Sherlock knew he used to mean a lot to John, but John also had meant just as much to him, if not far more. John made human connections almost effortlessly, it seemed, always finding a new girlfriend almost immediately after it was broken off with the one previous. For Sherlock, though, it was nearly impossible. Whether he got irritated by their stupidity or they got put off by his attitude in general, he never made anything more than an acquaintance in his entire life until John came along. It was like a whirlwind of new feelings after he showed up. Suddenly, Sherlock had the progression of flatmate, colleague, friend, best friend and lover in John, all within mere months of meeting him. Just when he would think it couldn't possibly get any better than it was, it did, and he never wanted it to end. Leaving him and indeed staying away from him for all that time was the hardest endeavor he'd ever endured. He wanted to go back every single day, and every day that he couldn't was another heartbreak.
He can feel how his words are affecting John as much as see it, wishing he could touch him again, even if just for a moment. He couldn't though, not yet. He goes silent when John speaks, feeling his stomach flip when he trails off. His fingers twitch on the arms of his chair, poised to fling himself to the floor and grovel at his feet for making him feel this way.
Just when he thought he couldn't possibly feel worse after believing he made John cry, he does when he realizes it's laughter rather than tears. He stares, wide-eyed and frightful at the sound of it, the bottom dropping out of his stomach as realization dawns on him that this was so much worse than he imagined. And then, it gets worse yet again. Engaged. John was engaged, and his insides twist excruciatingly at the knowledge. He should have expected this. Whatever hopeless romantic side of him had surfaced when he was with John held onto the pathetically deluded idea that he would have waited for him, but he knew that was a long shot. John thought he was dead, and he objectively rationalized that he would have to give up on him eventually.
He shouldn't have come. He should have stayed away and left John with the belief that he was something approaching a good man. Maybe he could have believed for a moment that he deserved him if he had. He just had to give in to the selfish desire to see him again, didn't he?
He feels like he can hardly breathe, and the instinct to just run from all this crushing emotional distress descending over him was strong. He can't look at John, instead focusing on an invisible point of interest on the floor. The knowledge that he really didn't belong here had him standing, his eyes on the door. "I should go, shouldn't I?" he asks quietly, not trusting himself to say anymore and upset John further. The ball is immediately back in John's court, one word from him being the difference between trying to pick up the pieces of them or Sherlock leaving his life again, forever this time.
*cuddles* I promise it will get better! <3mightbebloggingFebruary 13 2012, 04:18:02 UTC
Although Sherlock doesn't say anything at first, John can see it, there in his eyes. The fright, and then the surprise. They might not have spoken for three years, but he likes to still think he knows him. He remembers him. He thinks he can practically hear that an inner struggle is going on inside the other man, and it twists his own stomach painfully. John swallows hard, staring at Sherlock and silently willing him to look back at him, as if maybe that shared connection in their eyes will somehow make everything right again. It's silly to think as much, of course. This can't be fixed overnight... and he's not even sure what needs to be fixed. Their friendship? They had always been so much more than friends, how could they be platonic now? Even three years later, he wasn't sure how to be just friends with this man, and he has the sudden, inexplicable urge to jump up, take him into his arms, and tell him just that.
...but would that be the right course of action? Mary. Mary was a very real presence in his life. Christ, she was his fiancee, after all. Of course he cared about her deeply. But she wasn't Sherlock, and it hadn't mattered that she wasn't Sherlock, because she seemed like the next best thing, and anyway, Sherlock was dead, right?
When the silent man suddenly stands, John finds himself shooting up shakily to his feet as well before he realizes what he's doing. He shakes his head. "Sherlock... stay," he says simply, brow furrowing a bit. "Please. There are... things that need to be said. Let me explain it to you, alright? Let me try." As if on cue, he hears the sound of the water boiling, but he doesn't immediately go to fetch the tea. His eyes silently plead with Sherlock to stay, and he doesn't turn to leave until he's sure that he will indeed not leave. "I'll get the tea, just... sit. Please."
Tea was the last thing he wanted right now, but he went to get it, anyway. Perhaps it would help. It was very British of him, he supposed. He returns a moment later with two glasses, and hands Sherlock his. Their fingers brush, and it's such a small, accidental thing, but it's still torture to him, and he quickly pulls his hand back and away. "It's just the way you like it, as long as your tastes haven't changed," he says quietly, returning to his own seat. Setting his tea aside to cool, he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, before beginning.
"I want you to know I didn't go off looking for her," he began quietly, closing his eyes as he remembered, and because looking at Sherlock was a bit painful. "The first year you were gone, I missed you... so much, it literally hurt. Harry, bless her - she helped me get by and try to move on, but I fought her stubbornly for a long time. We hadn't gotten on well in a long time, but she was patient with me. I went back to seeing my therapist. My leg started hurting again. I didn't... I didn't want to go on without you, Sherlock, it was the most difficult thing I've ever done. But you were gone, and there was no miracle, you weren't coming back. I had to start living again. I was a soldier, it's what we do, we bloody soldier on." He sighed, opening his eyes and looking back up at Sherlock. "I served with her father in Afghanistan. I think you might actually like Mary - she's intelligent, witty, terribly independent. I suppose she... reminded me of you, in a way." John swallowed hard, having to look away again, shifting restlessly in his seat. "We, um, met almost two years ago, and have been dating for a while. I only just asked her to marry me... a few days ago."
He narrowed his eyes at the other, needing to emphasize his point. "I thought you were dead, Sherlock. If I'd known that you... that you were still out there, somewhere, I wouldn't have... not with her, not with anyone, do you... do you understand?" But his hardened expression breaks, and he has to turn his head and cover his face one his hand again. This time... there are silent tears. He's surprised he's held them back long into their 'reunion,' to be perfectly honest.
Okay bb I believe you :cshutupimageniusFebruary 14 2012, 04:15:35 UTC
Sherlock wants to look at John again, but not if all he was going to see was disdain. He knew it was probably the least of what he deserved, but that didn't make it any easier to see just how he'd affected him. It feels like he's suffocating in this familiar yet so foreign room, and the urge to just get out had him standing almost without realizing it. He just wanted to find a dark room and smoke and drink himself into oblivion, leaving John to have a happy marriage without having to look after him.
John's voice is the only thing that can make it through the haze of uncertainty, and it has him finally looking back at him. He's sure he didn't hear him right at first, that he's just inserting what he wants to hear. He can't imagine why John would want him to stay after everything he put him through, so he listens very carefully next time he speaks. He feels a flicker of warmth at what he hears, the fact that John wanted him to stay making him take his seat again without hesitation.
He's thrumming with anticipation as John gets their tea, not sure what he's expecting but feeling the slightest bit better that John didn't just tell him to sod off like he was halfway expecting. He watches as John returns, the brush of their fingers affecting him far more than it probably should have. More memories were brought to the surface by the mere touch of his hand, remembering how those hands used to make him feel so safe and loved. That on top of the fact that John remembered how he took his tea made him wonder how he was meant to sit by as this extraordinary man that he loved so much it hurt married someone else.
He watches as John speaks, feeling the tug at his heartstrings as he was taken through everything he went through in his absence and wishing he could have been there. His gaze is solemn as he speaks of the woman, the fact that she reminded John of him a small iota of comfort even though the fact remained that she wasn't him.
His features are obviously pained as John tells him that he wouldn't have done it if he thought he was alive, wishing he could have found some way to get him a message that wouldn't have compromised his safety. He doesn't have time to come to terms with the fact that John would have waited for him before John's crying and he doesn't know what to do. His first instinct is to leap across the room and pull him into a tight embrace, but he's not sure if he should because he didn't think he'd be able to let him go. Was he even allowed to touch him? His fingers grip at the arms of his chair and he shifts a little in indecision, waiting for any signal from John as to where to go from here. "John, tell me what I should do. Please. Something, anything. Please." he begs in quiet desperation, ready to leap up and do whatever he had to so John would forgive him.
<33 Last of the edits, SORRY. xDmightbebloggingFebruary 16 2012, 03:27:53 UTC
John wasn't any less clueless about this entire situation than Sherlock was. Everything was a confused mess of overwhelming emotions. How was one supposed to act when suddenly confronted by the former lover they'd thought had been dead for the past three years? He'd missed him, of course he'd missed him. He'd never stopped missing him... but he'd had to move on. No one, even the lovely Mary hadn't filled the void left behind by Sherlock. It was impossible to replace him, and he had always been one of a kind. To say that losing him had been a difficult blow was an understatement. It had nearly killed him. Now, to have him back again, as if from the dead, he knows he should be happy - he should be beside himself with excitement and relief and love, and perhaps he is, but it's too jumbled and confused inside him. Tears seem a very natural reaction, even for the former soldier who doesn't like showing this sort of weakness in front of others.
He hears the other man's words, and he can't practically feel his restless unease. That tone of begging, of pleading there on his voice nearly tears the poor doctor completely apart. He knows he has to say something, anything, like Sherlock said... but he's afraid to open his mouth. He's afraid what might come out might... be the wrong thing. Was there a wrong thing to say? Was there a wrong thing to do? They hadn't even touched yet. John hadn't punched him or hugged him or anything. Right now, he's hesitant to just look at him, and his jaw clenches as he tries to control the tears behind that hand stubbornly covering his eyes.
"Damn it, Sherlock," he let out a shuddering sigh, trying furiously to regain whatever composure he had left, and that wasn't very much. Slowly dropping his hand, he revealed reddened eyes and a hardened expression. Staring across the small distance between them, he slowly stood, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. Slowly, he started towards the other man, and for a long moment, it almost looked as if he might actually punch him. But something shifted in his expression, and softened, turning into a look that was more broken and he bit his lower lip hard so a sob wouldn't escape. But when he opened his mouth to speak, his voice was weakened and hoarse.
"Come here," he managed in that voice he was sure didn't sound pretty, but at the moment, he hardly cared. He opened his arms up just a little bit. "Please." And the moment Sherlock stood and was close enough, John would literally fall into his arms and lean into a tight hug, as if his legs could not support his body any longer - as if this one, powerful embrace that had been so very long in coming would make everything better again, somehow. Because despite everything - the fact he was engaged, the fact Sherlock had lied to him all these long three years - he deserved this, at least... even if it was all he was allowed to have.
Sherlock wasn't immune to all the conflicting emotions either, as hard as some may find that to believe. There was guilt -a lot of guilt-, as well as longing and heartache and so many others that he couldn't even find words for. He had waited for this moment every minute of every day for those three years, feeling like he was so ready for this when he really wasn't ready at all. Three years of looking forward to this reunion didn't bring him any closer to understanding how he should act or indeed if he should even be here. It feels like he's drowning in anguish as he watches John cry and knows that no matter what he'd like to do, he wasn't sure what he should do in this situation.
He had never begged in his life until John, but now he was ready to plead for the rest of his life for any little sliver of forgiveness he could gain. John deserved no less than Sherlock devoting his life to his happiness, and he would remain at the ready to do what he had to even though the position was seemingly already filled. He would never love anyone else, but John deserved a chance with someone who wouldn't pretend to be dead for three years, didn't he? If she truly made John happy, he would never try to intervene, but if there was somehow a chance for him...he would take it without question. Maybe that made him selfish, but he already knew all too well of that character flaw in himself and had learned to accept it.
When John speaks and looks up at him, his chest clenches painfully at what he sees there. To know that this was all his fault, that he was the one who made John feel that way, it was killing him inside. He watches him stand, not moving a muscle as he closes the distance between them. He braces himself, but doesn't flinch, ready to take whatever punishment John saw fit. John could beat him senseless, make him bleed profusely and Sherlock would sit there and take it because he believed it to be the least he deserved.
He sees the shift in John's features, though, and sees that he won't be hit just yet written on his face. He's elated at that, both at the fact that he wouldn't be hurt and that he could still read John's face like he'd never left. John's words have him leaping up, but he waits for John's arms to come around him just to be sure. His legs actually did physically stop supporting him, and he ends up kneeling down in utter emotional exhaustion with his arms still wrapped tight around John. He squeezes John tightly, marveling at how they still fit together and this still felt so right even after all this time. "I'm so sorry, John." he whispers into his ear, moving his hand to gently stroke his hair in an effort to reassure him somehow. His eyes fall shut and he just appreciates the simple joy of getting to hold him again, to know that this is real and not one of the countless times he would dream of this before waking up alone.
It felt like coming home. John knew the phrase was cliche and stupid and ridiculous, but when they touched, it was the first thought that leaped into his mind. He fell to his knees, along with Sherlock, leaning into the embrace, grabbing fist-fulls of his shirt and holding on tightly. The sound that escaped his lips was a mixture of sigh and sob, shuddering out of his trembling body. Everything was Sherlock - the familiar but foreign smell of him, the warm, solid feel of him and also the softness around his edges. They couldn't possibly be any closer in their embrace, and yet, it still wasn't enough - he needed more, needed for his entire world to be only filled with this man he'd thought was dead. He was touching him, he was real, and John couldn't stop himself from burying his nose in Sherlock's hair, breathing in that scent he'd only dreamed of, and imagined he could smell so many times. The flat never stopped smelling of Sherlock, at least in his mind, but this was so much more real. He revels in the lovely feel of the man's unruly curls against his face. The hands stroking his hair feel somehow so impossibly good for such a little thing, and he almost sobs again, although the soft, muffled sound that comes out of him is closer to a strained whimper.
Sherlock's apologetic words reach his ears and he grimaces hard, only tightening his grip on the consulting detective. There was much for him to be sorry for, true, but the good doctor also can't help feeling guilty. Although he's not completely sure if his guilt was because he had 'cheated' on this man by finding another... or because he was 'cheating' on Mary by going back to this man. But it is only an embrace, right? Completely harmless, something they both needed. And yet... were Mary to walk in right now, he's aware it might not appear completely innocent. It does not help that she knows about Sherlock - that he told her about him. They didn't keep many secrets. And there is the very real possibility she will walk in - they do not live together, but she has a key into the flat. She's stayed over before, although he usually prefers to stay at her place. He didn't tell her why, of course, but truth be told... he always felt 221B belonged to him and Sherlock, and the memories of their time there together.
But he doesn't tell Sherlock about all of that now. Call it selfish of him, but he doesn't want to. Right now, he just wants to stay like this forever - an impossibly naive wish, he knows, but as the minutes go by, he isn't any closer to pulling away. "Talk to me, Sherlock," he murmurs, leaning his cheek against the other's chest and pressing his ear above his heart. He hears the quickened beating of that precious heart, another reminder that he is indeed alive and back here, again, with him. As it's meant to be. His hands begin moving restlessly upon Sherlock's back, as if unable to find purchase and wanting to pull him even closer. Moving his chin up a bit, his nose brushes against Sherlock's neck, and his breath is warm against the pale skin there. "Just... tell me where you've been. Tell me what you've seen. Tell me what you've been doing." Tell me over and over again how much you missed me. But he stops himself from uttering those words, much as he wants to say them. To hear Sherlock's beautiful voice, that voice he had missed so much, would be more than enough.
Sherlock clung to John just as tight, feeling complete again for the first time in three years. Hearing and feeling John's shudders and whimpers against him was so difficult to handle, and there was no helping the way his own face heated up as tears prickled at the corners of his eyes. He had missed this every single moment of every single day he was away, and he was so grateful that John allowed him this. John had every right to hate him, of course he did, and the fact that he didn't was so very incredible and so very John. He breathes deep the scent of him and enjoys the warmth of him that seemed to seep through his clothing and into his very skin. He continues to toy with John's hair, feeling another pang of longing for lazy mornings where he would get to do this until John woke up and greeted him with a smile and a kiss. This embrace was far more than he deserved, though, and he was infinitely grateful for it.
He has a similar want to just stay here, just like this and go back to how they used to be without question. He knew it wouldn't be that easy, and that John deserved some kind of explanation. John's voice makes his heart hammer in his chest, that heart that always had and always would belong solely to John, and he cradles his head protectively as John leaned into him. He gently nuzzles the top of his head just a bit, closing his eyes and making himself believe for just one second that the last three years never happened. The way John can't seem to get close enough tugs at his heartstrings, and he wants nothing more than to give John his wish for absolute closeness. He sighs softly at the way John breathes against his neck, willing himself to concentrate on his words when he's so overwhelmed by the feeling of it.
"Come on." he replies gently, urging John to stand with him just long enough to tug him over to the sofa. He takes a deep breath and continues to just hold John close, drawing strength from his mere presence. "There's not much to tell, really. A lot of dull hotel rooms and days spent following each strand of Moriarty's web." He paused, his hands tracing over every bit of John he could reach. Nothing much seemed worth remembering without John. "John, you have to know that I wanted to come back every single day, or at least tell you somehow I was still alive. I couldn't, though. He had eyes everywhere, and he would have intercepted any message I tried to send you." He sighs softly, just holding him and appreciating every moment he was allowed to touch him while trying to ignore the regret and knowledge that John wasn't truly his anymore. This moment, though, this was all theirs, and he was going to get all he could out of it.
Everything about Sherlock felt right - the way they still fit together so perfectly, the way he felt both angular and soft, the way he smelled, and the way he also seemed to move instinctively into John. It was a good thing the other man didn't let go of him, because even when they were making their way to the sofa, John held onto him tightly. To be perfectly honest, he was fairly certain his legs would give out on him again, if he let go. This man was suddenly his anchor again, and it was dangerous how much he depended on him to keep him going again. It was dangerous because once he did have to let him go... he didn't know what would happen. Mary. He had Mary. She was supposed to be his anchor now, wasn't she? He was engaged to her, after all. But, bad as it seemed, it was as if she didn't have a spot in this, their reunion, even if only in his thoughts. It was a terrible thing for him to think, he knew, but what she didn't know surely couldn't hurt her. Again, he selfishly wanted this moment to himself, and Sherlock only - no one else was privy to their reunion. It was theirs' to have and do with what they would.
And hopefully, it wouldn't tear them both down even lower than they'd been these past three years apart.
John continues to lean into Sherlock, resting against his stomach, one arm slung over that torso and hand tangled tightly into his shirt. He was undoubtedly wrinkling it, and those shirts of his were always rather expensive, but at the moment, he couldn't bring himself to care. Every touch from the consulting detective's fingers felt like a caress, and he willed that hand to keep moving, to touch every inch of him again. It was an effort to concentrate on Sherlock's words, feeling himself becoming easily lost to the familiar lilt of that baritone he had missed so much. But he listened hard, and the meaning of those bittersweet words caught up with his brain. His body betrays him, practically aching for all the lost touch he'd gone without these three long years. It had been replaced with the touch of another, from hands that were smaller, softer, and more tender in a different way. He'd come to love those hands, too... but always in the back of his mind had been the one he'd lost, the one not even Mary could ever replace.
"I understand," he replies in a low, hoarse voice, a heavy sigh shuddering through his body. God, but he hated this. He hated that he was this close to taking so much more, everything he thought he deserved from this man. "Doesn't mean I have to like it." He smirks slightly, humorlessly dry... before slowly lifting up his chin so his face was angled towards Sherlock's. He knew at once that it hadn't been a good idea. Every fiber of his being wanted Sherlock, and here they were, faces so close, breathing the same air. His former everything was back, and he was there, and real, and gorgeous, and very much not dead... and John was fighting a losing battle to just stop this right now, and move away to a much safer distance. It was like a drowning person fighting the will to breathe air again. Useless. He was helpless to this, his weakness, back from the dead and with him, driving him crazy once again.
"I missed you so much," he says, just barely above a husky whisper... and the hand that had been wrinkling his shirt crept up, to his collarbone, then his neck. John's gaze hungrily drank in everything about him - his haunting eyes, his sharp cheekbones, his plump lips... and, God, but it had been so very long...
Sherlock had missed this so much for so long that it was still hard to believe that it was really happening. John was in his arms again, holding him like he thought he might disappear again if he didn't cling as tightly as he could. He wasn't going anywhere, promising himself that he would never never put John through such torment ever again. His mission in life was now doing whatever he could to keep John as happy as possible, though what that entailed remained to be seen. Even if John wanted to go through with his marriage, he would just smile and ask what he could do to help, even if it meant keeping himself together enough to stand next to him as his best man and hand off the ring that would forever bind him to someone who wasn't him. He would save his inner turmoil for when John couldn't see, just so he could make John believe that he was allowed his chance at happiness without needing to worry about him.
It was difficult, though, when John settled against him like he was always meant to be there (because he was meant to be there). Letting him go for the second time would be excruciating just like it was the first time, but he would take whatever he could get. If that meant taking a place on the sidelines of his life, he could accept that, and he would privately treasure every moment they spent together where he could talk to him and see him smile and just appreciate him from a respectful distance.
The broken quality of John's voice is hard to hear, but he endures it because at least he was hearing John's voice for real this time rather than the innumerable times he would be simultaneously haunted and consoled when that voice would sound in his dreams (or nightmares, sometimes). He managed a slight twitch of a smile when he hears the smirk in John's voice, loving the sound of every syllable despite the pained note in his words. He's frozen in place momentarily when John meets his eyes again, losing himself in his gaze like he had so many times before so very long ago.
This was dangerous, he knew that much, but hearing those words he'd waited three long years to hear gave him no willpower to pull away. He wanted to make up for all that lost time and crash their lips together and tell him over and over how much he loved him and would always love him, but he couldn't do that do him. He couldn't blow up John's entire life by pretending to be dead only to come back and reveal he was alive only to subsequently blow up his engagement. He didn't want John to resent him, and he wanted to give him time to get his head together and figure out exactly what he wanted to do first.
"John," he says softly as John's hand reaches up his neck, using every shred of willpower he had not to just take what he wanted, even though he could see John wanted it too. He took a deep breath and leaned in slowly and deliberately to press a kiss to his cheek, knowing even that would be difficult to explain if John's fiance happened to see. "Whatever you want to do, I'm here for you. For good, this time." he said gently into his ear, wrapping his arms tight around him and resting his chin in the crook of his neck as he always used to.
For Mary Morstan, it was just another ordinary weeknight. She had gone to her job that morning as usual, at the primary school she taught at. Teaching science to children might not have been an extremely well-paying job, and people with 'better jobs' might often look down their noses at her... but for her, it was a noble profession. Not only that, but it was one she enjoyed. She wasn't the sort of woman to coddle children, but she expected their very best work. As something of a former scientist, and still practicing experimenter herself in her free-time, she often treated the her students like adults, when she could, and with reason.
John may have forgotten their dinner date, but she most certainly hadn't. It wasn't every day she was treated to a nice meal, and not every woman who could say they were engaged to such a fine cook. She'd never actually intended on falling in love with him when she'd first met her father's old war comrade, but then, no one ever expects it to happen to them. But it had, and although she'd always been so independent, so indifferent to almost every other man she met, because they were boring, or rude, or only looking for one thing... she was happy now, and she knew she'd never meet another man like him. So when she used her key to step into the flat that afternoon, it was just like any other day, and she was tired, but eager to spend a quiet evening in with the man she planned on spending the rest of her life with.
Mary usually would have made her presence known, but today she was too preoccupied with nimbly taking the steps two and three at a time, (but quietly - John was always chiding her for sneaking up on him) eager to get to the warmth and safety of a fine meal, and an even finer man's embrace. "There better be a good reason I don't smell any of your delicious cooking, love," she calls out teasingly, taking her pale blond hair down from the loose ponytail and running her fingers through it, shaking it out... just as she walks into the doorway.
She almost doesn't recognize the other man whom was rather cozy next to her fiancee on the sofa. It wasn't as if she was expecting to see him, of course, thanks to the little detail of him being dead. But when she catches sight of that recognizable face, she knows. She's seen the pictures... and she stops cold, jaw falling open a bit. Her legs feel weak for a moment, although not for happy reasons because... she knows. She knows what John has told her. She remembers how sad he was, how sad he still is sometimes, even though they're together, and supposedly in love.
And something in her expression cools a bit, because this man... this man had hurt John, and sometimes, she still felt like she was picking up the pieces. But she doesn't know the story. She doesn't know what's going on, so she'll try not to jump to any conclusions yet... but let it be known that Mary, small though she might be, is not a wallflower. So she looks inquisitively to John, hoping to go for polite, and civil. "Didn't know we were having company tonight," she says politely enough, but feeling it to sound rather dumb and hollow to her ears, if only because she doesn't know what else to say.
AWW YOU GUYS. >.< WHY DID WE DECIDE THIS WOULD BE OKAY?!mightbebloggingMarch 2 2012, 02:57:18 UTC
John hates this, so much. He hates that he will have to make a choice, and that no matter what, someone will get hurt. Right now, his feelings are understandable muddled and confused, but no matter who he loves more or less... he cares about them both, of course he does. But right now, Sherlock is here with him, so it's difficult to remember things he should be remembering, like that fiancee, and that special dinner he'd promised her when she got off work. Right now, to his selfish mind, all that matters is this ghost he's holding onto for dear life. He doesn't want to make a decision. He doesn't want Sherlock to hand him a pair of rings and stand aside while he marries someone else. He can't bear to see that look in his eyes. So he doesn't think about all that, not now.
Now, he's holding his breath as their gazes lock, and he fights the urge to close that distance between them and kiss Sherlock and all their problems away. It's not that simple, of course, but that doesn't stop the pang of disappointment that he feels when the other places a kiss on his cheek. It's bittersweet, because he still closes his eyes and sighs softly at the feel of those familiar lips on his skin. Sherlock is right to do this, to be strong and not give in, but that fact, too, doesn't make all of it any easier. When he wraps his long arms so snugly around him, and burrows his face there in John's neck, his body trembles noticeably, and he feels the tears still there, at the corners of his eyes, and he wonders at how he still has tears to shed. Wrapping his arms around the younger man, John cards his fingers through that dark hair, curving his hand around the back of that strong neck and holding him there. Sherlock's words make him swallow hard, and he just shakes his head at first, unable to respond. "I don't know, Sherlock," he manages, his voice catching. "I don't know. God, this is... it's so unfair."
More might have been said, or some sort of decision made... but the moment would not last. Mary was, as ever, successful at sneaking up on him again, and he's unaware of her presence until the moment she speaks so teasingly. She's seen them in that too-close embrace, he knows she has, but it's too late to change that. Any other woman might have gone off on him right then and there but Mary is, as ever, the exception - a reason among many more why he was marrying her. But when he heard her voice, he jumped away from Sherlock as if burned, not meaning to act so suspiciously and guiltily, but startled out of the moment. And he felt guilty, too, when he saw her, saw the betrayal and the confusion and the hurt and the walls going up in her lovely gaze. But she held that all in, and he felt a surge of fondness for her when she went for politeness instead, knowing he didn't deserve it from her. Standing, he went to her, because that's what you do, and it wasn't like it wasn't natural for him to greet her, so he did - a quick kiss on the lips that he hadn't given Sherlock, because she was his fiancee, not Sherlock, so why did he still feel so guilty? He knows he must look like he was crying, and he wishes he'd had warning, but then he feels another surge of guilt at having forgotten their date. Somehow, he manages to give her an unsteady, apologetic little half-smile.
"Mary," he said, looking in her eyes, silently reassuring her it would be alright and to trust him, even when he knew he didn't deserve her trust. "I, um... I would like you to meet someone." Turning to look back at Sherlock, his gaze is briefly miserable and apologetic for different reasons meant only for him. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen, he tries to tell Sherlock with his gaze, hoping the other understands. "Mary, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock... Mary Morstan." He hesitates, only for a beat, but it's how he's always introduces her, so he can't make now any different. "My fiancee."
I don't knowww! My heart hurts. :(shutupimageniusMarch 3 2012, 18:24:48 UTC
Of all the ways their reunion could have gone, this was the one Sherlock was really dreading. He had wanted to be the one who was there for John all this time, and while in a way he was, it wasn't the same. There was no helping it, though. He couldn't risk John's safety, and it was just yesterday that he'd finally gathered enough evidence to put Sebastian Moran, the man who'd been tracking John's movements, behind bars for life. He had hoped that he could just fall back into John's arms and they could pick up where they left off as Sherlock made up for every moment of lost time. He never would have wanted there to be another person involved, because that's just one more person who could be hurt by all this.
He lets his lips linger on his cheek for a long moment, letting his eyes fall shut as he committed this moment he'd been waiting three years for to memory. He clings tighter when he feels John shudder in his arms, wishing there was something he could possibly do to take that pain away, or if he could have found a way that he would never feel it in the first place. He can feel the pressure to make a decision weighing on John, and he just strokes his hair and shakes his head back at him. "It's alright. It will be alright. Just relax. Breathe, John." he soothes, hoping to take some of the edge off the obvious panic rising up in John.
He freezes when he hears that decidedly unfamiliar female voice call up the stairs, already knowing who it must be. So much for keeping John from panicking. He lets him go when John jumps up, even though it tugs at him painfully to let him go for even a moment. He had wanted him to stay there forever, but he reminded himself that what he'd already gotten was infinitely more than he believed he deserved. He sits up properly on the couch, glancing up with a sobered expression when Mary walks in. His gaze shifts immediately though when John kisses her, wishing such a simple thing didn't bring forth such a hollow ache in his chest. It was all a lot to come to terms with, and he still was adjusting to the knowledge that John loved someone else. He was left wondering if it would hurt like this every time, or if maybe he'd get used to it eventually. He didn't hold out much hope that he could ever get used to it, but he would try for John's sake.
He looks up again after a moment, meeting John's gaze and using their nearly telepathic connection that still seemed to be in tact to tell him 'it's alright' using only his eyes. He stands when John introduces them, willing his body to stay steady and strong in the face of such crippling internal anguish. He crosses the room to meet them, steadfastly ignoring the stab of pain at hearing the word 'fiancee' to proffer his hand to her. "It's nice to meet you. I was just stopping by." he says steadily, giving John the opportunity to tell him to bugger off if he wanted to. Having her here was further reminder that this wasn't his flat anymore, or his partner, or his life. It was theirs now, and he would stand aside and be grateful for whatever little moments with John that he could get.
Ahh, I feel responsible! SORRY!mightbeteachingMarch 5 2012, 03:18:26 UTC
Mary might not have caught them in the middle of the act of kissing, but it had been enough. She wasn't stupid. She'd seen the way John had practically jumped away from Sherlock, as if he'd been burned. She saw the pained look in her fiancee's eyes, and she wasn't sure how she felt about it. She wanted to be the supportive fiancee, knowing that Sherlock had been presumed dead all these years, and this was an emotional reunion for them. It made sense that John would look miserable like he'd been crying. But her womanly instincts and intuition could not keep her from being suspicious. So she kissed him back, just a chaste little peck on the lips, and her suspicions made her imagine that the kiss was too short, like it was simply habit, and he seemed too distracted.
Her gaze shifted to the tall man as they were formally introduced, and some part of her felt was an intruder in the flat that actually belonged to him first. She was wary of him, and felt the ridiculous urge to suddenly hang all over John, as if to remind both men that he belonged to her, that he'd asked her to marry him for God's sake. It was stupid and embarrassing, and she immediately inwardly chided herself for it. As all this went on inside her head, she pushed it away with a bit of an effort, putting on a polite smile and taking his proffered hand. "Sherlock," he nodded, releasing his hand after shaking it. "I've heard so much about you." And that bit about you being dead. But she didn't add that in, even if it was there behind her steely gaze.
She saw the look exchanged between the two men, and again, felt her evil twin rear its ugly head, wanting to 'kindly' show Sherlock the door. But, instead, she pushed the urge away. Mary wasn't about to let John go without a fight, if it came down to that, and what better way to prove her confidence then this? "Nonsense," she said, her smile warming a bit with a forced effort. "This is a reunion, yes? Certainly it's a special occasion. You must join us for dinner. I insist." Mary arched her brow inquisitively at John, just to make sure it was alright with him. "John is cooking, so you certainly don't want to miss that."
OMG I'M SO SO SORRY!! I've been involved with a show and my life has been busy but it's better now!!mightbebloggingMarch 9 2012, 18:53:28 UTC
As John watched the two shake hands and exhange greetings, an uneasy feeling of dread was growing in the pit of his stomach. He didn't like this one bit, of course. In another world, he should have been happy that his best friend was alive and meeting his fiancee, but it was much more complicated than that. If only he still didn't have feelings for Sherlock. He'd never stopped having them, but when your former lover is dead, all he could do was move on. Mary helped him do that, and he was grateful to her, and of course he was fond of her. But had they ever had what he and Sherlock had shared so strongly? He knew the answer to that question immediately, and it didn't sit well with him at all.
John was surprised when Mary invited Sherlock to join them, although he felt guilty for feeling it a second later. She was overly kind, almost to a fault, although as he met her gaze, he couldn't help but wonder if this was hard on her as well. She basically knew how he'd felt about Sherlock, after all, but she was good at hiding any upset feelings or anger. He quickly nodded in agreement, but licked his lips as was that old, nervous habit of his. "Right, yeah," he spoke up, gaze returning to Sherlock. "Stay, Sherlock. I promise my cooking will be edible." He somehow managed a teasing half-smile, although it didn't quite reach his eyes. His eyes secretly pleaded with the man to stay, even though he knew it would only complicate things further. But after having this man gone and presumed dead for so long, he was afraid that if he let him go now... he might not come back again. Even though he had promised to stay, how could he, now that he knew John was promised to another?
John's hand almost absently settled on the small of Mary's back, as it was habit to do. He almost had to remind himself of the severity of the situation - or maybe just reassure her that this was fine, it was all fine. The tension in the room felt entirely too thick to him, and he feared that at any moment he might suffocate. So as soon as Sherlock agreed - because he really, honestly hoped he did, he would take off for the kitchen, just to have a short moment to himself, to try and gather his thoughts, composure... and simply catch his breath.
It's okay! I still love you! Which is the whole issue in this thread! ;_;shutupimageniusMarch 10 2012, 00:46:57 UTC
Sherlock was all ready to say his greetings and take his leave, the tangible weight of emotion in the room too much for him to handle after so many years of feeling next to nothing (apart from longing to be with John again). He visibly falters when she insists that he stay. He couldn't tell right off if this was just her being genuinely kindhearted or if she wanted to really cement it into his mind that John was hers now. He understood that much already, thank you.
He opened his mouth to insist that he really couldn't stay -really, he wasn't sure if he could handle it- until John spoke up. Even after all this time, he still found it nearly impossible to say no to the man. He closed his mouth promptly and gave a nod, smiling faintly at John's attempt at a joke. It would take far more than that to break the tension in this room.
He can see where John's hand had settled on her back, and such simple contact between two people who were engaged really shouldn't have gotten to him as much as it did. More unbidden memories surfaced, the remembrance of how John used to do that with him, the way he'd trace his fingers over his spine and smile at him with such complete warmth and adoration making his insides ache with the sudden reminder of the absence of all that unconditional love. "I um...I'll be right back." he says, wondering when his voice started sounding so small. He hangs up his coat and scarf pointedly to show he wasn't leaving before heading towards the loo. He just needed a minute, and maybe a cigarette to get himself back together before facing a meal with the love of his life and his fiancee.
He shuts the door and sighs shakily, pulling the cigarettes from his pocket and moving to open the window as he lights it. He leans on the sill and takes a long drag, finding some iota of comfort from the familiar burn of the smoke in his lungs. He smiles humorlessly, realizing that the only reason he'd taken it up again was because he'd been away from John. John always used to threaten that he wouldn't snog him for an entire day every time he caved in and succumbed to the vice. That didn't really matter anymore, he thought grimly. John had a fiancee, he wouldn't be kissing any genius consulting detectives who somehow managed to be a complete idiot at the same time. Having his cigarettes again without fear of repercussions was one upside to all this, he supposed.
He had been dreading the moment where he smoked down to the filter, but it came all the same and far sooner than he'd hoped. He sighs again and disposes of the cigarette, closing the window before moving to the sink to take a moment to make sure his expression was sufficiently neutral. He moves back to hover at the doorframe of the kitchen, still unsure what he should be doing. "Do you need any assistance?" he asked John quietly, because that was the polite thing to do at awkward dinner parties, wasn't it?
I don't post as much as you guys, lol.mightbeteachingMarch 10 2012, 04:16:00 UTC
There it was again, some unspoken connection between the two men. Surely she hadn't been just imagining it. But they had been close friends once, and it made sense that they still might have the remaints of that bond. Then why did she feel strangely suspicious, and why was there a small, but growing sense of unease and dread in her stomach? She glanced at John, her fiancee when he agreed, insisting Sherlock stay... and she saw it, just there, the way he licked his lips. Nervousness, anxiety - she knew they were both there, even though he probably didn't think she knew. The tension in the room was obvious, of course. But then, his hand was comfortably on her back, and she felt that safety and protectiveness that came with such a small touch. Yes, she was independent, but she still liked how he made her feel safe, wanted. Loved.
Mary felt something akin to guilt when Sherlock practically bolted from the room for the bathroom. She was annoyed at herself for feeling this way, because why should she feel guilty? Sherlock had left John. John had met her. John was marrying her. Unfortunately, no sooner had Mr. Holmes left the room she, too, found John had left her for the kitchen. She felt suddenly cold and alone, and she didn't like it. With a weary sigh, running a hand through her hair, she went to join her fiancee in the kitchen. "John..." she began, but immediately trailed off. What was there to say? Stepping closer, she reached out a hand to place it on his shoulder. "Love... are you alright?"
When Sherlock returned and she heard that deep voice, she had half a mind to yell at him to forget it, and just leave them alone, because how could he do this to John and then just show up like he hadn't ruined her fiancee's life? But she felt the mixed emotions of wanting to prove to Sherlock that, yes, John was indeed hers, but she could also be the 'better person.' If the two men could be friends again, if they needed to be in each other's lives... she wouldn't stand in the way. She'd stand by John's side as his wife, and maybe, just maybe... she and Sherlock could be friends, someday, too. "I'll set the table." She gave a small smile to both, her gaze lingering on John for a moment, before ducking out of the kitchen to set the table for three, when it was usually only set for two.
He can feel how his words are affecting John as much as see it, wishing he could touch him again, even if just for a moment. He couldn't though, not yet. He goes silent when John speaks, feeling his stomach flip when he trails off. His fingers twitch on the arms of his chair, poised to fling himself to the floor and grovel at his feet for making him feel this way.
Just when he thought he couldn't possibly feel worse after believing he made John cry, he does when he realizes it's laughter rather than tears. He stares, wide-eyed and frightful at the sound of it, the bottom dropping out of his stomach as realization dawns on him that this was so much worse than he imagined. And then, it gets worse yet again. Engaged. John was engaged, and his insides twist excruciatingly at the knowledge. He should have expected this. Whatever hopeless romantic side of him had surfaced when he was with John held onto the pathetically deluded idea that he would have waited for him, but he knew that was a long shot. John thought he was dead, and he objectively rationalized that he would have to give up on him eventually.
He shouldn't have come. He should have stayed away and left John with the belief that he was something approaching a good man. Maybe he could have believed for a moment that he deserved him if he had. He just had to give in to the selfish desire to see him again, didn't he?
He feels like he can hardly breathe, and the instinct to just run from all this crushing emotional distress descending over him was strong. He can't look at John, instead focusing on an invisible point of interest on the floor. The knowledge that he really didn't belong here had him standing, his eyes on the door. "I should go, shouldn't I?" he asks quietly, not trusting himself to say anymore and upset John further. The ball is immediately back in John's court, one word from him being the difference between trying to pick up the pieces of them or Sherlock leaving his life again, forever this time.
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...but would that be the right course of action? Mary. Mary was a very real presence in his life. Christ, she was his fiancee, after all. Of course he cared about her deeply. But she wasn't Sherlock, and it hadn't mattered that she wasn't Sherlock, because she seemed like the next best thing, and anyway, Sherlock was dead, right?
When the silent man suddenly stands, John finds himself shooting up shakily to his feet as well before he realizes what he's doing. He shakes his head. "Sherlock... stay," he says simply, brow furrowing a bit. "Please. There are... things that need to be said. Let me explain it to you, alright? Let me try." As if on cue, he hears the sound of the water boiling, but he doesn't immediately go to fetch the tea. His eyes silently plead with Sherlock to stay, and he doesn't turn to leave until he's sure that he will indeed not leave. "I'll get the tea, just... sit. Please."
Tea was the last thing he wanted right now, but he went to get it, anyway. Perhaps it would help. It was very British of him, he supposed. He returns a moment later with two glasses, and hands Sherlock his. Their fingers brush, and it's such a small, accidental thing, but it's still torture to him, and he quickly pulls his hand back and away. "It's just the way you like it, as long as your tastes haven't changed," he says quietly, returning to his own seat. Setting his tea aside to cool, he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, before beginning.
"I want you to know I didn't go off looking for her," he began quietly, closing his eyes as he remembered, and because looking at Sherlock was a bit painful. "The first year you were gone, I missed you... so much, it literally hurt. Harry, bless her - she helped me get by and try to move on, but I fought her stubbornly for a long time. We hadn't gotten on well in a long time, but she was patient with me. I went back to seeing my therapist. My leg started hurting again. I didn't... I didn't want to go on without you, Sherlock, it was the most difficult thing I've ever done. But you were gone, and there was no miracle, you weren't coming back. I had to start living again. I was a soldier, it's what we do, we bloody soldier on." He sighed, opening his eyes and looking back up at Sherlock. "I served with her father in Afghanistan. I think you might actually like Mary - she's intelligent, witty, terribly independent. I suppose she... reminded me of you, in a way." John swallowed hard, having to look away again, shifting restlessly in his seat. "We, um, met almost two years ago, and have been dating for a while. I only just asked her to marry me... a few days ago."
He narrowed his eyes at the other, needing to emphasize his point. "I thought you were dead, Sherlock. If I'd known that you... that you were still out there, somewhere, I wouldn't have... not with her, not with anyone, do you... do you understand?" But his hardened expression breaks, and he has to turn his head and cover his face one his hand again. This time... there are silent tears. He's surprised he's held them back long into their 'reunion,' to be perfectly honest.
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John's voice is the only thing that can make it through the haze of uncertainty, and it has him finally looking back at him. He's sure he didn't hear him right at first, that he's just inserting what he wants to hear. He can't imagine why John would want him to stay after everything he put him through, so he listens very carefully next time he speaks. He feels a flicker of warmth at what he hears, the fact that John wanted him to stay making him take his seat again without hesitation.
He's thrumming with anticipation as John gets their tea, not sure what he's expecting but feeling the slightest bit better that John didn't just tell him to sod off like he was halfway expecting. He watches as John returns, the brush of their fingers affecting him far more than it probably should have. More memories were brought to the surface by the mere touch of his hand, remembering how those hands used to make him feel so safe and loved. That on top of the fact that John remembered how he took his tea made him wonder how he was meant to sit by as this extraordinary man that he loved so much it hurt married someone else.
He watches as John speaks, feeling the tug at his heartstrings as he was taken through everything he went through in his absence and wishing he could have been there. His gaze is solemn as he speaks of the woman, the fact that she reminded John of him a small iota of comfort even though the fact remained that she wasn't him.
His features are obviously pained as John tells him that he wouldn't have done it if he thought he was alive, wishing he could have found some way to get him a message that wouldn't have compromised his safety. He doesn't have time to come to terms with the fact that John would have waited for him before John's crying and he doesn't know what to do. His first instinct is to leap across the room and pull him into a tight embrace, but he's not sure if he should because he didn't think he'd be able to let him go. Was he even allowed to touch him? His fingers grip at the arms of his chair and he shifts a little in indecision, waiting for any signal from John as to where to go from here. "John, tell me what I should do. Please. Something, anything. Please." he begs in quiet desperation, ready to leap up and do whatever he had to so John would forgive him.
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He hears the other man's words, and he can't practically feel his restless unease. That tone of begging, of pleading there on his voice nearly tears the poor doctor completely apart. He knows he has to say something, anything, like Sherlock said... but he's afraid to open his mouth. He's afraid what might come out might... be the wrong thing. Was there a wrong thing to say? Was there a wrong thing to do? They hadn't even touched yet. John hadn't punched him or hugged him or anything. Right now, he's hesitant to just look at him, and his jaw clenches as he tries to control the tears behind that hand stubbornly covering his eyes.
"Damn it, Sherlock," he let out a shuddering sigh, trying furiously to regain whatever composure he had left, and that wasn't very much. Slowly dropping his hand, he revealed reddened eyes and a hardened expression. Staring across the small distance between them, he slowly stood, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. Slowly, he started towards the other man, and for a long moment, it almost looked as if he might actually punch him. But something shifted in his expression, and softened, turning into a look that was more broken and he bit his lower lip hard so a sob wouldn't escape. But when he opened his mouth to speak, his voice was weakened and hoarse.
"Come here," he managed in that voice he was sure didn't sound pretty, but at the moment, he hardly cared. He opened his arms up just a little bit. "Please." And the moment Sherlock stood and was close enough, John would literally fall into his arms and lean into a tight hug, as if his legs could not support his body any longer - as if this one, powerful embrace that had been so very long in coming would make everything better again, somehow. Because despite everything - the fact he was engaged, the fact Sherlock had lied to him all these long three years - he deserved this, at least... even if it was all he was allowed to have.
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He had never begged in his life until John, but now he was ready to plead for the rest of his life for any little sliver of forgiveness he could gain. John deserved no less than Sherlock devoting his life to his happiness, and he would remain at the ready to do what he had to even though the position was seemingly already filled. He would never love anyone else, but John deserved a chance with someone who wouldn't pretend to be dead for three years, didn't he? If she truly made John happy, he would never try to intervene, but if there was somehow a chance for him...he would take it without question. Maybe that made him selfish, but he already knew all too well of that character flaw in himself and had learned to accept it.
When John speaks and looks up at him, his chest clenches painfully at what he sees there. To know that this was all his fault, that he was the one who made John feel that way, it was killing him inside. He watches him stand, not moving a muscle as he closes the distance between them. He braces himself, but doesn't flinch, ready to take whatever punishment John saw fit. John could beat him senseless, make him bleed profusely and Sherlock would sit there and take it because he believed it to be the least he deserved.
He sees the shift in John's features, though, and sees that he won't be hit just yet written on his face. He's elated at that, both at the fact that he wouldn't be hurt and that he could still read John's face like he'd never left. John's words have him leaping up, but he waits for John's arms to come around him just to be sure. His legs actually did physically stop supporting him, and he ends up kneeling down in utter emotional exhaustion with his arms still wrapped tight around John. He squeezes John tightly, marveling at how they still fit together and this still felt so right even after all this time. "I'm so sorry, John." he whispers into his ear, moving his hand to gently stroke his hair in an effort to reassure him somehow. His eyes fall shut and he just appreciates the simple joy of getting to hold him again, to know that this is real and not one of the countless times he would dream of this before waking up alone.
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Sherlock's apologetic words reach his ears and he grimaces hard, only tightening his grip on the consulting detective. There was much for him to be sorry for, true, but the good doctor also can't help feeling guilty. Although he's not completely sure if his guilt was because he had 'cheated' on this man by finding another... or because he was 'cheating' on Mary by going back to this man. But it is only an embrace, right? Completely harmless, something they both needed. And yet... were Mary to walk in right now, he's aware it might not appear completely innocent. It does not help that she knows about Sherlock - that he told her about him. They didn't keep many secrets. And there is the very real possibility she will walk in - they do not live together, but she has a key into the flat. She's stayed over before, although he usually prefers to stay at her place. He didn't tell her why, of course, but truth be told... he always felt 221B belonged to him and Sherlock, and the memories of their time there together.
But he doesn't tell Sherlock about all of that now. Call it selfish of him, but he doesn't want to. Right now, he just wants to stay like this forever - an impossibly naive wish, he knows, but as the minutes go by, he isn't any closer to pulling away. "Talk to me, Sherlock," he murmurs, leaning his cheek against the other's chest and pressing his ear above his heart. He hears the quickened beating of that precious heart, another reminder that he is indeed alive and back here, again, with him. As it's meant to be. His hands begin moving restlessly upon Sherlock's back, as if unable to find purchase and wanting to pull him even closer. Moving his chin up a bit, his nose brushes against Sherlock's neck, and his breath is warm against the pale skin there. "Just... tell me where you've been. Tell me what you've seen. Tell me what you've been doing." Tell me over and over again how much you missed me. But he stops himself from uttering those words, much as he wants to say them. To hear Sherlock's beautiful voice, that voice he had missed so much, would be more than enough.
"Anything."
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He has a similar want to just stay here, just like this and go back to how they used to be without question. He knew it wouldn't be that easy, and that John deserved some kind of explanation. John's voice makes his heart hammer in his chest, that heart that always had and always would belong solely to John, and he cradles his head protectively as John leaned into him. He gently nuzzles the top of his head just a bit, closing his eyes and making himself believe for just one second that the last three years never happened. The way John can't seem to get close enough tugs at his heartstrings, and he wants nothing more than to give John his wish for absolute closeness. He sighs softly at the way John breathes against his neck, willing himself to concentrate on his words when he's so overwhelmed by the feeling of it.
"Come on." he replies gently, urging John to stand with him just long enough to tug him over to the sofa. He takes a deep breath and continues to just hold John close, drawing strength from his mere presence. "There's not much to tell, really. A lot of dull hotel rooms and days spent following each strand of Moriarty's web." He paused, his hands tracing over every bit of John he could reach. Nothing much seemed worth remembering without John. "John, you have to know that I wanted to come back every single day, or at least tell you somehow I was still alive. I couldn't, though. He had eyes everywhere, and he would have intercepted any message I tried to send you." He sighs softly, just holding him and appreciating every moment he was allowed to touch him while trying to ignore the regret and knowledge that John wasn't truly his anymore. This moment, though, this was all theirs, and he was going to get all he could out of it.
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And hopefully, it wouldn't tear them both down even lower than they'd been these past three years apart.
John continues to lean into Sherlock, resting against his stomach, one arm slung over that torso and hand tangled tightly into his shirt. He was undoubtedly wrinkling it, and those shirts of his were always rather expensive, but at the moment, he couldn't bring himself to care. Every touch from the consulting detective's fingers felt like a caress, and he willed that hand to keep moving, to touch every inch of him again. It was an effort to concentrate on Sherlock's words, feeling himself becoming easily lost to the familiar lilt of that baritone he had missed so much. But he listened hard, and the meaning of those bittersweet words caught up with his brain. His body betrays him, practically aching for all the lost touch he'd gone without these three long years. It had been replaced with the touch of another, from hands that were smaller, softer, and more tender in a different way. He'd come to love those hands, too... but always in the back of his mind had been the one he'd lost, the one not even Mary could ever replace.
"I understand," he replies in a low, hoarse voice, a heavy sigh shuddering through his body. God, but he hated this. He hated that he was this close to taking so much more, everything he thought he deserved from this man. "Doesn't mean I have to like it." He smirks slightly, humorlessly dry... before slowly lifting up his chin so his face was angled towards Sherlock's. He knew at once that it hadn't been a good idea. Every fiber of his being wanted Sherlock, and here they were, faces so close, breathing the same air. His former everything was back, and he was there, and real, and gorgeous, and very much not dead... and John was fighting a losing battle to just stop this right now, and move away to a much safer distance. It was like a drowning person fighting the will to breathe air again. Useless. He was helpless to this, his weakness, back from the dead and with him, driving him crazy once again.
"I missed you so much," he says, just barely above a husky whisper... and the hand that had been wrinkling his shirt crept up, to his collarbone, then his neck. John's gaze hungrily drank in everything about him - his haunting eyes, his sharp cheekbones, his plump lips... and, God, but it had been so very long...
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It was difficult, though, when John settled against him like he was always meant to be there (because he was meant to be there). Letting him go for the second time would be excruciating just like it was the first time, but he would take whatever he could get. If that meant taking a place on the sidelines of his life, he could accept that, and he would privately treasure every moment they spent together where he could talk to him and see him smile and just appreciate him from a respectful distance.
The broken quality of John's voice is hard to hear, but he endures it because at least he was hearing John's voice for real this time rather than the innumerable times he would be simultaneously haunted and consoled when that voice would sound in his dreams (or nightmares, sometimes). He managed a slight twitch of a smile when he hears the smirk in John's voice, loving the sound of every syllable despite the pained note in his words. He's frozen in place momentarily when John meets his eyes again, losing himself in his gaze like he had so many times before so very long ago.
This was dangerous, he knew that much, but hearing those words he'd waited three long years to hear gave him no willpower to pull away. He wanted to make up for all that lost time and crash their lips together and tell him over and over how much he loved him and would always love him, but he couldn't do that do him. He couldn't blow up John's entire life by pretending to be dead only to come back and reveal he was alive only to subsequently blow up his engagement. He didn't want John to resent him, and he wanted to give him time to get his head together and figure out exactly what he wanted to do first.
"John," he says softly as John's hand reaches up his neck, using every shred of willpower he had not to just take what he wanted, even though he could see John wanted it too. He took a deep breath and leaned in slowly and deliberately to press a kiss to his cheek, knowing even that would be difficult to explain if John's fiance happened to see. "Whatever you want to do, I'm here for you. For good, this time." he said gently into his ear, wrapping his arms tight around him and resting his chin in the crook of his neck as he always used to.
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John may have forgotten their dinner date, but she most certainly hadn't. It wasn't every day she was treated to a nice meal, and not every woman who could say they were engaged to such a fine cook. She'd never actually intended on falling in love with him when she'd first met her father's old war comrade, but then, no one ever expects it to happen to them. But it had, and although she'd always been so independent, so indifferent to almost every other man she met, because they were boring, or rude, or only looking for one thing... she was happy now, and she knew she'd never meet another man like him. So when she used her key to step into the flat that afternoon, it was just like any other day, and she was tired, but eager to spend a quiet evening in with the man she planned on spending the rest of her life with.
Mary usually would have made her presence known, but today she was too preoccupied with nimbly taking the steps two and three at a time, (but quietly - John was always chiding her for sneaking up on him) eager to get to the warmth and safety of a fine meal, and an even finer man's embrace. "There better be a good reason I don't smell any of your delicious cooking, love," she calls out teasingly, taking her pale blond hair down from the loose ponytail and running her fingers through it, shaking it out... just as she walks into the doorway.
She almost doesn't recognize the other man whom was rather cozy next to her fiancee on the sofa. It wasn't as if she was expecting to see him, of course, thanks to the little detail of him being dead. But when she catches sight of that recognizable face, she knows. She's seen the pictures... and she stops cold, jaw falling open a bit. Her legs feel weak for a moment, although not for happy reasons because... she knows. She knows what John has told her. She remembers how sad he was, how sad he still is sometimes, even though they're together, and supposedly in love.
And something in her expression cools a bit, because this man... this man had hurt John, and sometimes, she still felt like she was picking up the pieces. But she doesn't know the story. She doesn't know what's going on, so she'll try not to jump to any conclusions yet... but let it be known that Mary, small though she might be, is not a wallflower. So she looks inquisitively to John, hoping to go for polite, and civil. "Didn't know we were having company tonight," she says politely enough, but feeling it to sound rather dumb and hollow to her ears, if only because she doesn't know what else to say.
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Now, he's holding his breath as their gazes lock, and he fights the urge to close that distance between them and kiss Sherlock and all their problems away. It's not that simple, of course, but that doesn't stop the pang of disappointment that he feels when the other places a kiss on his cheek. It's bittersweet, because he still closes his eyes and sighs softly at the feel of those familiar lips on his skin. Sherlock is right to do this, to be strong and not give in, but that fact, too, doesn't make all of it any easier. When he wraps his long arms so snugly around him, and burrows his face there in John's neck, his body trembles noticeably, and he feels the tears still there, at the corners of his eyes, and he wonders at how he still has tears to shed. Wrapping his arms around the younger man, John cards his fingers through that dark hair, curving his hand around the back of that strong neck and holding him there. Sherlock's words make him swallow hard, and he just shakes his head at first, unable to respond. "I don't know, Sherlock," he manages, his voice catching. "I don't know. God, this is... it's so unfair."
More might have been said, or some sort of decision made... but the moment would not last. Mary was, as ever, successful at sneaking up on him again, and he's unaware of her presence until the moment she speaks so teasingly. She's seen them in that too-close embrace, he knows she has, but it's too late to change that. Any other woman might have gone off on him right then and there but Mary is, as ever, the exception - a reason among many more why he was marrying her. But when he heard her voice, he jumped away from Sherlock as if burned, not meaning to act so suspiciously and guiltily, but startled out of the moment. And he felt guilty, too, when he saw her, saw the betrayal and the confusion and the hurt and the walls going up in her lovely gaze. But she held that all in, and he felt a surge of fondness for her when she went for politeness instead, knowing he didn't deserve it from her. Standing, he went to her, because that's what you do, and it wasn't like it wasn't natural for him to greet her, so he did - a quick kiss on the lips that he hadn't given Sherlock, because she was his fiancee, not Sherlock, so why did he still feel so guilty? He knows he must look like he was crying, and he wishes he'd had warning, but then he feels another surge of guilt at having forgotten their date. Somehow, he manages to give her an unsteady, apologetic little half-smile.
"Mary," he said, looking in her eyes, silently reassuring her it would be alright and to trust him, even when he knew he didn't deserve her trust. "I, um... I would like you to meet someone." Turning to look back at Sherlock, his gaze is briefly miserable and apologetic for different reasons meant only for him. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen, he tries to tell Sherlock with his gaze, hoping the other understands. "Mary, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock... Mary Morstan." He hesitates, only for a beat, but it's how he's always introduces her, so he can't make now any different. "My fiancee."
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He lets his lips linger on his cheek for a long moment, letting his eyes fall shut as he committed this moment he'd been waiting three years for to memory. He clings tighter when he feels John shudder in his arms, wishing there was something he could possibly do to take that pain away, or if he could have found a way that he would never feel it in the first place. He can feel the pressure to make a decision weighing on John, and he just strokes his hair and shakes his head back at him. "It's alright. It will be alright. Just relax. Breathe, John." he soothes, hoping to take some of the edge off the obvious panic rising up in John.
He freezes when he hears that decidedly unfamiliar female voice call up the stairs, already knowing who it must be. So much for keeping John from panicking. He lets him go when John jumps up, even though it tugs at him painfully to let him go for even a moment. He had wanted him to stay there forever, but he reminded himself that what he'd already gotten was infinitely more than he believed he deserved. He sits up properly on the couch, glancing up with a sobered expression when Mary walks in. His gaze shifts immediately though when John kisses her, wishing such a simple thing didn't bring forth such a hollow ache in his chest. It was all a lot to come to terms with, and he still was adjusting to the knowledge that John loved someone else. He was left wondering if it would hurt like this every time, or if maybe he'd get used to it eventually. He didn't hold out much hope that he could ever get used to it, but he would try for John's sake.
He looks up again after a moment, meeting John's gaze and using their nearly telepathic connection that still seemed to be in tact to tell him 'it's alright' using only his eyes. He stands when John introduces them, willing his body to stay steady and strong in the face of such crippling internal anguish. He crosses the room to meet them, steadfastly ignoring the stab of pain at hearing the word 'fiancee' to proffer his hand to her. "It's nice to meet you. I was just stopping by." he says steadily, giving John the opportunity to tell him to bugger off if he wanted to. Having her here was further reminder that this wasn't his flat anymore, or his partner, or his life. It was theirs now, and he would stand aside and be grateful for whatever little moments with John that he could get.
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Her gaze shifted to the tall man as they were formally introduced, and some part of her felt was an intruder in the flat that actually belonged to him first. She was wary of him, and felt the ridiculous urge to suddenly hang all over John, as if to remind both men that he belonged to her, that he'd asked her to marry him for God's sake. It was stupid and embarrassing, and she immediately inwardly chided herself for it. As all this went on inside her head, she pushed it away with a bit of an effort, putting on a polite smile and taking his proffered hand. "Sherlock," he nodded, releasing his hand after shaking it. "I've heard so much about you." And that bit about you being dead. But she didn't add that in, even if it was there behind her steely gaze.
She saw the look exchanged between the two men, and again, felt her evil twin rear its ugly head, wanting to 'kindly' show Sherlock the door. But, instead, she pushed the urge away. Mary wasn't about to let John go without a fight, if it came down to that, and what better way to prove her confidence then this? "Nonsense," she said, her smile warming a bit with a forced effort. "This is a reunion, yes? Certainly it's a special occasion. You must join us for dinner. I insist." Mary arched her brow inquisitively at John, just to make sure it was alright with him. "John is cooking, so you certainly don't want to miss that."
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John was surprised when Mary invited Sherlock to join them, although he felt guilty for feeling it a second later. She was overly kind, almost to a fault, although as he met her gaze, he couldn't help but wonder if this was hard on her as well. She basically knew how he'd felt about Sherlock, after all, but she was good at hiding any upset feelings or anger. He quickly nodded in agreement, but licked his lips as was that old, nervous habit of his. "Right, yeah," he spoke up, gaze returning to Sherlock. "Stay, Sherlock. I promise my cooking will be edible." He somehow managed a teasing half-smile, although it didn't quite reach his eyes. His eyes secretly pleaded with the man to stay, even though he knew it would only complicate things further. But after having this man gone and presumed dead for so long, he was afraid that if he let him go now... he might not come back again. Even though he had promised to stay, how could he, now that he knew John was promised to another?
John's hand almost absently settled on the small of Mary's back, as it was habit to do. He almost had to remind himself of the severity of the situation - or maybe just reassure her that this was fine, it was all fine. The tension in the room felt entirely too thick to him, and he feared that at any moment he might suffocate. So as soon as Sherlock agreed - because he really, honestly hoped he did, he would take off for the kitchen, just to have a short moment to himself, to try and gather his thoughts, composure... and simply catch his breath.
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He opened his mouth to insist that he really couldn't stay -really, he wasn't sure if he could handle it- until John spoke up. Even after all this time, he still found it nearly impossible to say no to the man. He closed his mouth promptly and gave a nod, smiling faintly at John's attempt at a joke. It would take far more than that to break the tension in this room.
He can see where John's hand had settled on her back, and such simple contact between two people who were engaged really shouldn't have gotten to him as much as it did. More unbidden memories surfaced, the remembrance of how John used to do that with him, the way he'd trace his fingers over his spine and smile at him with such complete warmth and adoration making his insides ache with the sudden reminder of the absence of all that unconditional love. "I um...I'll be right back." he says, wondering when his voice started sounding so small. He hangs up his coat and scarf pointedly to show he wasn't leaving before heading towards the loo. He just needed a minute, and maybe a cigarette to get himself back together before facing a meal with the love of his life and his fiancee.
He shuts the door and sighs shakily, pulling the cigarettes from his pocket and moving to open the window as he lights it. He leans on the sill and takes a long drag, finding some iota of comfort from the familiar burn of the smoke in his lungs. He smiles humorlessly, realizing that the only reason he'd taken it up again was because he'd been away from John. John always used to threaten that he wouldn't snog him for an entire day every time he caved in and succumbed to the vice. That didn't really matter anymore, he thought grimly. John had a fiancee, he wouldn't be kissing any genius consulting detectives who somehow managed to be a complete idiot at the same time. Having his cigarettes again without fear of repercussions was one upside to all this, he supposed.
He had been dreading the moment where he smoked down to the filter, but it came all the same and far sooner than he'd hoped. He sighs again and disposes of the cigarette, closing the window before moving to the sink to take a moment to make sure his expression was sufficiently neutral. He moves back to hover at the doorframe of the kitchen, still unsure what he should be doing. "Do you need any assistance?" he asked John quietly, because that was the polite thing to do at awkward dinner parties, wasn't it?
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Mary felt something akin to guilt when Sherlock practically bolted from the room for the bathroom. She was annoyed at herself for feeling this way, because why should she feel guilty? Sherlock had left John. John had met her. John was marrying her. Unfortunately, no sooner had Mr. Holmes left the room she, too, found John had left her for the kitchen. She felt suddenly cold and alone, and she didn't like it. With a weary sigh, running a hand through her hair, she went to join her fiancee in the kitchen. "John..." she began, but immediately trailed off. What was there to say? Stepping closer, she reached out a hand to place it on his shoulder. "Love... are you alright?"
When Sherlock returned and she heard that deep voice, she had half a mind to yell at him to forget it, and just leave them alone, because how could he do this to John and then just show up like he hadn't ruined her fiancee's life? But she felt the mixed emotions of wanting to prove to Sherlock that, yes, John was indeed hers, but she could also be the 'better person.' If the two men could be friends again, if they needed to be in each other's lives... she wouldn't stand in the way. She'd stand by John's side as his wife, and maybe, just maybe... she and Sherlock could be friends, someday, too. "I'll set the table." She gave a small smile to both, her gaze lingering on John for a moment, before ducking out of the kitchen to set the table for three, when it was usually only set for two.
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