We will meet back on this road, [2/3], part 2
Title: We will meet back on this road, [2/3], part 2
Fandom: Sherlock
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock nor am I earning any financial gains from this work.
Pairing/Characters: John Watson/Mary Morstan, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper, Mycroft Holmes
Word Count: 11,465
Rating: PG-13
Summary: John and Mary are married, Sherlock and John's relationship is almost back to the way it used to be but everything will change when Mary falls ill. Will John come through it again and how will it once again change his relationship with Sherlock?
Sometimes I feel like I am living two lives.” He whispers. “One with you and one with her, same components but all jumbled together."
Sherlock remains silent for a minute then says, "Mary isn't coming back, John."
“No," John breathes in and shakes his head. "Not like you.”
Warnings: Not for this chapter
Author Notes: This is the third part of the series. The first was And I'm Five Years Ago and Three Thousand Miles Away about when Sherlock comes back after 3 years 'dead' and the prequel was Someone send a runner for the feeling that I lost today about those three years in between.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2, Part 1
Cross posted to AO3.
“As much as I love breaking and entering, Sherlock, could you hurry up?”
“Learn to lock pick if you find me so inadequate.”
John growls. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.” Sherlock turns the door knob and opens the back door of their suspect’s row house.
John forces back a grin then follows Sherlock inside, quickly shutting the door behind him. They step over a doormat and into the kitchen, small but clean and organized. A few mugs and a butter knife wait in the sink. An open box of tea and a bowl with fruit sit on the kitchen counter. Sherlock turns the box of tea around, Earl Gray, then strides out of the kitchen.
“Where are we - Sherlock, wait!” John whispers.
“Keep up, John.”
“Are we sure no one is home?” John says as he quickly side steps a kitchen chair and jogs after Sherlock into the living room.
“Do you see any lights on?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I am sure.”
Sherlock weaves around cushioned chairs and one couch in the living room. He stops in front of the TV and crouches low for a moment. He picks up a DVD and turns is twice, takes off one glove then touches the DVD player with his palm. He then puts the DVD back down and slides his glove back on. Sherlock stands up straight and walks backward two steps just before he would hit the low coffee table.
“So?”
“Well, she wasn’t watching telly all night yesterday like she claims, that is sure.”
“And?”
Sherlock points upward with one hand. John stupidly looks up then shakes his head and sighs. “Bedroom or bath?”
Sherlock turns and grins. “Both.”
John grins back and hits the stairs, Sherlock right on his heels. He stops on the landing and turns the only way possible to the left. This floor only has the two rooms so John picks the bath.
“What am I looking for?” John asks as he opens the medicine cabinet.
“Anything,” Sherlock calls from the other room.
John closes the cabinet and looks at his own face in the mirror. He sighs at himself. “You’re the one who came along.” He shakes his head and looks down at the sink. He notices three toothbrushes in a clear cup on the corner.
He tilts his head. “I thought she lived alone?”
“She does.”
“There are three toothbrushes.”
Sherlock appears at John’s side two seconds later. He picks up the cup and holds it up right in front of his nose. His lip quirks and he puts the cup down again. Then he swirls back out into the hall and across into the bedroom.
“Sher…” John follows after and into the bedroom, brown comforter and pillows askew on the bed visible in the dim light from the street lamps.
Sherlock kneels down then holds up a pair of blue women’s underwear with two gloved fingers. “Someone has had a guest.”
“Sherlock, don’t -“
“And I don’t think it was her brother.”
“Put those down!” John hisses.
Sherlock drops the underwear and claps his hands together. “I smell motive.”
John frowns. “I… I’m not going there.”
Suddenly John hears a noise which is very clearly a key in the front door. He and Sherlock lock eyes. Sherlock looks down at the bed.
John shakes his head. “No.”
Then Sherlock drops to the floor.
“No,” John hisses, “Sher - damn it.”
John drops and scoots as fast as he can under the bed. John turns to glare at Sherlock in the darkness made by the bed skirt.
“I will kill you,” he whispers.
Sherlock only puts a finger to his lips as they hear footsteps on the stairs. The footsteps grow louder and then enter the bedroom. John hears a thump on the bed above them, likely the woman’s purse hitting when she threw it there. She sighs loudly and clicks around on the wood floor some more. The closet door opens once and John hears what must be her shoes coming off.
“Shite…” she whispers and sighs again.
As she walks around the room, Sherlock pulls out his mobile and texts something quickly. John nudges Sherlock and shakes his head in question. Sherlock only raises his eyebrows and somehow pockets his mobile again in the confined space.
Then their suspect’s footsteps seem to walk away. John hears the bathroom door close with a sharp click. Almost immediately Sherlock sides out from under the bed, John following a second after. Sherlock whips around the bed and grabs John’s wrist, pulling him out of the room and silently down the stairs. Sherlock crosses the sitting room in front of John when something falls upstairs and they hear the bathroom door open.
“Hello?” The woman calls hesitantly.
Sherlock yanks John forward. They run through the kitchen, hit the back door and then out into the yard.
“Here!” Sherlock points to the gate just as he slams into it and somehow sends them both falling through.
They race down the alley until they come out onto the next street. Finally they stop, panting against the building wall. John peeks back down the alley they came up just in case but there is no one.
“Ugh,” John groans, “so much running.”
Sherlock huffs. “Hardly.”
“I sit at a desk most of the day. This is a lot.”
Sherlock snorts
“All right, all right.” John chuckles. “Good to get out of the flat though.”
“Your breadbox.”
“Ha, a bit. Good reason not to go home.”
Sherlock scoffs. “Home.”
“It’s what I’ve got.”
They stand in silence for moment as they start to breathe slower. John knocks his head back against the wall and looks up at the stars, faint from light pollution but still there. Sherlock stands up suddenly and straightens his coat. He turns his head to gaze John, his serious face on. John tilts his head back, breathing nearly normal now. He raises both eyebrows.
Sherlock looks away down the street and puts his hands in his pockets. “Just come back to Baker Street, John.”
John watches Sherlock’s back, that coat John has followed so many times. Sherlock head shifts just a bit, his focus on what is behind him, waiting.
John looks at his hands and smiles. “Okay.”
------------------
John balances a box in one arm, a bag over his shoulder as well, while he unlocks the front door of Baker Street with the other hand. He walks up the stairs and into the old flat. It's only been a few weeks since he has been here but last time was only for ten minutes when Sherlock needed some ammonium. Standing in the door now the flat reminds him of years ago, those same two chairs and Sherlock’s violin.
Sherlock himself is seated on the couch with his computer in his lap.
“You going to help me?” John asks.
“Hmm,” Sherlock replies which means he isn’t listening.
John rolls his eyes then turns back to the hall. He climbs up the stairs to the second bedroom which was always his before it became his and Mary’s for a time. Oddly the room does not remind him much of Mary. He knows they shared it once but before that it was his alone. Somehow the place seems to have circled all the way back. He imagines Mary would have laughed and turned that into a metaphor.
‘The circle of time, John?’
John smiles then puts the box and the bag down on the bed. “Somehow I always end up back here.”
It takes John a minute, after he has started to pull out a few things from his bag, to realize the bed is made with gray sheets and a black comforter. John pulls his hands out of his bag and stares. He did not bring those or buy them. John looks up around the room more critically this time. The old side table he and Mary left is still there but the lamp is new, something vaguely IKEA. The dresser by the closet is new as well, a dark wood that shines when John shifts from side to side. The curtains on the window could be new but to be honest, John never paid them much attention. A blue cushioned chair John does not recognize sits under the window.
“Huh…” John chews the inside of his cheek for a moment then heads back downstairs.
Sherlock still sits on the couch, cross legged now and typing fast. John coasts his eyes around the room and realizes something strange.
“Did you clean?”
Sherlock stops typing.
The table between the windows is completely clear, minus a polite pile of newspaper print outs. John sees a couple of boxes under the table, one stacked neatly on top of the other. The book shelves in the wall flanking the fireplace are both full of books along with a few other hodgepodge items. However, as John looks closer, the books are in alphabetical order by author and there are no loose books lying on top of others or even any dangling off the edge of shelves. Each row of books has some item or two nicely keeping the books standing straight - a large external hard drive as well as a box of padlocks to name a few. The shelves around the entrance to the kitchen hold only the printer and a lamp on one side while the other displays a few personal items - a small Japanese sword and three framed sets of butterflies. The small book shelf beside the couch in the corner has two neat rows of books with the top shelf holding a few framed photographs and Sherlock’s skull. The mantel piece is completely clear, no dirty coffee mugs or pierced in knives. The mirror over the mantel is unobstructed and all the surfaces - lamps and TV included - appear to be dusted.
John slowly looks down at Sherlock. Sherlock continues staring at his computer screen with his lips pursed.
“You cleaned.” Sherlock faces twitches and John smiles. “You cleaned!”
John walks in and over to the kitchen. On the table where often an array of chemistry supplies take up space, tea for two sits.
“And you made tea.”
Sherlock eyes slide to the side but he says nothing. John rocks on his heels once then steps into the kitchen. He adds sugar and milk to two cups then pours in some tea. He picks up the tea by the saucers, walks back into the living room and around to the side of the couch.
John holds out one cup of tea to Sherlock. “Is this how you say ‘welcome back?’”
Sherlock finally looks up from his laptop. “No.” He pushes his laptop onto the coffee table then reaches up and takes a tea from John.
John sits down beside Sherlock and blows on his tea.
Sherlock takes a sip of his and glances at John. “This is how I say ‘stay.’”
-----------------------
John pushed the buzzer at the building entrance and checks his mobile again. He clicks his tongue and glances down the street behind him. He pushes the buzzer again.
“Hi, yeah,” the call box crackles once, “who is it?”
“It’s John.”
“Diane, could you - fuck - sorry. John, yeah, come on up.”
The door buzzes and John pulls the knob. He climbs up the three flights, passing one door cracked open and what sounds like a football game on inside, before he knocks on Lacy’s door just to the left of the stairs. He hears something fall inside and a cat meowing.
“Can you make it shut up!” He hears Diane shout.
“I told you to leave Winston alone!”
“It is just a -“ something else crashes and John cannot quite discern which curses Diane chooses.
Then the door swings open, Lacy with wet hair and a t-shirt on. John’s mouth drops open for a second as Lacy has neglected to put on trousers but she scoffs at him. “Oh really, you’re my brother in law.”
“Emphasis on the ‘in law,’ you could of -“
“I was in the shower and Diane was being…” She grumbles and walks backward waving a hand. “Come on.”
“Diane is…” John raises an eyebrow. “Staying with you.”
Lacy breathes in slowly and nods. “Yup, for a month.”
“A month.”
“A month,” Lacy says definitively.
John purses his lips. “Okay.”
“So,” Lacy walks to the right into the kitchen then straight through again into the living and dining room. Diane is sitting in one of the large bay windows, the tabby cat stalking back and forth underneath. She shoots a cursory smile at John then goes back to her book. “Have you come for tea?” Lacy looks at the clock in the wall between the two windows then twirls around to face John again. “Or something else?”
“Actually,” John clears his throat and focuses on Lacy’s now blond hair and absolutely nothing else, “I came to get a few boxes.”
At that Diane perks up in the window. “What?”
“Oh!” Lacy nods. “Sure, yeah, you wanna?” She points behind her then leads John on past the couch and into the little hall, bedroom on the left and bath on the right with a closet door straight ahead.
“Could you…” John points at Lacy’s bedroom. “Just, could…”
Lacy sighs. “God, fine.” She ducks into the room and comes out a few seconds later with a pair of boxer shorts on. “Better?”
“Marginally.”
“I don’t think Mary is going to yell at you.”
“Oh, believe me, I can hear her right now.”
Lacy cracks a smile at that. She turns and opens the closet door and pulls the cord for the light. The closet is large enough that one person can walk in, shelves on all sides. To the right are towels and sheets of mostly the green and yellow shade while on the left are dozens of Tupperware bins filled with clothes, nail polish, paints, beads, a soldering iron; John stops trying to catalog it all. The back shelf contains a number of cardboard boxes, the third shelf up holds a few labeled ‘Mary and John.’
“Do you want them all?” Lacy asks. “I think there is four, can you carry all that?”
“There’s just two I wanted now. I can get the others later, if you don’t mind?”
Lacy shakes her head. “No, no, I…” She smiles softly. “I kind of like having them here.”
John breathes out audibly. “Yeah.” He point around her at two of the boxes. “The winter clothes there and the small Oxford box.”
“Isn’t that just class notes?”
John shakes his head. “It has momentous too.”
Lacy pulls the large box down and hands it to John, following with the smaller one on top. “Got it?”
“Yeah, thanks.” John backs up a few steps so Lacy can exit the closet.
She pulls the light off again then closes the door. She shifts her weight to the side and chews her lip. “How’re you?”
“I’m good.”
“Good?”
John nods slowly. “Yes, back to work, everything.”
Lacy stands up straight and crosses her arms. “Moved back to that old flat, haven’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“The one with that guy that faked his death?”
John coughs and nods. “Uh, yeah.”
“Uh huh.”
“It’s just…”
“No, no.” Lacy points toward the living room. “I mean I’ve got… I understand.”
John nods. “She doing okay?”
Lacy scratches her head and nods. “Uh, yeah, mostly, yeah. She’s always been… well, you know. I think though… well, she has a job now and is only late about half the time, so I call that a plus.” Lacy grins.
“What about you?”
Lacy smiles. “I am. I’m good. I remember the good things, you know?” John nods. “I wear that one necklace of hers, the one with the three purple flowers, just about every day. Makes me feel like she’s with me.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah, seeing a guy too.” John raises both eyebrows and Lacy grins broader. “Oh yeah. He’s a catch; looks like Idris Elba and can throw me over his shoulder without a problem. It’s marvelous.”
John shifts the boxes in his arms and clears his throat. “And I am not going to think any deeper on that.”
Lacy giggles. “Well, I suspect you want to be off?”
“Sorry, want to get these home.”
Lacy holds an arm out indicating the hall and they walk back out into the living room. Diane sits up in the window as they come in and puts down her book. She smiles at John but doesn’t say anything.
“Diane.”
“John.”
John looks at her for moment but just smiles and nods once more. Diane holds up a hand for a wave but stays sitting where she is. John follows Lacy through the kitchen again and out to the front door. She flips the lock and holds open the door. John walks through and turns back with a smile for ‘goodbye.’
“John, are you…” Lacy asks suddenly, before John can move to the stairs. “Are you really doing better?”
“Yeah,” John nods. “Yeah, I think so.”
-----------------------
When John takes Sherlock with him to Mary’s grave the sun shines and no wind blows. John brings flowers, small things he already forgets the name of. He cannot guarantee Mary would have liked them. Her opinion on flowers changed by the season, sometimes beautiful and other times a crime against snow. It does not matter though because he knows she would smile either way at the gesture.
“Are we entering or not, John?”
John blinks back to himself and smiles up at Sherlock. “Yeah, this way.”
Sherlock ‘hmms’ and John sees his hand twitch in want of a cigarette. The Déjà vu is not unexpected.
John takes them left down a narrow row. The grave yard is far less spacious than others John has been forced to visit before. Some of Mary’s family members are buried here and her mother insisted. It never really mattered where to John, mostly that she had somewhere. They turn right and up four rows before they cross into the graves again and stop in front of a modest, gray stone.
“Hi, Mary,” John whispers.
Sherlock sighs beside him but refrains from what no doubt was something akin to ‘she cannot hear you.’
John crouches and places the flowers on the grave. A fresh bunch of lilies are in the flower holder on the left of the grave. John suspects they are from Mary’s father, not more than a few days old. John stands again then backs up a step in line with Sherlock.
“Wonderful. Are we off?”
John turns his head and gives Sherlock a glare. Sherlock frowns for only a moment before forcing out a smile and putting his hands in his pockets.
"I did this same thing with Mary, you know,” John says after a minute, “flowers to your grave"
"I imagine she was more magnanimous than I."
John smiles. "Isn't everyone?"
“True.” Sherlock’s hand shifts in his pocket and John wonders if it’s cigarettes or mobile. Then Sherlock shakes his head. “Why would you bring flowers to my grave, John? It is a ridiculous gesture.”
“You know the act wasn’t really for you, right?”
Sherlock makes another ‘hmm’ noise which could be genuine learning of social behavior or confirmation of John’s point. For a second, John wonders just what Sherlock’s reaction would be to the death of someone he cared for; what would Sherlock have done if John was the one who jumped off a building? He remembers the way Sherlock reacted to Irene’s supposed death, a woman whom Sherlock had barely known when it came down to it. How many violin pieces would Sherlock have written for John? Would Sherlock have come to John’s grave to grieve?
John tilts his head then leans forward and brushes off some leaves from the top of Mary’s grave. He knows more will collect later but Mary always tried to keep their flat and their house clean. John can do the same for her.
John sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes. He remembers Mary standing beside him when he was reading Sherlock’s name. Her hand squeezing his, ‘you need to tell me about him…’ His hand on the grave speaking to Sherlock, ‘I really like her, maybe you would have too.’ It’s so surreal to have the situation flipped around now. How many people can say something like that?
“This is surreal,” John says out loud.
“My presence or some mirrored memories?” Sherlock asks.
“Both.”
“The similarities?”
“And some differences.”
John sees Sherlock look at him out of the corner of his eye. “Do you… would you rather I… left?”
“No.” John shakes his head. "Sometimes I feel like I am living two lives.” He whispers. “One with you and one with her, same components but all jumbled together."
Sherlock remains silent for a minute then says, "Mary isn't coming back, John."
“No" John breathes in and shakes his head. "Not like you.” He smiles at Sherlock. “But you were always special.”
The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks up but he says nothing. John can’t help but notice how often Sherlock holds his tongue now. He wonders if that came from three years without him or the time after. Maybe Sherlock just has more mysteries now. John turns back to Mary’s grave.
He thinks, ‘I told you I would be okay, Mary.’
‘Mostly,’ he hears her say, sees her smile, sees her cock her head to the side. ‘Don’t forget to keep missing me. I must be immortal.’
John smiles to himself, ‘Never, Mary.’
“John?”
“Let’s go.” John touches Sherlock’s arm and turns them both away from the grave.
They walk back through the grass, crunching on leaves, and out through the gates. Sherlock pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket as they exit but John snatches it out of his hand.
“John, you -“
“Nope.”
“I did not ask you to -“
“Sorry.”
“John, I have been -“
“Too bad, not happening.”
“If I wanted to I could get those -“
“Back from me?” John snorts. “Try it.”
Sherlock frowns petulantly. “Mary would have been on my side.”
John chuckles and almost gives the pack back just for that. “Maybe.”
Sherlock frowns and puts his hands back in his pockets. “Fine, John.”
Sherlock walks ahead of John toward the road. A wind suddenly whips through the trees and send’s the end of Sherlock’s coat rippling. Sherlock stops at the road then turns to look over his shoulder, curly hair flipping into his eyes.
“Come on, John.”
John realizes suddenly, why hadn’t he before, that everything is different this time because right from the start he’s had someone to fall into instead of falling alone.
------------------------
John sits by the fireplace with a book Harry gave him, some crime novel she was convinced he would enjoy because ‘you’re doing that stuff again.’ He’s only reading it to prove to her how not real it is. Across the room Sherlock lies on the couch with a stack of cold case files on his chest.
“Hung himself.” Sherlock closes the file and puts it on the floor.
“Suicide or accident?”
Sherlock chuckles but before he can answer his mobile begins to buzz. Sherlock picks it up and frowns, sliding a thumb across the screen to off. “No.”
“Who was it?”
“No one I wish to talk to.”
“Greg or Mycroft?”
Sherlock humphs. A second later his mobile begins to buzz again. Sherlock picks it up and slides it on this time, holding it out in front of his face. “Do you think calling a second time will make me want to answer more? Good bye.”
“Sher -“
Sherlock hangs up.
“Sherlock,” John chides.
“If it is so serious, Mycroft can swoop over in a company car.”
“Are you saying you want to see him? Sentiment?”
Sherlock picks up another case file and shoots John a look. “Your humor is forever a mystery to me.”
When the mobile buzzes a third time, Sherlock picks up the mobile and heaves it toward John. “You talk to him.”
“Sher - don’t!” John catches it just before it hits the mantel above him. “Christ, do you want to break your mobile?”
“It would be worth it.”
John answers the mobile and puts it to his ear. “Hi Mycroft.”
“John.” Mycroft sighs. “I assume my brother is still nearby?”
“Yeah, on the couch.”
“And is he busy?”
John purses his lips. “I am going to toe the line here on that one and say 'I do not know.'”
“Politic of you. Do tell him that the family dinner this year is a requirement, even if I have to send some gentlemen to escort him.”
“Mycroft says you have to come to dinner.”
Sherlock scoffs and jumps up from the couch. “If he can catch me.” Then he walks past John and into the kitchen.
John smiles then closes his book and puts it down in his lap. “Anything else?” John says to Mycroft.
Mycroft sighs quietly. “How are you faring, John? Feeling at home again back in the old flat, I trust?”
“Yep, just like old times.”
“Well, certainly not completely ‘like old times,’ John, but that is good to hear.”
John’s brow scrunches. “What do you mean?”
“Surely it has not escaped your notice how Sherlock has changed, John.”
“I…” John glances back into the kitchen. Sherlock stands at the sink, washing a mug. “Yes, he has.”
“John, I never dared to hope that Sherlock disposition could have improved in the way it has. Certainly he is the same stubborn, irrational, and tactless man he has always been in many regards. Yet…” Mycroft hums once. “Well, you have certainly changed him, haven’t you?”
John stares straight ahead at the empty chair in front of him, sounds of water running in the kitchen still behind him. “I haven’t tried to.”
“I am not saying this is a negative, John. The way he speaks about you is particularly singular and not something I thought him capable of in the past.”
“What? He talks to you about me?”
Mycroft chuckles in his polite way. “John, nearly every time we happen to converse, uncommon as such an occurrence may be, the subject of you does invariably come up. Does this surprise you?”
John’s lip quirks. “I guess not.”
“I know he has been… well, he has been trying for you, John. He is rarely good with the emotions of others, let alone his own, but I know he has been making an effort for you in regards to Dr. Morstan. I do hope it has not been in vain.”
Sherlock appears at John’s side and holds out John's 'Royal Army Medical Corp' mug full of tea. John looks up slowly at Sherlock. “It hasn’t,” John says and takes the mug from Sherlock.
Sherlock raises an eyebrow but does not ask. Instead he turns and walks back to the couch, flopping down almost on top of his case files.
“Remind him about the dinner, John,” Mycroft says quietly then hangs up.
John clicks off the mobile and puts it down on the small table beside the chair. The book he was reading slips off his lap onto the floor but John ignores it. He holds his tea and watches Sherlock as he turns pages in a case file. Sherlock smirks at one page then lifts the sheet for a moment before letting it fall again.
“Sherlock,” John says.
“Hmm?”
“I…”
Sherlock turns and looks at John, case file still in his hands. John stares at Sherlock until Sherlock raises both eyebrows. “Yes, John?”
John lets the tea mug in his hand lower and rest on his thigh. “Thank you.”
Sherlock nods and turns back to his file.
“No,” John insists and Sherlock turns back again with a small frown. “I mean…” John breathes in. “Thank you.”
Sherlock stares for a long minute then smiles a fraction. “Of course, John.”
-------------------------
Sherlock walks in a circle around the corpse six times before Greg finally sighs and shoots John a look. John shakes his head. Greg clenches his jaw and nods vigorously. John puts his palms up and shrugs. ‘Come on!’ Greg mouths. John only grins.
“Are you two finished?”
John and Greg turn to look at Sherlock. Sherlock stands at the feet of the corpse, just barely a centimeter from the edge of the stage yet still out of the rain falling on the seating. He clicks another few times on his mobile then looks up.
John glances at Greg who sighs again. “Well, what then?”
Sherlock smirks. “Care to take a guess?”
Greg frowns. “If I did, I wouldn’t have called you.”
Sherlock snorts. “John?”
John tilts his head. “No sign of any entry wounds or blunt force trauma. Looks like time of death is about ten hours ago, give or take. Some marks around the neck not sure about strangulation though.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Could do with a bit of choking however.”
“You could?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “The color of the face is -“
“Yes, got that, but he doesn’t have anything in his throat so -“
“So, perhaps there is something in his lungs?”
“But there isn’t, we saw that -“
“Ah, but there once was.”
John and Greg shoot each other a look. John takes up the line this time, “Really?”
Sherlock rocks back and forth on his heels. “Oh yes.”
Greg sighs loudly. “Just cut to the chase.”
“Interesting choice of idiom, Lestrade, as chases can often take a good deal of time.”
Greg only stares until Sherlock bounces on his heels and comes around the side of the corpse, leaning down. “Smell that.”
“No.”
“Not from there, perhaps, come down here.”
“Oh no, that’s what I meant.”
“John?”
John flashes Greg a look. Greg shakes his head ‘don’t’ but John kneels down and leans in close. He pulls back sharply. “God!”
“Hmm, yes, classic alcoholic pub smell.”
“And then some.”
John and Sherlock stand up at the same time. Sherlock points down at their victim. “He may be ‘high and dry’ now but that smell is far more than just a spill on the clothes; that is coming from the pores. This man was soaked and, if you must prove on the autopsy table you can, drowned in alcohol.”
“I wish it were me,” Greg mutters.
John snorts a laugh but controls himself.
“The question is...” Sherlock pulls his mobile out again and snaps a picture of the corpse.
“Oi!” Greg snaps.
“Where he was really killed as it is obviously not here; who would feel the need to murder a divorced, bat mitten playing, dog walker; how the killer administered such a large amount of alcohol with very little signs of struggle; and why the choice of murder weapon was specifically gin and rum alcohol.”
“Don’t care to throw in the ‘what?’” John jokes.
Sherlock hops right over the body and turns John around by his shoulder. “Come, lead.”
“Wait!” Greg shouts after them. “If you have-“
“We shall text!” Sherlock shouts back.
They hurry away into the rain and up the hill from the amphitheater. Sherlock grins and almost bounces as he walks. John has to jog to keep up with Sherlock's long strides.
“So, where to?”
“Cab.”
“You know that’s not a location, right?”
Sherlock stops and smiles at John, his hair starting to slacken with water. “Oh John, perhaps you could do with a little surprise.”
John grins and runs after Sherlock; All he can think of is case after case, near misses and brilliant realizations and always that wonderful rush he never tires of.
------------------------
John sits with his laptop open in front of him on the table. He gazes out the window behind him at the buildings across the street. Snow from yesterday still sticks to some of the windows, collected on the small panes. It makes him think of New Years and violin music.
“Always back here,” John mutters.
John certainly does not regret moving to a house with Mary, that house was perfect and smelled like spring all the time. Once they were married buying a home had been just what they wanted. Yet for John, 221B must be hooked onto his soul. Since the first time he stepped into this flat it has been the center of his life; with Sherlock, alone, with Mary, and now Sherlock again. It is not exactly a circle but it is coming home.
“John, tea!” Sherlock shouts from his bedroom.
John rolls his eyes and turns his head around back look in the flat. “You’re closer!”
“I am working!”
“No, you’re not!”
“It is an important case, John.”
“Staring at the pattern of photographs on your floor does not mean you cannot stand up.”
“Yes, it does!”
John chuckles and looks at his computer screen. He clicks chrome and brings up a website he has not been on for years now.
His eyes shift up, the wall turned to a neutral brown paint though John feels like he can still tell where the bullet holes once were. Sherlock’s couch looks perhaps a bit more battered but the bookshelf has remained tidy from John’s first day back in residence. His black jacket is draped on the arm of the chair in the corner while Sherlock’s long gray coat hangs on the open door.
The flat does not look like Mary anymore, no creams chairs or Shakespeare but that’s all right; the flat isn’t wholly Sherlock either. Whatever the flat has become, it fits John perfectly. He always wants his feet on these floors, always wants his bed to be here, always wants to call it home.
He logs in to his old blog, clicks the link for ‘new post’ and starts with the title: “Back at 221B.”
“John?” Sherlock calls again, not shouting anymore.
Hands hovering over the keys, John realizes right this second that his life has fallen back into place, back into balance where he needs it to be. John smiles, “Sherlock?”
“Tea? Please, John?”
Fandom: Sherlock
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock nor am I earning any financial gains from this work.
Pairing/Characters: John Watson/Mary Morstan, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper, Mycroft Holmes
Word Count: 11,465
Rating: PG-13
Summary: John and Mary are married, Sherlock and John's relationship is almost back to the way it used to be but everything will change when Mary falls ill. Will John come through it again and how will it once again change his relationship with Sherlock?
Sometimes I feel like I am living two lives.” He whispers. “One with you and one with her, same components but all jumbled together."
Sherlock remains silent for a minute then says, "Mary isn't coming back, John."
“No," John breathes in and shakes his head. "Not like you.”
Warnings: Not for this chapter
Author Notes: This is the third part of the series. The first was And I'm Five Years Ago and Three Thousand Miles Away about when Sherlock comes back after 3 years 'dead' and the prequel was Someone send a runner for the feeling that I lost today about those three years in between.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2, Part 1
Cross posted to AO3.
“As much as I love breaking and entering, Sherlock, could you hurry up?”
“Learn to lock pick if you find me so inadequate.”
John growls. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.” Sherlock turns the door knob and opens the back door of their suspect’s row house.
John forces back a grin then follows Sherlock inside, quickly shutting the door behind him. They step over a doormat and into the kitchen, small but clean and organized. A few mugs and a butter knife wait in the sink. An open box of tea and a bowl with fruit sit on the kitchen counter. Sherlock turns the box of tea around, Earl Gray, then strides out of the kitchen.
“Where are we - Sherlock, wait!” John whispers.
“Keep up, John.”
“Are we sure no one is home?” John says as he quickly side steps a kitchen chair and jogs after Sherlock into the living room.
“Do you see any lights on?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I am sure.”
Sherlock weaves around cushioned chairs and one couch in the living room. He stops in front of the TV and crouches low for a moment. He picks up a DVD and turns is twice, takes off one glove then touches the DVD player with his palm. He then puts the DVD back down and slides his glove back on. Sherlock stands up straight and walks backward two steps just before he would hit the low coffee table.
“So?”
“Well, she wasn’t watching telly all night yesterday like she claims, that is sure.”
“And?”
Sherlock points upward with one hand. John stupidly looks up then shakes his head and sighs. “Bedroom or bath?”
Sherlock turns and grins. “Both.”
John grins back and hits the stairs, Sherlock right on his heels. He stops on the landing and turns the only way possible to the left. This floor only has the two rooms so John picks the bath.
“What am I looking for?” John asks as he opens the medicine cabinet.
“Anything,” Sherlock calls from the other room.
John closes the cabinet and looks at his own face in the mirror. He sighs at himself. “You’re the one who came along.” He shakes his head and looks down at the sink. He notices three toothbrushes in a clear cup on the corner.
He tilts his head. “I thought she lived alone?”
“She does.”
“There are three toothbrushes.”
Sherlock appears at John’s side two seconds later. He picks up the cup and holds it up right in front of his nose. His lip quirks and he puts the cup down again. Then he swirls back out into the hall and across into the bedroom.
“Sher…” John follows after and into the bedroom, brown comforter and pillows askew on the bed visible in the dim light from the street lamps.
Sherlock kneels down then holds up a pair of blue women’s underwear with two gloved fingers. “Someone has had a guest.”
“Sherlock, don’t -“
“And I don’t think it was her brother.”
“Put those down!” John hisses.
Sherlock drops the underwear and claps his hands together. “I smell motive.”
John frowns. “I… I’m not going there.”
Suddenly John hears a noise which is very clearly a key in the front door. He and Sherlock lock eyes. Sherlock looks down at the bed.
John shakes his head. “No.”
Then Sherlock drops to the floor.
“No,” John hisses, “Sher - damn it.”
John drops and scoots as fast as he can under the bed. John turns to glare at Sherlock in the darkness made by the bed skirt.
“I will kill you,” he whispers.
Sherlock only puts a finger to his lips as they hear footsteps on the stairs. The footsteps grow louder and then enter the bedroom. John hears a thump on the bed above them, likely the woman’s purse hitting when she threw it there. She sighs loudly and clicks around on the wood floor some more. The closet door opens once and John hears what must be her shoes coming off.
“Shite…” she whispers and sighs again.
As she walks around the room, Sherlock pulls out his mobile and texts something quickly. John nudges Sherlock and shakes his head in question. Sherlock only raises his eyebrows and somehow pockets his mobile again in the confined space.
Then their suspect’s footsteps seem to walk away. John hears the bathroom door close with a sharp click. Almost immediately Sherlock sides out from under the bed, John following a second after. Sherlock whips around the bed and grabs John’s wrist, pulling him out of the room and silently down the stairs. Sherlock crosses the sitting room in front of John when something falls upstairs and they hear the bathroom door open.
“Hello?” The woman calls hesitantly.
Sherlock yanks John forward. They run through the kitchen, hit the back door and then out into the yard.
“Here!” Sherlock points to the gate just as he slams into it and somehow sends them both falling through.
They race down the alley until they come out onto the next street. Finally they stop, panting against the building wall. John peeks back down the alley they came up just in case but there is no one.
“Ugh,” John groans, “so much running.”
Sherlock huffs. “Hardly.”
“I sit at a desk most of the day. This is a lot.”
Sherlock snorts
“All right, all right.” John chuckles. “Good to get out of the flat though.”
“Your breadbox.”
“Ha, a bit. Good reason not to go home.”
Sherlock scoffs. “Home.”
“It’s what I’ve got.”
They stand in silence for moment as they start to breathe slower. John knocks his head back against the wall and looks up at the stars, faint from light pollution but still there. Sherlock stands up suddenly and straightens his coat. He turns his head to gaze John, his serious face on. John tilts his head back, breathing nearly normal now. He raises both eyebrows.
Sherlock looks away down the street and puts his hands in his pockets. “Just come back to Baker Street, John.”
John watches Sherlock’s back, that coat John has followed so many times. Sherlock head shifts just a bit, his focus on what is behind him, waiting.
John looks at his hands and smiles. “Okay.”
------------------
John balances a box in one arm, a bag over his shoulder as well, while he unlocks the front door of Baker Street with the other hand. He walks up the stairs and into the old flat. It's only been a few weeks since he has been here but last time was only for ten minutes when Sherlock needed some ammonium. Standing in the door now the flat reminds him of years ago, those same two chairs and Sherlock’s violin.
Sherlock himself is seated on the couch with his computer in his lap.
“You going to help me?” John asks.
“Hmm,” Sherlock replies which means he isn’t listening.
John rolls his eyes then turns back to the hall. He climbs up the stairs to the second bedroom which was always his before it became his and Mary’s for a time. Oddly the room does not remind him much of Mary. He knows they shared it once but before that it was his alone. Somehow the place seems to have circled all the way back. He imagines Mary would have laughed and turned that into a metaphor.
‘The circle of time, John?’
John smiles then puts the box and the bag down on the bed. “Somehow I always end up back here.”
It takes John a minute, after he has started to pull out a few things from his bag, to realize the bed is made with gray sheets and a black comforter. John pulls his hands out of his bag and stares. He did not bring those or buy them. John looks up around the room more critically this time. The old side table he and Mary left is still there but the lamp is new, something vaguely IKEA. The dresser by the closet is new as well, a dark wood that shines when John shifts from side to side. The curtains on the window could be new but to be honest, John never paid them much attention. A blue cushioned chair John does not recognize sits under the window.
“Huh…” John chews the inside of his cheek for a moment then heads back downstairs.
Sherlock still sits on the couch, cross legged now and typing fast. John coasts his eyes around the room and realizes something strange.
“Did you clean?”
Sherlock stops typing.
The table between the windows is completely clear, minus a polite pile of newspaper print outs. John sees a couple of boxes under the table, one stacked neatly on top of the other. The book shelves in the wall flanking the fireplace are both full of books along with a few other hodgepodge items. However, as John looks closer, the books are in alphabetical order by author and there are no loose books lying on top of others or even any dangling off the edge of shelves. Each row of books has some item or two nicely keeping the books standing straight - a large external hard drive as well as a box of padlocks to name a few. The shelves around the entrance to the kitchen hold only the printer and a lamp on one side while the other displays a few personal items - a small Japanese sword and three framed sets of butterflies. The small book shelf beside the couch in the corner has two neat rows of books with the top shelf holding a few framed photographs and Sherlock’s skull. The mantel piece is completely clear, no dirty coffee mugs or pierced in knives. The mirror over the mantel is unobstructed and all the surfaces - lamps and TV included - appear to be dusted.
John slowly looks down at Sherlock. Sherlock continues staring at his computer screen with his lips pursed.
“You cleaned.” Sherlock faces twitches and John smiles. “You cleaned!”
John walks in and over to the kitchen. On the table where often an array of chemistry supplies take up space, tea for two sits.
“And you made tea.”
Sherlock eyes slide to the side but he says nothing. John rocks on his heels once then steps into the kitchen. He adds sugar and milk to two cups then pours in some tea. He picks up the tea by the saucers, walks back into the living room and around to the side of the couch.
John holds out one cup of tea to Sherlock. “Is this how you say ‘welcome back?’”
Sherlock finally looks up from his laptop. “No.” He pushes his laptop onto the coffee table then reaches up and takes a tea from John.
John sits down beside Sherlock and blows on his tea.
Sherlock takes a sip of his and glances at John. “This is how I say ‘stay.’”
-----------------------
John pushed the buzzer at the building entrance and checks his mobile again. He clicks his tongue and glances down the street behind him. He pushes the buzzer again.
“Hi, yeah,” the call box crackles once, “who is it?”
“It’s John.”
“Diane, could you - fuck - sorry. John, yeah, come on up.”
The door buzzes and John pulls the knob. He climbs up the three flights, passing one door cracked open and what sounds like a football game on inside, before he knocks on Lacy’s door just to the left of the stairs. He hears something fall inside and a cat meowing.
“Can you make it shut up!” He hears Diane shout.
“I told you to leave Winston alone!”
“It is just a -“ something else crashes and John cannot quite discern which curses Diane chooses.
Then the door swings open, Lacy with wet hair and a t-shirt on. John’s mouth drops open for a second as Lacy has neglected to put on trousers but she scoffs at him. “Oh really, you’re my brother in law.”
“Emphasis on the ‘in law,’ you could of -“
“I was in the shower and Diane was being…” She grumbles and walks backward waving a hand. “Come on.”
“Diane is…” John raises an eyebrow. “Staying with you.”
Lacy breathes in slowly and nods. “Yup, for a month.”
“A month.”
“A month,” Lacy says definitively.
John purses his lips. “Okay.”
“So,” Lacy walks to the right into the kitchen then straight through again into the living and dining room. Diane is sitting in one of the large bay windows, the tabby cat stalking back and forth underneath. She shoots a cursory smile at John then goes back to her book. “Have you come for tea?” Lacy looks at the clock in the wall between the two windows then twirls around to face John again. “Or something else?”
“Actually,” John clears his throat and focuses on Lacy’s now blond hair and absolutely nothing else, “I came to get a few boxes.”
At that Diane perks up in the window. “What?”
“Oh!” Lacy nods. “Sure, yeah, you wanna?” She points behind her then leads John on past the couch and into the little hall, bedroom on the left and bath on the right with a closet door straight ahead.
“Could you…” John points at Lacy’s bedroom. “Just, could…”
Lacy sighs. “God, fine.” She ducks into the room and comes out a few seconds later with a pair of boxer shorts on. “Better?”
“Marginally.”
“I don’t think Mary is going to yell at you.”
“Oh, believe me, I can hear her right now.”
Lacy cracks a smile at that. She turns and opens the closet door and pulls the cord for the light. The closet is large enough that one person can walk in, shelves on all sides. To the right are towels and sheets of mostly the green and yellow shade while on the left are dozens of Tupperware bins filled with clothes, nail polish, paints, beads, a soldering iron; John stops trying to catalog it all. The back shelf contains a number of cardboard boxes, the third shelf up holds a few labeled ‘Mary and John.’
“Do you want them all?” Lacy asks. “I think there is four, can you carry all that?”
“There’s just two I wanted now. I can get the others later, if you don’t mind?”
Lacy shakes her head. “No, no, I…” She smiles softly. “I kind of like having them here.”
John breathes out audibly. “Yeah.” He point around her at two of the boxes. “The winter clothes there and the small Oxford box.”
“Isn’t that just class notes?”
John shakes his head. “It has momentous too.”
Lacy pulls the large box down and hands it to John, following with the smaller one on top. “Got it?”
“Yeah, thanks.” John backs up a few steps so Lacy can exit the closet.
She pulls the light off again then closes the door. She shifts her weight to the side and chews her lip. “How’re you?”
“I’m good.”
“Good?”
John nods slowly. “Yes, back to work, everything.”
Lacy stands up straight and crosses her arms. “Moved back to that old flat, haven’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“The one with that guy that faked his death?”
John coughs and nods. “Uh, yeah.”
“Uh huh.”
“It’s just…”
“No, no.” Lacy points toward the living room. “I mean I’ve got… I understand.”
John nods. “She doing okay?”
Lacy scratches her head and nods. “Uh, yeah, mostly, yeah. She’s always been… well, you know. I think though… well, she has a job now and is only late about half the time, so I call that a plus.” Lacy grins.
“What about you?”
Lacy smiles. “I am. I’m good. I remember the good things, you know?” John nods. “I wear that one necklace of hers, the one with the three purple flowers, just about every day. Makes me feel like she’s with me.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah, seeing a guy too.” John raises both eyebrows and Lacy grins broader. “Oh yeah. He’s a catch; looks like Idris Elba and can throw me over his shoulder without a problem. It’s marvelous.”
John shifts the boxes in his arms and clears his throat. “And I am not going to think any deeper on that.”
Lacy giggles. “Well, I suspect you want to be off?”
“Sorry, want to get these home.”
Lacy holds an arm out indicating the hall and they walk back out into the living room. Diane sits up in the window as they come in and puts down her book. She smiles at John but doesn’t say anything.
“Diane.”
“John.”
John looks at her for moment but just smiles and nods once more. Diane holds up a hand for a wave but stays sitting where she is. John follows Lacy through the kitchen again and out to the front door. She flips the lock and holds open the door. John walks through and turns back with a smile for ‘goodbye.’
“John, are you…” Lacy asks suddenly, before John can move to the stairs. “Are you really doing better?”
“Yeah,” John nods. “Yeah, I think so.”
-----------------------
When John takes Sherlock with him to Mary’s grave the sun shines and no wind blows. John brings flowers, small things he already forgets the name of. He cannot guarantee Mary would have liked them. Her opinion on flowers changed by the season, sometimes beautiful and other times a crime against snow. It does not matter though because he knows she would smile either way at the gesture.
“Are we entering or not, John?”
John blinks back to himself and smiles up at Sherlock. “Yeah, this way.”
Sherlock ‘hmms’ and John sees his hand twitch in want of a cigarette. The Déjà vu is not unexpected.
John takes them left down a narrow row. The grave yard is far less spacious than others John has been forced to visit before. Some of Mary’s family members are buried here and her mother insisted. It never really mattered where to John, mostly that she had somewhere. They turn right and up four rows before they cross into the graves again and stop in front of a modest, gray stone.
“Hi, Mary,” John whispers.
Sherlock sighs beside him but refrains from what no doubt was something akin to ‘she cannot hear you.’
John crouches and places the flowers on the grave. A fresh bunch of lilies are in the flower holder on the left of the grave. John suspects they are from Mary’s father, not more than a few days old. John stands again then backs up a step in line with Sherlock.
“Wonderful. Are we off?”
John turns his head and gives Sherlock a glare. Sherlock frowns for only a moment before forcing out a smile and putting his hands in his pockets.
"I did this same thing with Mary, you know,” John says after a minute, “flowers to your grave"
"I imagine she was more magnanimous than I."
John smiles. "Isn't everyone?"
“True.” Sherlock’s hand shifts in his pocket and John wonders if it’s cigarettes or mobile. Then Sherlock shakes his head. “Why would you bring flowers to my grave, John? It is a ridiculous gesture.”
“You know the act wasn’t really for you, right?”
Sherlock makes another ‘hmm’ noise which could be genuine learning of social behavior or confirmation of John’s point. For a second, John wonders just what Sherlock’s reaction would be to the death of someone he cared for; what would Sherlock have done if John was the one who jumped off a building? He remembers the way Sherlock reacted to Irene’s supposed death, a woman whom Sherlock had barely known when it came down to it. How many violin pieces would Sherlock have written for John? Would Sherlock have come to John’s grave to grieve?
John tilts his head then leans forward and brushes off some leaves from the top of Mary’s grave. He knows more will collect later but Mary always tried to keep their flat and their house clean. John can do the same for her.
John sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes. He remembers Mary standing beside him when he was reading Sherlock’s name. Her hand squeezing his, ‘you need to tell me about him…’ His hand on the grave speaking to Sherlock, ‘I really like her, maybe you would have too.’ It’s so surreal to have the situation flipped around now. How many people can say something like that?
“This is surreal,” John says out loud.
“My presence or some mirrored memories?” Sherlock asks.
“Both.”
“The similarities?”
“And some differences.”
John sees Sherlock look at him out of the corner of his eye. “Do you… would you rather I… left?”
“No.” John shakes his head. "Sometimes I feel like I am living two lives.” He whispers. “One with you and one with her, same components but all jumbled together."
Sherlock remains silent for a minute then says, "Mary isn't coming back, John."
“No" John breathes in and shakes his head. "Not like you.” He smiles at Sherlock. “But you were always special.”
The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks up but he says nothing. John can’t help but notice how often Sherlock holds his tongue now. He wonders if that came from three years without him or the time after. Maybe Sherlock just has more mysteries now. John turns back to Mary’s grave.
He thinks, ‘I told you I would be okay, Mary.’
‘Mostly,’ he hears her say, sees her smile, sees her cock her head to the side. ‘Don’t forget to keep missing me. I must be immortal.’
John smiles to himself, ‘Never, Mary.’
“John?”
“Let’s go.” John touches Sherlock’s arm and turns them both away from the grave.
They walk back through the grass, crunching on leaves, and out through the gates. Sherlock pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket as they exit but John snatches it out of his hand.
“John, you -“
“Nope.”
“I did not ask you to -“
“Sorry.”
“John, I have been -“
“Too bad, not happening.”
“If I wanted to I could get those -“
“Back from me?” John snorts. “Try it.”
Sherlock frowns petulantly. “Mary would have been on my side.”
John chuckles and almost gives the pack back just for that. “Maybe.”
Sherlock frowns and puts his hands back in his pockets. “Fine, John.”
Sherlock walks ahead of John toward the road. A wind suddenly whips through the trees and send’s the end of Sherlock’s coat rippling. Sherlock stops at the road then turns to look over his shoulder, curly hair flipping into his eyes.
“Come on, John.”
John realizes suddenly, why hadn’t he before, that everything is different this time because right from the start he’s had someone to fall into instead of falling alone.
------------------------
John sits by the fireplace with a book Harry gave him, some crime novel she was convinced he would enjoy because ‘you’re doing that stuff again.’ He’s only reading it to prove to her how not real it is. Across the room Sherlock lies on the couch with a stack of cold case files on his chest.
“Hung himself.” Sherlock closes the file and puts it on the floor.
“Suicide or accident?”
Sherlock chuckles but before he can answer his mobile begins to buzz. Sherlock picks it up and frowns, sliding a thumb across the screen to off. “No.”
“Who was it?”
“No one I wish to talk to.”
“Greg or Mycroft?”
Sherlock humphs. A second later his mobile begins to buzz again. Sherlock picks it up and slides it on this time, holding it out in front of his face. “Do you think calling a second time will make me want to answer more? Good bye.”
“Sher -“
Sherlock hangs up.
“Sherlock,” John chides.
“If it is so serious, Mycroft can swoop over in a company car.”
“Are you saying you want to see him? Sentiment?”
Sherlock picks up another case file and shoots John a look. “Your humor is forever a mystery to me.”
When the mobile buzzes a third time, Sherlock picks up the mobile and heaves it toward John. “You talk to him.”
“Sher - don’t!” John catches it just before it hits the mantel above him. “Christ, do you want to break your mobile?”
“It would be worth it.”
John answers the mobile and puts it to his ear. “Hi Mycroft.”
“John.” Mycroft sighs. “I assume my brother is still nearby?”
“Yeah, on the couch.”
“And is he busy?”
John purses his lips. “I am going to toe the line here on that one and say 'I do not know.'”
“Politic of you. Do tell him that the family dinner this year is a requirement, even if I have to send some gentlemen to escort him.”
“Mycroft says you have to come to dinner.”
Sherlock scoffs and jumps up from the couch. “If he can catch me.” Then he walks past John and into the kitchen.
John smiles then closes his book and puts it down in his lap. “Anything else?” John says to Mycroft.
Mycroft sighs quietly. “How are you faring, John? Feeling at home again back in the old flat, I trust?”
“Yep, just like old times.”
“Well, certainly not completely ‘like old times,’ John, but that is good to hear.”
John’s brow scrunches. “What do you mean?”
“Surely it has not escaped your notice how Sherlock has changed, John.”
“I…” John glances back into the kitchen. Sherlock stands at the sink, washing a mug. “Yes, he has.”
“John, I never dared to hope that Sherlock disposition could have improved in the way it has. Certainly he is the same stubborn, irrational, and tactless man he has always been in many regards. Yet…” Mycroft hums once. “Well, you have certainly changed him, haven’t you?”
John stares straight ahead at the empty chair in front of him, sounds of water running in the kitchen still behind him. “I haven’t tried to.”
“I am not saying this is a negative, John. The way he speaks about you is particularly singular and not something I thought him capable of in the past.”
“What? He talks to you about me?”
Mycroft chuckles in his polite way. “John, nearly every time we happen to converse, uncommon as such an occurrence may be, the subject of you does invariably come up. Does this surprise you?”
John’s lip quirks. “I guess not.”
“I know he has been… well, he has been trying for you, John. He is rarely good with the emotions of others, let alone his own, but I know he has been making an effort for you in regards to Dr. Morstan. I do hope it has not been in vain.”
Sherlock appears at John’s side and holds out John's 'Royal Army Medical Corp' mug full of tea. John looks up slowly at Sherlock. “It hasn’t,” John says and takes the mug from Sherlock.
Sherlock raises an eyebrow but does not ask. Instead he turns and walks back to the couch, flopping down almost on top of his case files.
“Remind him about the dinner, John,” Mycroft says quietly then hangs up.
John clicks off the mobile and puts it down on the small table beside the chair. The book he was reading slips off his lap onto the floor but John ignores it. He holds his tea and watches Sherlock as he turns pages in a case file. Sherlock smirks at one page then lifts the sheet for a moment before letting it fall again.
“Sherlock,” John says.
“Hmm?”
“I…”
Sherlock turns and looks at John, case file still in his hands. John stares at Sherlock until Sherlock raises both eyebrows. “Yes, John?”
John lets the tea mug in his hand lower and rest on his thigh. “Thank you.”
Sherlock nods and turns back to his file.
“No,” John insists and Sherlock turns back again with a small frown. “I mean…” John breathes in. “Thank you.”
Sherlock stares for a long minute then smiles a fraction. “Of course, John.”
-------------------------
Sherlock walks in a circle around the corpse six times before Greg finally sighs and shoots John a look. John shakes his head. Greg clenches his jaw and nods vigorously. John puts his palms up and shrugs. ‘Come on!’ Greg mouths. John only grins.
“Are you two finished?”
John and Greg turn to look at Sherlock. Sherlock stands at the feet of the corpse, just barely a centimeter from the edge of the stage yet still out of the rain falling on the seating. He clicks another few times on his mobile then looks up.
John glances at Greg who sighs again. “Well, what then?”
Sherlock smirks. “Care to take a guess?”
Greg frowns. “If I did, I wouldn’t have called you.”
Sherlock snorts. “John?”
John tilts his head. “No sign of any entry wounds or blunt force trauma. Looks like time of death is about ten hours ago, give or take. Some marks around the neck not sure about strangulation though.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Could do with a bit of choking however.”
“You could?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “The color of the face is -“
“Yes, got that, but he doesn’t have anything in his throat so -“
“So, perhaps there is something in his lungs?”
“But there isn’t, we saw that -“
“Ah, but there once was.”
John and Greg shoot each other a look. John takes up the line this time, “Really?”
Sherlock rocks back and forth on his heels. “Oh yes.”
Greg sighs loudly. “Just cut to the chase.”
“Interesting choice of idiom, Lestrade, as chases can often take a good deal of time.”
Greg only stares until Sherlock bounces on his heels and comes around the side of the corpse, leaning down. “Smell that.”
“No.”
“Not from there, perhaps, come down here.”
“Oh no, that’s what I meant.”
“John?”
John flashes Greg a look. Greg shakes his head ‘don’t’ but John kneels down and leans in close. He pulls back sharply. “God!”
“Hmm, yes, classic alcoholic pub smell.”
“And then some.”
John and Sherlock stand up at the same time. Sherlock points down at their victim. “He may be ‘high and dry’ now but that smell is far more than just a spill on the clothes; that is coming from the pores. This man was soaked and, if you must prove on the autopsy table you can, drowned in alcohol.”
“I wish it were me,” Greg mutters.
John snorts a laugh but controls himself.
“The question is...” Sherlock pulls his mobile out again and snaps a picture of the corpse.
“Oi!” Greg snaps.
“Where he was really killed as it is obviously not here; who would feel the need to murder a divorced, bat mitten playing, dog walker; how the killer administered such a large amount of alcohol with very little signs of struggle; and why the choice of murder weapon was specifically gin and rum alcohol.”
“Don’t care to throw in the ‘what?’” John jokes.
Sherlock hops right over the body and turns John around by his shoulder. “Come, lead.”
“Wait!” Greg shouts after them. “If you have-“
“We shall text!” Sherlock shouts back.
They hurry away into the rain and up the hill from the amphitheater. Sherlock grins and almost bounces as he walks. John has to jog to keep up with Sherlock's long strides.
“So, where to?”
“Cab.”
“You know that’s not a location, right?”
Sherlock stops and smiles at John, his hair starting to slacken with water. “Oh John, perhaps you could do with a little surprise.”
John grins and runs after Sherlock; All he can think of is case after case, near misses and brilliant realizations and always that wonderful rush he never tires of.
------------------------
John sits with his laptop open in front of him on the table. He gazes out the window behind him at the buildings across the street. Snow from yesterday still sticks to some of the windows, collected on the small panes. It makes him think of New Years and violin music.
“Always back here,” John mutters.
John certainly does not regret moving to a house with Mary, that house was perfect and smelled like spring all the time. Once they were married buying a home had been just what they wanted. Yet for John, 221B must be hooked onto his soul. Since the first time he stepped into this flat it has been the center of his life; with Sherlock, alone, with Mary, and now Sherlock again. It is not exactly a circle but it is coming home.
“John, tea!” Sherlock shouts from his bedroom.
John rolls his eyes and turns his head around back look in the flat. “You’re closer!”
“I am working!”
“No, you’re not!”
“It is an important case, John.”
“Staring at the pattern of photographs on your floor does not mean you cannot stand up.”
“Yes, it does!”
John chuckles and looks at his computer screen. He clicks chrome and brings up a website he has not been on for years now.
His eyes shift up, the wall turned to a neutral brown paint though John feels like he can still tell where the bullet holes once were. Sherlock’s couch looks perhaps a bit more battered but the bookshelf has remained tidy from John’s first day back in residence. His black jacket is draped on the arm of the chair in the corner while Sherlock’s long gray coat hangs on the open door.
The flat does not look like Mary anymore, no creams chairs or Shakespeare but that’s all right; the flat isn’t wholly Sherlock either. Whatever the flat has become, it fits John perfectly. He always wants his feet on these floors, always wants his bed to be here, always wants to call it home.
He logs in to his old blog, clicks the link for ‘new post’ and starts with the title: “Back at 221B.”
“John?” Sherlock calls again, not shouting anymore.
Hands hovering over the keys, John realizes right this second that his life has fallen back into place, back into balance where he needs it to be. John smiles, “Sherlock?”
“Tea? Please, John?”