if Sherlock had given Mary a chance he would have liked her in the end.
“You really believe this one will stay?” Sherlock would say. “You won’t drop her like, which one was that?”
“She’s going to stay, Sherlock.”
Sherlock would pout, complain, and then Mary and Sherlock would sit on the couch together playing Cluedo, arguing about nonfiction books they found in common, drinking tea just watching John blog because Sherlock, just like Mary, sometimes just needs to sit. The two of them have more in common than either would have admitted.
John sighs quietly as he looks out the window, the figure of Sherlock absent from the chair. Sometimes thinking about ‘if only’ can be a good thing and remembering Sherlock no longer makes John fill with sorrow.
“Staring off into space?” Mary whispers in his ear.
John chuckles. “Without a doubt.”
“You are missing an excellent conversation about how many blokes must be gay because they aren’t interested in Cheri.”
Amanda scoffs loudly down the table and Sandy begins to squeal with laughter, clinking her wine glass with Alex’s. Cheri snorts and spills some of her salad on the floor.
John purses his lips and looks out of the corner of his eye at Mary. “Does that make me gay?”
Mary nods and squeezes his hand. “Absolutely.”
“Well, nowhere near the first accusation of that.”
Mary giggles once then kisses John’s temple just as his hairline. “You may be the very best man in the world, John Watson.”
John turns and looks at her, hears Sherlock say ‘well… perhaps she is acceptable,’ and he smiles wide. “Only because I have the best woman in the world.”
Mary grins and kisses his lips. “Damn right.”
---------
Sherlock catches the red light of the rifle sight reflected in the surface of his coffee, held at just the lucky angle, for one millisecond as it moves to focus on his chest. If not for that he would have been dead.
Sherlock sees the red, sees it move upward, and he jolts to the right out of his chair. The shot makes almost no sound until the woman sitting in the chair behind him spasms and falls to the ground, her girlfriend screaming in alarm. Sherlock knocks his table over, solid cover toward where the shot came from, and puts his back against it. The table is metal but that is no guarantee - distance rifle, caliber of bullet… But Sherlock is having trouble thinking straight because every person in the restaurant patio and the surrounding street begins screaming, running, knocking into chairs. Glasses hit the ground and newspapers fly into the air like metaphoric leaves.
“Sebastian,” Sherlock smiles despite his disadvantageous position in the fight. It has finally come, the last time, third time the charm.
He hears two more shots, one hits his table and one hits the ground two centimeters away from his hand. The bullet that hit the table, up and to his left, punches right through into the wall in front of him.
“Ah.” Sherlock frowns. “Moving then.”
Sherlock glances at the two bullet holes, compensates for horizontal movement and calculates the angle of the shots. Sherlock looks left then right, chooses right as the closer option and then kicks the chair to his left over with an echoing clatter in the now empty Zurich street. A shot hits the chair at the same time Sherlock grabs a leg of the table and shoves it to the right, moving himself with it. Another bullet punctures the metal where his head would have been a second earlier then Sherlock reaches the edge of the building and leaps out into the narrow alley.
Sherlock puts his back to the building wall and grins toward the street. “Lost your line of sight there, Sebastian.”
Sherlock runs down the alley, cuts to the left into another alley and then left again so he ends up on the other side of the street from where he most recently crawled for his life. Sherlock glances up at the rooftop, glances back to his ruined restaurant chair then runs to the correct building. Twelve flights up, Sherlock passes through the restricted access sign and comes out onto the roof.
“Sebastian!”
At the end of the roof, rifle in place on its stand, Sebastian whirls around. Sherlock pulls the gun from his jacket just as Sebastian reaches for the rifle. Sherlock shoots and the rifle flies off the edge of the roof.
Sebastian stands with his hands hanging in the air for a moment then drops them. “This it then?”
“You did come when I called.”
“Is that what that was? Hotel room under ‘Sherlock Holmes.’”
“I thought it was an obvious enough invitation.”
Sebastian nods. “I am getting a bit tired of this back and forth.”
“Stop running then.”
Sebastian smiles without humor. “Cheeky, are you?”
Sherlock shakes his head. “We both know someone else who was much more for the cheek and he died nearly three years ago now.”
“It’s about time you joined him,” Sebastian reaches toward the inside of his coat but Sherlock takes a large step forward and cocks his gun again.
“I think not.”
Sherlock waves his gun and Sebastian pulls his gun out slowly, throwing it aside so it actually bounces down a set of steps to the lower roof.
Sebastian then puts up his hands. “Don’t want a fair fight?”
“I have no illusions about who is the better shot.”
Sebastian nods and starts walking forward slowly. "So, going to try and bring me in this time or are you thinking of going for the straight kill shot?" Sebastian makes a gun with his forefinger and thumb. "Fancy a trip to the other side of the law?"
Sherlock tilts his head. "This has to end sometime, Mr. Moran." Sherlock takes one step forward. "But I think the jail option is not going to come to pass."
"Then why don't you -" Sebastian cuts himself off and lunges for the gun in Sherlock's hand.
Sherlock shoots but misses as Sebastian grabs the gun. Sherlock pulls it backward, trying to keep the control but Sebastian still has the strength of the soldier and moves with him. They grapple back and forth for a moment, face to face, hands clasped around the weapon. Then Sherlock twists and the gun flies out of both their hands, clattering away across the roof.
"You -" Sebastian plants his foot and punches Sherlock square in the chest.
The air leaves Sherlock lungs for six seconds and he staggers but does not fall. The air comes back just as Sebastian lunges into Sherlock's personal space, punching him in the jaw twice. Sherlock falls to one knee, eyes blurring but he calculates, turns and smashes his fist into Sebastian's knee. Sebastian yelps with pain and jumps away from Sherlock. Sherlock lays his hand on the ground, tries to recuperate but the moment he pulls up his head Sebastian is on him.
"Enough, you -" Sherlock starts as Sebastian knocks Sherlock back onto the ground.
Sebastian growls with anger and smashes Sherlock's head down on the cement. Sherlock makes a choking noise in his throat, grabs at Sebastian's hand - he cannot lose now. Sherlock twists Sebastian's wrist hard so he hears something crack. Sebastian shouts and tries to pull away, less of his body weight pinning Sherlock. Sherlock heaves to the right so Sebastian falls off him. Sherlock whirls around and kicks Sebastian in the stomach. He pulls himself onto his knees, tries to stand but his head keeps spinning.
"Give up," Sherlock gasps.
"You son of a..."
Sebastian lunges for Sherlock again, grabbing him by his scarf. Sherlock curses his haste and lack of foresight there, not the first time. Sebastian yanks Sherlock forward and head butts him. Sherlock feels blood at his nose but Sebastian does not let go. Sherlock punches Sebastian in the face, jams a knee into his gut to make him let go. Sebastian groans but holds on, the scarf tightening more around Sherlock's throat.
"Stop..." Sherlock gasps.
"Die and I will!" Sebastian snaps.
Sherlock feels his head getting lighter but he shifts his waist, pulls his leg up and kicks Sebastian in the groin. Sebastian falls, hand off the scarf, groaning as Sherlock gasps sharply, gulping in air and coughing,
They stare at each for a moment, gasping then everything becomes movement - Sebastian grabs Sherlock's head, Sherlock punches Sebastian's chest, clawing and punching and Sherlock spits blood. They roll over the roof hitting and kneeing and every breath starts to hurt. Sherlock will not give up, will not give into the rise of pain.
Suddenly Sebastian grabs at his ankle and Sherlock feels the knife slice his arm before he even sees it. Sherlock shouts, shoves himself back away from the glint of metal.
"Didn't bring that out at the start?" Sherlock gasps.
Sebastian only laughs and lunges forward for Sherlock's chest. Sherlock tries to roll but Sebastian has Sherlock's legs pinned. Sherlock sees the knife, two seconds, focuses, one second, and he twists enough that the knife stabs under his rips, just below the target, missing his lung. Sherlock screams and grasps Sebastian's hand around the knife.
"Missed the heart," Sherlock growls, though the pain turns his vision white .
"Try, try again," Sebastian growls right back and tries to pull the knife out but Sherlock holds his hand hard, holds the knife in his chest. "Just let me kill you!" Sebastian twists the knife.
Sherlock groans sharply in pain, "No," but then suddenly lets go of Sebastian's hand so he flies back, off balance with the force of his pull.
Sherlock shoves himself backward and kicks Sebastian again, managing to hit the hand holding the knife and it flies behind Sebastian. Sherlock falls back, his chest burning then he sees it - the gun, arms length, the gun where he can reach it, the gun. Sherlock twists back through the pain, grabs the gun as he hears Sebastian slice his knife across the concrete.
Sherlock sits up at the same time as Sebastian, face to face, and the gun pressed into Sebastian’s stomach - Sherlock fires. Sebastian blinks slowly with shock and his hand tightens on Sherlock’s arm, drops the knife. Sherlock’s lip quirks up - all the pain so far away in the background - and he fires twice more into Sebastian’s stomach. Sebastian’s mouth falls open very slowly, eyes locked in place on Sherlock’s, then his hand goes slack and he falls to the ground, completely still.
Sherlock stares, drops the gun with a clatter, then collapses onto his back. Sherlock stares up, seeing nothing, hardly feeling the wounds, and begins to laugh and laugh and laugh.
---------
John hangs up his doctor’s coat in his locker. He has another at home but always keeps at least two at work as well - one clean one in case of accidental body fluids. He grabs his coat and his keys, twists the combination on his locker and walks back into the hall.
“Out for the night?” Janice calls from behind the nurse’s desk.
John pivots around and waves at her, “yeah, no night shift for me.”
“And now my shift is ruined.”
John grins, walking backward. “Don’t let Mary hear you say that.”
She snorts. “She’d only encourage me to pinch your arse when you least expect it.”
John laughs and turns back around. He hits the front doors and pushes his way through. John blows air out of his mouth in a slow line then swallows. He has one chore to do, one very important chore before be heads back to Baker Street. John grabs a cab and ten minutes later he hops out and into the store he has been peering at for weeks.
“Hello,” the woman behind the desk beams at him, all lips and eyes, “can I help you?”
John smiles back and lays a hand on the glass between them. “Yes, I need a ring.”
She raises an eyebrow. “What kind specifically?”
John breathes slowly but the smile stays, completely certain. “An engagement ring.”
---------
Sherlock spends a month in the hospital, thirty-four days to be exact - the knife wound more severe than realized. He tries as hard as he can to stay civil, leave the nurses alone, do not shout at his doctor - John would have helped with that - but he only lasts a week. Every single false smile and turn of his sheets and small paper cup with more pills causes him to growl and snap and complain - he almost tears his stitches. He just wants to leave this infernal place and return to England, to London, to home. After a week and a half he becomes ‘the patient in room 310’ always said with a tone of fear and annoyance. Sherlock calls them the idiotic medical team of hell.
He waits and heals and waits more, nothing he can do to speed up the time it takes for his body to recover from the beating and the stabbing it took. His mind races and the track keeps looping around London, round one then two then three then five hundred. The path of Moriarty is finally over and now all Sherlock needs are the words in his mind ‘I can go home now, John.’
“Mr. Holmes?”
Sherlock glares as his doctor comes in the room. “If you have more medication for me I should inform you I didn’t take the last dose so I won’t take this one.”
“No.” She frowns and looks far more pleased than she probably should. “That is not it. You are to be released.”
Sherlock’s lip quirks. “How soon?”
“Today.”
Sherlock’s lips pull up into a smile. “I believe now would be even better.”
---------
John and Mary ride in a capsule of the London Eye. Though normally each one fits twenty-five people and it is just eight at night, no one else shares their capsule. They stand by the glass, Mary with one hand pressed against it.
“I’ve only been up here once, you know.” She chuckles. “It’s always, ‘oh I’ll go sometime.’”
“Guess this is sometime.”
Mary bumps John with her shoulder. “Aren’t you smart?” She glances back behind them once then looks at John. “And we get the cab to ourselves, did you threaten someone with your mean army training?”
John chuckles and swallows awkwardly. “More like paid extra and begged.”
Mary’s smile sticks suddenly and her teeth click. “What?”
The wheel keeps turning slowly, their cab almost at the top. John and Mary stare at each other, John slipping one hand into Mary’s. Her other hand on the glass falls down as she stares at him.
“John, what…”
“I, uh…” John clears his throat. “Well, wanted to ask you something.”
“You…” she makes a throaty sort of laugh, “wanted to ask me…”
John squeezes her hand and bends down on to one knee.
“Oh my god…” Mary gasps sharply.
John pulls a small black box out of his pocket with his free hand. He manages to flip it open one handed since Mary’s hand has locked like a vice around his other. John smiles and holds up the box - small silver ring with one cushion cut diamond.
“Shit…” Mary mutters and her lip trembles once.
“So, Mary.” John smiles and his pulse keeps rising but his hands stay still.
“You corny bastard,” Mary gasps again quietly.
John laughs and squeezes her hand. “Dr. Mary Morstan, will you marry me?”
“Oh yes, definitely.”
She yanks his hand in hers so he bounces up to his feet, hand with the ring squished between them. She lets go of his hand and wraps her arms around him and rises up on her toes. John gets there first and kisses her, pulls his arm around her, ring still in hand, and buries his other hand in her hair. She kisses him harder and mutters, “yes, John, yes,” against his lips, “I love you, yes.”
“I love you,” he whispers back into the kiss, London laid out below them.
----------
Sherlock exits through double doors of the Heathrow Airport, one bag over his shoulder. He wears his long gray coat, collar turned up though the weather is hardly cold. He waits in the cab line, fingers twitching around the strap of his bag. His other hand grips his phone in his pocket but not dialing anything. Sherlock watches the clouds, the familiar sky, and breathes the sweet London air.
When Sherlock climbs into the cab he puts his bag on the seat beside him and holds on to the handle of the door to steady his heart.
“Where to?” the cabbie asks.
Sherlock breathes sharply through his nose, a face in his mind as bright as a beacon. Sherlock smiles despite his erratic pulse. “221B Baker Street.”
THE END