Fic: Don't Explain, 4/8?
Title: Don't Explain, 4/8?
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: John/Mary, John/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13 this chapter, eventually NC-17
Word Count: 4,600 this chapter, 17,000 so far
Warnings: Explicit sex down the road, spoilers for season two
Disclaimer: I don't own it.
Summary: Three years later, John had a girlfriend, a new job, and a new life, and just because his ex wasn’t dead didn’t mean they were going to go right back to the way things used to be.
A/N: Thanks again to my two betas, thisprettywren and breathedout. It's like being in the middle of a sexy smart threesome. I'm a very lucky author. And thanks to those who have been following along! I know WIPs are a pain, and it means a lot.
On AO3
Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Four / Chapter Five / Chapter Six / Chapter Seven / Chapter Eight / Chapter Nine
Don't Explain
Chapter Four
He still felt it: that heart-stuttering shock of recognition, the relief, the attraction, the anger. The desire to place a hand on the small of Sherlock’s back just to feel his warmth, just to make sure he was actually there and alive. The conflicting instincts to walk right back out the door, and never to let Sherlock out of his sight again. John felt it every single bloody time he came home to find Sherlock sitting there. It didn’t matter that John was expecting it. It didn’t matter that a few days had passed and he should be used to the idea by now.
It was ridiculous that he should have to cycle through these emotions every time he walked into his own fucking flat. It wasn’t fair to him. And it certainly wasn’t making things easier with Mary, who’d been acting distant ever since that night at dinner. She continued to wear that damn bracelet, refusing to talk about it, and whenever John mentioned Sherlock’s name-which was far too frequently-she would fiddle with the pearls, sliding them around her wrist. Whatever was bothering her, Sherlock was a part of it. John reached a decision, and the fact that he hadn’t reached it sooner was probably another sign that there was something wrong with him.
He walked to the telly, turned off whatever program Sherlock had been watching, and stood in front of the screen to make sure he had Sherlock’s full attention.
Sherlock looked up with a carefully blank expression. His eyes darted over John’s face and body before dropping back down to stare at the blank television screen behind John’s legs. “Before you tell me whatever it is you’ve decided, you should know that your judgment is always at its worst when you’ve had a bad day at work.”
It was true that work had been miserable, but John didn’t take the bait. He didn’t want to be distracted from his current purpose. “Right. We can’t keep living together. I’m giving you a week to find your own flat, and then you need to move out.”
John was expecting frustration, an argument, an insulted roll of the eyes. He wasn’t expecting…well, he didn’t expect Sherlock to look sad. It almost, almost, put a dent in his resolve. John wondered, not for the first time, what Sherlock had been through and how the intervening years had changed him.
Sherlock pulled his knees up to his chest, making him look like a reprimanded child. “Why, is Maria trying to get rid of me?” he asked.
John rubbed a hand along his face and sighed. “You know perfectly well that her name is Mary, and no, this isn’t about her. This is about the fact that it’s not healthy to be living with an ex-boyfriend.”
“Ex-boyfriend?” Sherlock repeated, testing out the words and clearly disliking them.
“Yes, Sherlock, ex-boyfriend.” He pointed a finger to Sherlock’s chest. “That’s what you are. We were in a relationship, and now we’re not. And I know you don’t have a lot of experience with this, but exes don’t move in with each other.”
Sherlock looked down and picked at the hem of his trousers. “I don’t see why our past sexual history should have any bearing on our current living arrangement.”
John stared in disbelief. Past sexual history? Was that the extent of what their relationship had meant to him? “I’m not talking about sex, you fucking cold-hearted wanker! I’m talking about…” What, romance? Affection? Love? John found he couldn’t discuss it any more than Sherlock could. That was a territory he wasn’t ready to cross into. He shook his head. “No, actually, I’m through talking. I was happy to give you a place to crash, but starting tomorrow you need to find somewhere else to go. You can’t stay here.”
He walked to the kitchen without waiting for a response, and started making dinner. This was the right decision. He knew it was. And yet the thought that Sherlock would soon be gone, so shortly after his return, made his heart constrict. Clearly, John was doing a shit job of letting go and moving on. And that was all the more reason why Sherlock had to leave.
That evening passed like the few nights before it: quiet and tense, the air humming with the things that weren’t being said. John caught up on medical literature while Sherlock poked at his laptop, staring at John when he thought he wasn’t paying attention. It was weird and uncomfortable, and John couldn’t understand why he felt as though he’d miss it.
***
Wednesday meant therapy, which John had been dreading all week.
It must have shown in his face, because the moment he sat down, Ella took one look at him and responded by closing her notebook and placing it on the floor. Thank god for that. She knew how uncomfortable he was with her note taking, though he never explained the reason why. No need to upset her with Mycroft’s frequent breaches of confidentiality and ethics, not when she was probably unaware of them. Better to let her think him paranoid and untrusting.
Today he decided to take an extra precaution. John tapped a finger against the armrest and said, “Promise me you won’t write down anything from this session. Not even after I leave.” The thought of Mycroft getting his hands on it was terrifying.
Ella raised her eyebrows in surprise, but after a moment she nodded. “Okay. I promise.”
After that, words deserted him. It had only been a week since they last met, but his entire world had been turned upside down in that time, and he didn’t know where on earth to begin. He wasn’t convinced he wanted to discuss it at all. It seemed safer to keep his emotions on permanent lockdown where they belonged, but Ella would make him take them out one by one and put names to them, and he wasn’t sure he could handle that.
God, he hated therapy. It wasn’t until he actually needed it that he ever remembered that fact.
For a few minutes, they just stared at each other. Ella wasn’t pressing him yet; she knew that sometimes he needed the space to gather his thoughts. Although today, he would much rather avoid his thoughts altogether. John considered walking out and rescheduling for another time, but it wasn’t likely to get any easier if he waited.
“Would you like me to start guessing?” Ella eventually asked.
John glanced out the window, where the overcast sky was painting everything in grey. “I really don’t want to talk about it,” he said. “Just so you know.”
“It’s your hour, John,” Ella replied. “We can talk about anything you like.”
John scoffed. It was a nice thought. Last week, they’d discussed some minor quarrel he had with Mary over something he could no longer remember. But now, there was only one thing, one person in his thoughts and it was amazing how it eclipsed everything else. He couldn’t have invented a different topic if he tried.
It felt like ages before he finally let the words slip. “It’s to do with Sherlock.”
His voice very nearly shook on that name. Damn. He frowned and lowered his eyes to his lap, hating the way they prickled as though ready to form tears at a moment’s notice. There was something about being in this room that turned him grotesquely fragile. It held too many memories of coping just after Sherlock’s death-disappearance-no, death, and it was too easy to remember that vertigo, the feeling of teetering on the edge of falling apart.
He took a deep breath and splayed his fingers against his thighs, bracing himself. This was nothing like three years ago, he remembered. It helped to focus on his anger, which drowned out everything else and made it easier to regain control.
Clenching his hands into fists, he made eye contact with Ella and said, “It turns out he’s not actually dead.”
“Sorry, what?” Ella said, her eyes going wide and the professionalism suddenly dropping out of her voice. She collected herself quickly enough, blinking and folding her hands in her lap. “Maybe you should start from the beginning. Take your time.”
So he did. He told her everything: from Sherlock's unexpected reappearance, to their dinner with Mary, to last night's decision that he should move out. John still didn't know the exact reasons for Sherlock's three-year deception-he still didn't want to know-but he had a few guesses, and he shared these as well. Sherlock had gotten himself into something dangerous, something that required him to disappear. Maybe he thought he was being protective. Maybe he was just being selfish.
The explanation took the better part of their hour, punctuated as it was with pauses as John stalled, and tripped on his words, and spent long minutes just staring at London's depressing sky.
Afterwards, Ella began asking him questions that were mostly variations on, “How do you feel about…?” He tried to be honest, but John’s answers were mostly variations on, “I don’t know.” He could see that they were getting nowhere.
Their hour was almost up when Ella finally asked, “Do you think you would rather be with Sherlock than with Mary?”
“What? No!” John shouted, for some reason shocked and resentful that she should even suggest it, though it was a perfectly reasonable thing to ask. And really, wasn’t it the question that both Mary and Greg had danced around? But John wasn’t even allowing himself to entertain the thought. As far as he was concerned, there was no choice in the matter, end of story. “Mary is-perfect, and I love her, and Sherlock is a fucking prick who fucked me over.” John winced at his language. “Sorry.”
“You’re allowed to swear,” Ella reminded him.
“I’m happy with Mary,” John continued, calming down. “There’s no way I’d ever get back together with that bastard, but, I just-that doesn’t mean I don’t care about him. He’s still important to me.” Saying it out loud made him realize how true that was. Sherlock had been there when John had nothing else, and he’d made civilian life bearable. Not just bearable-worthwhile. Things had been so good back then, when they were simply flatmates solving crimes. Before they got involved.
Maybe that was the problem, then. Not Sherlock’s death, but the relationship that had preceded it. John never should have made that first move, and he definitely should never have fallen in love. Everything would have hurt so much less if he hadn’t.
“We started out as friends,” he said out loud. “Now everything is complicated, and it's-I miss that. Having him as a friend.” He shrugged. “But I’m not sure it's possible to go back to that.”
Ella considered for a moment. “I think whatever you decide, it's going to take a long time to rebuild what you had. It won’t be easy for him to regain your trust.”
John sighed. He couldn’t imagine giving his trust to Sherlock ever again. He didn’t understand why he’d ever trusted him in the first place.
Before he left, Ella asked him if he wanted to schedule an extra appointment before next Wednesday, but John flat out refused. One hour of this per week was quite enough.
***
“How was therapy?” Sherlock asked, his tone derisive, when John came home that evening. He was sitting on the couch watching telly, wrapped in his new robe, his laptop resting open on his thighs. This had become more or less his permanent position in the flat. John wondered if he even moved during the day.
“A bloody waste of time,” John mumbled as he hung up his coat. He knew, objectively, that Ella had done a lot for him over the years, but sometimes it felt so pointless. He didn’t like talking about his problems when he should be doing something about them instead. Sherlock looked ridiculously pleased at John’s response, in that “I told you so” way, which should have made John angry. Instead he could feel his own answering smile. “Shut it, you. You won’t get me to stop going.”
“I suppose it’s a pleasant way to pass an hour,” said Sherlock lightly, still smug.
John ducked his head to hide his grin. These days, he lived for small moments: a shared joke, or a familiar exchange. Anything that felt like normalcy in the confusion his life had become.
He took his usual seat and joined Sherlock in watching some dull fishing documentary. This was ridiculous, he thought after about two minutes. Sherlock would be moving out soon; they should be spending this time talking, trying to patch things over as best they could, not sitting in silence, watching whatever was on. Maybe therapy had helped him sort out his priorities after all, because the anger he’d kept so close to his heart no longer seemed useful. He didn’t want to stay angry forever. He wanted to move past that. He wasn’t ready to forgive Sherlock-not by a long shot-but he was willing to try and rebuild the friendship.
He reached for the remote, and switched off the television. Sherlock didn’t complain; he gave John a nervous look instead. With his righteous indignation temporarily shut down, John felt guilty that he could so easily provoke that reaction. Sherlock wasn’t supposed to be unsettled by anything. Apparently John was the exception.
“What did you do today?” he asked as a safe way to start a conversation. God, that made them sound like a married couple.
Sherlock shrugged and looked back to the blank television screen. “This.”
So John was correct; Sherlock was watching programs and surfing the internet all day. It just seemed…wrong. That wasn’t the Sherlock John used to know, who put bullets in the wall if he went a few days without a problem to solve. He should be bouncing off the ceiling in agitation by now. John furrowed his brow and wondered why Sherlock seemed so calm. No, not calm exactly-sedated, distant.
“No case, then?”
For some reason, this earned him an angry scowl.
“No,” Sherlock replied contemptuously. “No case.”
There was something in Sherlock’s voice that made John ache. “Why don’t you phone Lestrade?”
Sherlock clenched his jaw. “He made it clear that he could no longer allow me to assist investigations without jeopardizing his job.”
Of course. That made sense. John felt thoughtless for even suggesting it. “Well, I guess if you want a private practice again, you’ll have to let people know you’re alive.”
“I did,” said Sherlock, suddenly lifting his computer and giving it a shake like he was furious at it. “I posted an announcement to my website, and no one is responding.”
His website? “I thought your domain ran out ages ago.”
“I renewed it.”
John stared at him, baffled. Marketing was never Sherlock’s strong suit, but for a genius, he really didn’t understand how the internet worked. Or maybe it just went back to not understanding people. “Sherlock, it’s been three years! You can’t expect anyone to be checking the non-existent website of a deceased man.”
Sherlock slammed his laptop shut, and tossed it onto the cushion next to him. Then he swung his gaze toward John, and his eyes brightened as though he’d just realized something important. “You’re not deceased.”
“Well spotted.”
Sherlock ignored the sarcasm. “People still visit your blog. You need to inform them that I’m alive.”
The thought of even opening his blog again… John looked away and swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat. “I can’t.”
“Of course you can. It doesn’t even need a title, just a single sentence. I’ll write it for you.” It was the closest Sherlock had ever come to pleading.
And John wanted to do this for him, help him find a new case to prevent him from spiraling into boredom and uselessness and who knew, possibly drugs, but he really couldn’t bring himself to type out a single word. Not yet. He was still trying to heal his wounds, and Sherlock was essentially asking him to open them publicly. “I’m sorry, Sherlock.” He was. He really was. “I can’t. Maybe…I don’t know, maybe when…” He couldn’t finish that sentence, because he didn’t know when. He didn’t know what it would take for things to ever be right between them again.
The brief fire in Sherlock’s eyes went out. He didn’t look angry or upset. John almost wished he would. It would be more bearable than this uncharacteristically vacant stare. Sherlock hunched his shoulders and dropped his eyes to his laptop.
“I’m sorry,” John repeated.
“It’s fine,” said Sherlock, even though it clearly wasn’t. They were both silent for a few minutes before he added, “I saw…what you wrote.” He coughed slightly. “On your blog. Last year.”
A harsh, inappropriate laugh left John’s lips. The last thing he ever wrote was an account of Sherlock and Moriarty’s final series of conflicts, leading up to the fall. He’d tried to fill in the details as best he could, despite the sizeable gaps in his knowledge. But the entry wasn’t about the facts. It was about Sherlock. He had written it to quash, once and for all, any last doubt that the man might be a fraud. More than that, he had wanted to give Sherlock the tribute he deserved. John had tried, with his inadequate words, to explain what the world had lost that day-what he, personally, had lost.
Now he was morbidly amused at the thought of Sherlock, very much alive, reading his own eulogy. Had he found it overly “sentimental?” Was he flattered? Did it make him the least bit sorry for leaving? After all, John had all but confessed his undying love to the internet. And yet it hadn’t been enough to bring Sherlock home.
Suddenly, the thought was no longer funny at all. John looked away and rubbed his jaw. “And what did you think of it?” he asked.
At first, Sherlock didn’t say anything, which was actually a pretty clear answer. It was probably the first thing John had ever written that Sherlock hadn’t felt the need to insult. Finally he said, “It was good.”
There was so much meaning in those three words, an entire conversation they weren’t ready to have. “Took me two years before I could even say anything,” John added softly.
He could see Sherlock nod out of the corner of his eye. “First you had to prove to yourself that I wasn’t a fake.”
John blinked. The statement was so incredibly wrong, and spoken with such assurance, that at first he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “Wait, what?” He dropped his hand and leaned forward in his seat, catching Sherlock’s gaze to see if he was actually being serious. Sherlock’s confused frown was answer enough.
Fucking hell. He meant it. He thought it had taken John two years to make a decision that in reality had taken less than two seconds. He thought John had actually contemplated Moriarty’s lie. After everything they’d been through together, and the trust that had once existed between them, how could Sherlock honestly think that John was so blind? So thick that he’d just trust anything the papers told him, anything Sherlock told him, in the face of everything he knew and had once loved about this man?
It was such a slap in the face that it brought John’s anger right back to the surface. “Let’s get something straight, Sherlock. I know you think I’m an idiot, but I never once believed you were a fraud. Not for a moment, do you understand me?” He wanted to point out that Sherlock only became a fraud after his jump, but that was beside the point.
Sherlock regarded him as though John might be hiding something. “But when Moriarty-”
“Fuck Moriarty!” John shouted. He squeezed his eyes shut and ran a hand through his hair. “God damn it, Sherlock, I used to care about you! You think some criminal mastermind had the power to change that?”
Sherlock’s confusion slowly turned to shock. Yes, he had actually believed that. John almost didn’t know whether to be offended or to feel sorry for him. “Then why did you wait two years to write about it?” Sherlock asked.
John gave a pained, incredulous laugh and clutched the armrests of his chair. What a typically Sherlock thing not to understand. “Because it fucking hurt! Because I was mourning my best friend and my partner, and it took two years of therapy just to get my head on straight. Does that make you happy, by the way? Knowing how easily and thoroughly you fucked me up? You did a better job of it than the war.”
Sherlock was legitimately speechless, and god, that was insanely satisfying. Their conversation wasn’t supposed to go like this, but John couldn’t help it. He needed to know that Sherlock grasped the magnitude of his crimes. He wasn’t sure how much guilt Sherlock was even capable of feeling, but whatever the amount, he was determined to rip it out of him.
After a moment, Sherlock drummed his fingers against his knee and said, “I didn’t expect…” The sentence faltered, and John pounced.
“Didn’t expect what? That I’d actually give a shit that you were dead?”
“I didn’t expect it to take so long. I thought a few months, maybe…at most. I didn’t think…not years.”
“And that makes it okay, then?” John seethed, abruptly standing from his chair. “Fuck you.”
He stormed to the kitchen. Tea, he thought. Maybe he’d calm down with some tea. Enough harsh words had been hurled for one evening, and it really wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to make this okay. Yet he couldn’t seem to stop himself from slipping back into attack mode, just like that first night when he’d used his fist in lieu of words. He needed some tea, or another ten hours of therapy, or something.
But before he could even set the water boiling, his mobile went off. It was a text from Mary.
Are we still on for tomorrow night?
He could feel the muscles in his back tense. Mary was supposed to be his refuge in all of this, the person he could count on. She’d gone out of her way to prove that. So why didn’t a message from her feel like comfort? Why did the thought of seeing Mary tomorrow only add to his stress? Maybe it was the prospect of spending another evening pretending that nothing was wrong.
His thumbs were poised over his phone, deciding on what to respond, when he heard a forced sigh coming from behind him. He spun around and pinned Sherlock with a furious stare. “What?”
Sherlock was looking at the mobile, not at him. His expression was inscrutable. “I can’t imagine what you see in her.”
It was like Sherlock wanted to be knocked to the ground. John shoved the mobile back into his pocket and took two menacing steps forward. “Well, I don’t give a shit what you think.”
Sherlock raised his eyes, and his face was the hardest it had been since his return. Any trace of emotion was gone. “She’s hiding something from you.”
“Right, because you were always so bloody honest.”
“Irrelevant,” said Sherlock with a small shake of his head. “You tell her everything, and you hate it when she doesn’t do the same. But it’s more than that.” He stood slowly and faced John full on. John had forgotten how intimidating he could be at his full height with eyes like headlights and words like weapons. It made him realize, by contrast, how demure Sherlock had been acting up until now. “She doesn’t challenge you; she lets you stagnate. She never pushes you because she thinks you’re weak.”
John closed his eyes. Oh god, that hit a nerve. “I’m not weak,” he replied, too quick in his denial. He knew, rationally, that Mary had seen his shoulder wound, and she knew precisely what he was capable of surviving. But she also knew about the frequent nightmares, the trace of PTSD, the years of mourning. The idea that she sometimes thought of him as frail and broken, someone who needed taking care of, was an insecurity he could never quite shake, a vulnerable point of entry that Sherlock had found with terrifying ease.
Sherlock continued as though uninterrupted, his volume gradually increasing until he was almost shouting. “Or maybe she’s just incapable of pushing. Either way, she’ll never be enough for you. You’ve been to war, while she thinks she’s worldly and adventurous just because she goes rock climbing and sleeps with women. God,” he moaned, “she’s so boring! How can you stand her?”
John was breathing heavily, his short fingernails biting into his palms. Sherlock had no right, no bloody right to stand in John’s flat and insult him like that. “Mary is the best thing that’s happened to me since Afghanistan,” he snapped. There, for just a moment, John saw Sherlock’s features distort with the pain that John wanted so badly to inflict. He knew he’d regret these words tomorrow, but at the moment he didn’t give a shit. He just wanted to injure.
“You can’t possibly be happy,” Sherlock said.
The words burned through John’s body, because he used to be happy, a lifetime ago. And if he was unhappy now, it was Sherlock’s damn fault. Everything was Sherlock’s fault. He wished they were standing closer together so he could sink his fist into Sherlock’s stomach, show him just how unhappy he was. Instead, he took a deep breath and lied. “Yeah, well, I’m a damn sight happier than I ever was with you. In fact, I was doing just fine before you decided to show up again and make my life hell. So the next time you die, do me a favor and just stay in the ground!”
John didn’t wait to see Sherlock’s reaction. He didn’t want to see it. He headed straight for the stairs to his room, dimly aware that Sherlock wasn’t moving. There was a ringing in his ears, like the echo of his shouted words, and his hands felt numb.
He was on the top stair, reaching for the doorknob, when he finally heard Sherlock’s response. Because Sherlock always had to have the final say.
“If you prefer, next time I’ll sit back and let you die in my place.”
It felt like a physical blow-John had to support himself against the banister. There it was, then. That was the reason he hadn’t wanted to hear: Sherlock died to save his life. It was a possibility he’d considered, even before he knew that Sherlock was alive, so it wasn’t a complete shock. But to hear it spoken out loud and confirmed…John didn’t know what to do with the knowledge. He didn’t know how to feel about it. It wrapped around his lungs and threatened to choke him, but he took a few steady breaths and opened the door to his room. He couldn’t handle this right now. He pushed it completely from his thoughts. Tomorrow-they’d both calm down, and deal with everything tomorrow.
But the next day, Sherlock was gone.
Chapter Five
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: John/Mary, John/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13 this chapter, eventually NC-17
Word Count: 4,600 this chapter, 17,000 so far
Warnings: Explicit sex down the road, spoilers for season two
Disclaimer: I don't own it.
Summary: Three years later, John had a girlfriend, a new job, and a new life, and just because his ex wasn’t dead didn’t mean they were going to go right back to the way things used to be.
A/N: Thanks again to my two betas, thisprettywren and breathedout. It's like being in the middle of a sexy smart threesome. I'm a very lucky author. And thanks to those who have been following along! I know WIPs are a pain, and it means a lot.
On AO3
Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Four / Chapter Five / Chapter Six / Chapter Seven / Chapter Eight / Chapter Nine
Don't Explain
Chapter Four
He still felt it: that heart-stuttering shock of recognition, the relief, the attraction, the anger. The desire to place a hand on the small of Sherlock’s back just to feel his warmth, just to make sure he was actually there and alive. The conflicting instincts to walk right back out the door, and never to let Sherlock out of his sight again. John felt it every single bloody time he came home to find Sherlock sitting there. It didn’t matter that John was expecting it. It didn’t matter that a few days had passed and he should be used to the idea by now.
It was ridiculous that he should have to cycle through these emotions every time he walked into his own fucking flat. It wasn’t fair to him. And it certainly wasn’t making things easier with Mary, who’d been acting distant ever since that night at dinner. She continued to wear that damn bracelet, refusing to talk about it, and whenever John mentioned Sherlock’s name-which was far too frequently-she would fiddle with the pearls, sliding them around her wrist. Whatever was bothering her, Sherlock was a part of it. John reached a decision, and the fact that he hadn’t reached it sooner was probably another sign that there was something wrong with him.
He walked to the telly, turned off whatever program Sherlock had been watching, and stood in front of the screen to make sure he had Sherlock’s full attention.
Sherlock looked up with a carefully blank expression. His eyes darted over John’s face and body before dropping back down to stare at the blank television screen behind John’s legs. “Before you tell me whatever it is you’ve decided, you should know that your judgment is always at its worst when you’ve had a bad day at work.”
It was true that work had been miserable, but John didn’t take the bait. He didn’t want to be distracted from his current purpose. “Right. We can’t keep living together. I’m giving you a week to find your own flat, and then you need to move out.”
John was expecting frustration, an argument, an insulted roll of the eyes. He wasn’t expecting…well, he didn’t expect Sherlock to look sad. It almost, almost, put a dent in his resolve. John wondered, not for the first time, what Sherlock had been through and how the intervening years had changed him.
Sherlock pulled his knees up to his chest, making him look like a reprimanded child. “Why, is Maria trying to get rid of me?” he asked.
John rubbed a hand along his face and sighed. “You know perfectly well that her name is Mary, and no, this isn’t about her. This is about the fact that it’s not healthy to be living with an ex-boyfriend.”
“Ex-boyfriend?” Sherlock repeated, testing out the words and clearly disliking them.
“Yes, Sherlock, ex-boyfriend.” He pointed a finger to Sherlock’s chest. “That’s what you are. We were in a relationship, and now we’re not. And I know you don’t have a lot of experience with this, but exes don’t move in with each other.”
Sherlock looked down and picked at the hem of his trousers. “I don’t see why our past sexual history should have any bearing on our current living arrangement.”
John stared in disbelief. Past sexual history? Was that the extent of what their relationship had meant to him? “I’m not talking about sex, you fucking cold-hearted wanker! I’m talking about…” What, romance? Affection? Love? John found he couldn’t discuss it any more than Sherlock could. That was a territory he wasn’t ready to cross into. He shook his head. “No, actually, I’m through talking. I was happy to give you a place to crash, but starting tomorrow you need to find somewhere else to go. You can’t stay here.”
He walked to the kitchen without waiting for a response, and started making dinner. This was the right decision. He knew it was. And yet the thought that Sherlock would soon be gone, so shortly after his return, made his heart constrict. Clearly, John was doing a shit job of letting go and moving on. And that was all the more reason why Sherlock had to leave.
That evening passed like the few nights before it: quiet and tense, the air humming with the things that weren’t being said. John caught up on medical literature while Sherlock poked at his laptop, staring at John when he thought he wasn’t paying attention. It was weird and uncomfortable, and John couldn’t understand why he felt as though he’d miss it.
***
Wednesday meant therapy, which John had been dreading all week.
It must have shown in his face, because the moment he sat down, Ella took one look at him and responded by closing her notebook and placing it on the floor. Thank god for that. She knew how uncomfortable he was with her note taking, though he never explained the reason why. No need to upset her with Mycroft’s frequent breaches of confidentiality and ethics, not when she was probably unaware of them. Better to let her think him paranoid and untrusting.
Today he decided to take an extra precaution. John tapped a finger against the armrest and said, “Promise me you won’t write down anything from this session. Not even after I leave.” The thought of Mycroft getting his hands on it was terrifying.
Ella raised her eyebrows in surprise, but after a moment she nodded. “Okay. I promise.”
After that, words deserted him. It had only been a week since they last met, but his entire world had been turned upside down in that time, and he didn’t know where on earth to begin. He wasn’t convinced he wanted to discuss it at all. It seemed safer to keep his emotions on permanent lockdown where they belonged, but Ella would make him take them out one by one and put names to them, and he wasn’t sure he could handle that.
God, he hated therapy. It wasn’t until he actually needed it that he ever remembered that fact.
For a few minutes, they just stared at each other. Ella wasn’t pressing him yet; she knew that sometimes he needed the space to gather his thoughts. Although today, he would much rather avoid his thoughts altogether. John considered walking out and rescheduling for another time, but it wasn’t likely to get any easier if he waited.
“Would you like me to start guessing?” Ella eventually asked.
John glanced out the window, where the overcast sky was painting everything in grey. “I really don’t want to talk about it,” he said. “Just so you know.”
“It’s your hour, John,” Ella replied. “We can talk about anything you like.”
John scoffed. It was a nice thought. Last week, they’d discussed some minor quarrel he had with Mary over something he could no longer remember. But now, there was only one thing, one person in his thoughts and it was amazing how it eclipsed everything else. He couldn’t have invented a different topic if he tried.
It felt like ages before he finally let the words slip. “It’s to do with Sherlock.”
His voice very nearly shook on that name. Damn. He frowned and lowered his eyes to his lap, hating the way they prickled as though ready to form tears at a moment’s notice. There was something about being in this room that turned him grotesquely fragile. It held too many memories of coping just after Sherlock’s death-disappearance-no, death, and it was too easy to remember that vertigo, the feeling of teetering on the edge of falling apart.
He took a deep breath and splayed his fingers against his thighs, bracing himself. This was nothing like three years ago, he remembered. It helped to focus on his anger, which drowned out everything else and made it easier to regain control.
Clenching his hands into fists, he made eye contact with Ella and said, “It turns out he’s not actually dead.”
“Sorry, what?” Ella said, her eyes going wide and the professionalism suddenly dropping out of her voice. She collected herself quickly enough, blinking and folding her hands in her lap. “Maybe you should start from the beginning. Take your time.”
So he did. He told her everything: from Sherlock's unexpected reappearance, to their dinner with Mary, to last night's decision that he should move out. John still didn't know the exact reasons for Sherlock's three-year deception-he still didn't want to know-but he had a few guesses, and he shared these as well. Sherlock had gotten himself into something dangerous, something that required him to disappear. Maybe he thought he was being protective. Maybe he was just being selfish.
The explanation took the better part of their hour, punctuated as it was with pauses as John stalled, and tripped on his words, and spent long minutes just staring at London's depressing sky.
Afterwards, Ella began asking him questions that were mostly variations on, “How do you feel about…?” He tried to be honest, but John’s answers were mostly variations on, “I don’t know.” He could see that they were getting nowhere.
Their hour was almost up when Ella finally asked, “Do you think you would rather be with Sherlock than with Mary?”
“What? No!” John shouted, for some reason shocked and resentful that she should even suggest it, though it was a perfectly reasonable thing to ask. And really, wasn’t it the question that both Mary and Greg had danced around? But John wasn’t even allowing himself to entertain the thought. As far as he was concerned, there was no choice in the matter, end of story. “Mary is-perfect, and I love her, and Sherlock is a fucking prick who fucked me over.” John winced at his language. “Sorry.”
“You’re allowed to swear,” Ella reminded him.
“I’m happy with Mary,” John continued, calming down. “There’s no way I’d ever get back together with that bastard, but, I just-that doesn’t mean I don’t care about him. He’s still important to me.” Saying it out loud made him realize how true that was. Sherlock had been there when John had nothing else, and he’d made civilian life bearable. Not just bearable-worthwhile. Things had been so good back then, when they were simply flatmates solving crimes. Before they got involved.
Maybe that was the problem, then. Not Sherlock’s death, but the relationship that had preceded it. John never should have made that first move, and he definitely should never have fallen in love. Everything would have hurt so much less if he hadn’t.
“We started out as friends,” he said out loud. “Now everything is complicated, and it's-I miss that. Having him as a friend.” He shrugged. “But I’m not sure it's possible to go back to that.”
Ella considered for a moment. “I think whatever you decide, it's going to take a long time to rebuild what you had. It won’t be easy for him to regain your trust.”
John sighed. He couldn’t imagine giving his trust to Sherlock ever again. He didn’t understand why he’d ever trusted him in the first place.
Before he left, Ella asked him if he wanted to schedule an extra appointment before next Wednesday, but John flat out refused. One hour of this per week was quite enough.
***
“How was therapy?” Sherlock asked, his tone derisive, when John came home that evening. He was sitting on the couch watching telly, wrapped in his new robe, his laptop resting open on his thighs. This had become more or less his permanent position in the flat. John wondered if he even moved during the day.
“A bloody waste of time,” John mumbled as he hung up his coat. He knew, objectively, that Ella had done a lot for him over the years, but sometimes it felt so pointless. He didn’t like talking about his problems when he should be doing something about them instead. Sherlock looked ridiculously pleased at John’s response, in that “I told you so” way, which should have made John angry. Instead he could feel his own answering smile. “Shut it, you. You won’t get me to stop going.”
“I suppose it’s a pleasant way to pass an hour,” said Sherlock lightly, still smug.
John ducked his head to hide his grin. These days, he lived for small moments: a shared joke, or a familiar exchange. Anything that felt like normalcy in the confusion his life had become.
He took his usual seat and joined Sherlock in watching some dull fishing documentary. This was ridiculous, he thought after about two minutes. Sherlock would be moving out soon; they should be spending this time talking, trying to patch things over as best they could, not sitting in silence, watching whatever was on. Maybe therapy had helped him sort out his priorities after all, because the anger he’d kept so close to his heart no longer seemed useful. He didn’t want to stay angry forever. He wanted to move past that. He wasn’t ready to forgive Sherlock-not by a long shot-but he was willing to try and rebuild the friendship.
He reached for the remote, and switched off the television. Sherlock didn’t complain; he gave John a nervous look instead. With his righteous indignation temporarily shut down, John felt guilty that he could so easily provoke that reaction. Sherlock wasn’t supposed to be unsettled by anything. Apparently John was the exception.
“What did you do today?” he asked as a safe way to start a conversation. God, that made them sound like a married couple.
Sherlock shrugged and looked back to the blank television screen. “This.”
So John was correct; Sherlock was watching programs and surfing the internet all day. It just seemed…wrong. That wasn’t the Sherlock John used to know, who put bullets in the wall if he went a few days without a problem to solve. He should be bouncing off the ceiling in agitation by now. John furrowed his brow and wondered why Sherlock seemed so calm. No, not calm exactly-sedated, distant.
“No case, then?”
For some reason, this earned him an angry scowl.
“No,” Sherlock replied contemptuously. “No case.”
There was something in Sherlock’s voice that made John ache. “Why don’t you phone Lestrade?”
Sherlock clenched his jaw. “He made it clear that he could no longer allow me to assist investigations without jeopardizing his job.”
Of course. That made sense. John felt thoughtless for even suggesting it. “Well, I guess if you want a private practice again, you’ll have to let people know you’re alive.”
“I did,” said Sherlock, suddenly lifting his computer and giving it a shake like he was furious at it. “I posted an announcement to my website, and no one is responding.”
His website? “I thought your domain ran out ages ago.”
“I renewed it.”
John stared at him, baffled. Marketing was never Sherlock’s strong suit, but for a genius, he really didn’t understand how the internet worked. Or maybe it just went back to not understanding people. “Sherlock, it’s been three years! You can’t expect anyone to be checking the non-existent website of a deceased man.”
Sherlock slammed his laptop shut, and tossed it onto the cushion next to him. Then he swung his gaze toward John, and his eyes brightened as though he’d just realized something important. “You’re not deceased.”
“Well spotted.”
Sherlock ignored the sarcasm. “People still visit your blog. You need to inform them that I’m alive.”
The thought of even opening his blog again… John looked away and swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat. “I can’t.”
“Of course you can. It doesn’t even need a title, just a single sentence. I’ll write it for you.” It was the closest Sherlock had ever come to pleading.
And John wanted to do this for him, help him find a new case to prevent him from spiraling into boredom and uselessness and who knew, possibly drugs, but he really couldn’t bring himself to type out a single word. Not yet. He was still trying to heal his wounds, and Sherlock was essentially asking him to open them publicly. “I’m sorry, Sherlock.” He was. He really was. “I can’t. Maybe…I don’t know, maybe when…” He couldn’t finish that sentence, because he didn’t know when. He didn’t know what it would take for things to ever be right between them again.
The brief fire in Sherlock’s eyes went out. He didn’t look angry or upset. John almost wished he would. It would be more bearable than this uncharacteristically vacant stare. Sherlock hunched his shoulders and dropped his eyes to his laptop.
“I’m sorry,” John repeated.
“It’s fine,” said Sherlock, even though it clearly wasn’t. They were both silent for a few minutes before he added, “I saw…what you wrote.” He coughed slightly. “On your blog. Last year.”
A harsh, inappropriate laugh left John’s lips. The last thing he ever wrote was an account of Sherlock and Moriarty’s final series of conflicts, leading up to the fall. He’d tried to fill in the details as best he could, despite the sizeable gaps in his knowledge. But the entry wasn’t about the facts. It was about Sherlock. He had written it to quash, once and for all, any last doubt that the man might be a fraud. More than that, he had wanted to give Sherlock the tribute he deserved. John had tried, with his inadequate words, to explain what the world had lost that day-what he, personally, had lost.
Now he was morbidly amused at the thought of Sherlock, very much alive, reading his own eulogy. Had he found it overly “sentimental?” Was he flattered? Did it make him the least bit sorry for leaving? After all, John had all but confessed his undying love to the internet. And yet it hadn’t been enough to bring Sherlock home.
Suddenly, the thought was no longer funny at all. John looked away and rubbed his jaw. “And what did you think of it?” he asked.
At first, Sherlock didn’t say anything, which was actually a pretty clear answer. It was probably the first thing John had ever written that Sherlock hadn’t felt the need to insult. Finally he said, “It was good.”
There was so much meaning in those three words, an entire conversation they weren’t ready to have. “Took me two years before I could even say anything,” John added softly.
He could see Sherlock nod out of the corner of his eye. “First you had to prove to yourself that I wasn’t a fake.”
John blinked. The statement was so incredibly wrong, and spoken with such assurance, that at first he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “Wait, what?” He dropped his hand and leaned forward in his seat, catching Sherlock’s gaze to see if he was actually being serious. Sherlock’s confused frown was answer enough.
Fucking hell. He meant it. He thought it had taken John two years to make a decision that in reality had taken less than two seconds. He thought John had actually contemplated Moriarty’s lie. After everything they’d been through together, and the trust that had once existed between them, how could Sherlock honestly think that John was so blind? So thick that he’d just trust anything the papers told him, anything Sherlock told him, in the face of everything he knew and had once loved about this man?
It was such a slap in the face that it brought John’s anger right back to the surface. “Let’s get something straight, Sherlock. I know you think I’m an idiot, but I never once believed you were a fraud. Not for a moment, do you understand me?” He wanted to point out that Sherlock only became a fraud after his jump, but that was beside the point.
Sherlock regarded him as though John might be hiding something. “But when Moriarty-”
“Fuck Moriarty!” John shouted. He squeezed his eyes shut and ran a hand through his hair. “God damn it, Sherlock, I used to care about you! You think some criminal mastermind had the power to change that?”
Sherlock’s confusion slowly turned to shock. Yes, he had actually believed that. John almost didn’t know whether to be offended or to feel sorry for him. “Then why did you wait two years to write about it?” Sherlock asked.
John gave a pained, incredulous laugh and clutched the armrests of his chair. What a typically Sherlock thing not to understand. “Because it fucking hurt! Because I was mourning my best friend and my partner, and it took two years of therapy just to get my head on straight. Does that make you happy, by the way? Knowing how easily and thoroughly you fucked me up? You did a better job of it than the war.”
Sherlock was legitimately speechless, and god, that was insanely satisfying. Their conversation wasn’t supposed to go like this, but John couldn’t help it. He needed to know that Sherlock grasped the magnitude of his crimes. He wasn’t sure how much guilt Sherlock was even capable of feeling, but whatever the amount, he was determined to rip it out of him.
After a moment, Sherlock drummed his fingers against his knee and said, “I didn’t expect…” The sentence faltered, and John pounced.
“Didn’t expect what? That I’d actually give a shit that you were dead?”
“I didn’t expect it to take so long. I thought a few months, maybe…at most. I didn’t think…not years.”
“And that makes it okay, then?” John seethed, abruptly standing from his chair. “Fuck you.”
He stormed to the kitchen. Tea, he thought. Maybe he’d calm down with some tea. Enough harsh words had been hurled for one evening, and it really wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to make this okay. Yet he couldn’t seem to stop himself from slipping back into attack mode, just like that first night when he’d used his fist in lieu of words. He needed some tea, or another ten hours of therapy, or something.
But before he could even set the water boiling, his mobile went off. It was a text from Mary.
Are we still on for tomorrow night?
He could feel the muscles in his back tense. Mary was supposed to be his refuge in all of this, the person he could count on. She’d gone out of her way to prove that. So why didn’t a message from her feel like comfort? Why did the thought of seeing Mary tomorrow only add to his stress? Maybe it was the prospect of spending another evening pretending that nothing was wrong.
His thumbs were poised over his phone, deciding on what to respond, when he heard a forced sigh coming from behind him. He spun around and pinned Sherlock with a furious stare. “What?”
Sherlock was looking at the mobile, not at him. His expression was inscrutable. “I can’t imagine what you see in her.”
It was like Sherlock wanted to be knocked to the ground. John shoved the mobile back into his pocket and took two menacing steps forward. “Well, I don’t give a shit what you think.”
Sherlock raised his eyes, and his face was the hardest it had been since his return. Any trace of emotion was gone. “She’s hiding something from you.”
“Right, because you were always so bloody honest.”
“Irrelevant,” said Sherlock with a small shake of his head. “You tell her everything, and you hate it when she doesn’t do the same. But it’s more than that.” He stood slowly and faced John full on. John had forgotten how intimidating he could be at his full height with eyes like headlights and words like weapons. It made him realize, by contrast, how demure Sherlock had been acting up until now. “She doesn’t challenge you; she lets you stagnate. She never pushes you because she thinks you’re weak.”
John closed his eyes. Oh god, that hit a nerve. “I’m not weak,” he replied, too quick in his denial. He knew, rationally, that Mary had seen his shoulder wound, and she knew precisely what he was capable of surviving. But she also knew about the frequent nightmares, the trace of PTSD, the years of mourning. The idea that she sometimes thought of him as frail and broken, someone who needed taking care of, was an insecurity he could never quite shake, a vulnerable point of entry that Sherlock had found with terrifying ease.
Sherlock continued as though uninterrupted, his volume gradually increasing until he was almost shouting. “Or maybe she’s just incapable of pushing. Either way, she’ll never be enough for you. You’ve been to war, while she thinks she’s worldly and adventurous just because she goes rock climbing and sleeps with women. God,” he moaned, “she’s so boring! How can you stand her?”
John was breathing heavily, his short fingernails biting into his palms. Sherlock had no right, no bloody right to stand in John’s flat and insult him like that. “Mary is the best thing that’s happened to me since Afghanistan,” he snapped. There, for just a moment, John saw Sherlock’s features distort with the pain that John wanted so badly to inflict. He knew he’d regret these words tomorrow, but at the moment he didn’t give a shit. He just wanted to injure.
“You can’t possibly be happy,” Sherlock said.
The words burned through John’s body, because he used to be happy, a lifetime ago. And if he was unhappy now, it was Sherlock’s damn fault. Everything was Sherlock’s fault. He wished they were standing closer together so he could sink his fist into Sherlock’s stomach, show him just how unhappy he was. Instead, he took a deep breath and lied. “Yeah, well, I’m a damn sight happier than I ever was with you. In fact, I was doing just fine before you decided to show up again and make my life hell. So the next time you die, do me a favor and just stay in the ground!”
John didn’t wait to see Sherlock’s reaction. He didn’t want to see it. He headed straight for the stairs to his room, dimly aware that Sherlock wasn’t moving. There was a ringing in his ears, like the echo of his shouted words, and his hands felt numb.
He was on the top stair, reaching for the doorknob, when he finally heard Sherlock’s response. Because Sherlock always had to have the final say.
“If you prefer, next time I’ll sit back and let you die in my place.”
It felt like a physical blow-John had to support himself against the banister. There it was, then. That was the reason he hadn’t wanted to hear: Sherlock died to save his life. It was a possibility he’d considered, even before he knew that Sherlock was alive, so it wasn’t a complete shock. But to hear it spoken out loud and confirmed…John didn’t know what to do with the knowledge. He didn’t know how to feel about it. It wrapped around his lungs and threatened to choke him, but he took a few steady breaths and opened the door to his room. He couldn’t handle this right now. He pushed it completely from his thoughts. Tomorrow-they’d both calm down, and deal with everything tomorrow.
But the next day, Sherlock was gone.
Chapter Five