fic: we can find each other this way
It's allesodernichts's birthday, and this is her present. You're the best, darling.
Title: We can find each other this way (I believe)
Author: veritty
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Characters: Sherlock & John (gen/friendship/pre-slash, any way you want it), Lestrade, a bit of others
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~3600
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: John never let himself imagine what would happen after Sherlock returned (if he did). Reality trumped all imagination anyway.
Warning: Spoilers for S2.
A/N: Not betaed, sadly (if you see something wrong regarding the use of English language, you can tell me). Title from Come and Find Me by Josh Ritter. Also, there is a Russian version (not a translation, just a case of me writing in two languages simultaneously, ahem).
The thing is, John hoped. He wished, he asked, he begged. He hoped against all possible reasons. He might have dreamed of it once or twice.
He never allowed himself to imagine what would happen after Sherlock returned. How could he?
//
It's very strange. Awkward, in some way. John is not sure that Sherlock's the same man he knew before, even though it was only a year and a couple of months. Sherlock, it seems, is not sure that John has completely forgiven him. They are both very, very unsure of where they stand with each other, even after a whirl of emotions which accompanied Sherlock's return, even after catching the final piece of Moriarty's game.
//
Then there's Sherlock's equipment.
There are many matters they need to think about right now. Matters like clearing Sherlock's name once and for all. Matters like where the Yarders stand with Sherlock as of right now. Matters like John's blog, for god's sake. Well, it's not Sherlock's problem, but it's there.
John muses on it.
Mycroft, though. Mycroft is their problem.
Instead, one day, about three days after Sherlock's return, John finds him standing in the kitchen and looking quite uncertain.
"John. Where are my test tubes? Actually, while we're on the matter, I also can't find the--"
"Um, yes," John interjects. "Well, Mrs. Hudson got rid of your equipment, partially, at least. Donated it somewhere. I think. I wasn't here for that part, actually--"
"Why the hell--"
"Well, sorry for thinking you wouldn't need it anymore." John doesn't shout, but Sherlock flinches all the same. His mouth is a thin line, his eyes are full of something John is too tired to decipher. He stands there for a minute, then nods and goes away to his room. Possibly.
//
During the rest of the day John promises himself time and time again to visit Sherlock's room or wherever he's gone to now. He sits on the sofa, savours the tea and the cool whiff of September air from the window.
Then John realises that the room actually is Sherlock's now. Sherlock's once again.
After so many months of not-thinking about the room, it's there once more.
John stares blankly at the mantelpiece until his tea gets cold. He drinks it in big gulps, trying to get rid of the bitterness in his throat.
He's back. He's back. The room is back.
And he promises himself not to go to Sherlock's room today, since he is not quite sure what to expect of himself.
It's not a dream, you know that.
Doesn't he.
//
John's dreams are a mess right now, actually. He really can't figure them out.
First it's the unmistakable chlorine scent which has been missing from his dreams for what, two years? Then it's the sand and the smell of nothing except crisp hot air, then it's, suddenly, the smell of bolognese, and they're back at Angelo's, and then it's the Yard and Sherlock's showing off once again, so arrogant, so insolent, so brilliant, so fantastic and amazing and bright.
Then it's the fall, on the sixth night from Sherlock's return. John wakes up quietly, quietly sneaks out of his room; does not make a sound as he goes to the living room, takes the violin and deduces every small thing which makes it look used.
He's not desperate enough to talk to Sherlock about it, though.
That... might be a bad thing.
//
When Sherlock… wasn't there, John got into a habit of checking everything at his place: in the morning and upon his return from work; while he rented a small place for a time being and when he returned to Baker St.
Hope was a luxury he couldn't allow himself, but once started, he couldn't stop. He tried just-- giving it up, once, but the thought of Sherlock leaving him a sign and John missing it was nagging inside his mind. He couldn't fall asleep for most of the night. In the morning he checked everything again. So it became a routine, a thing he did without noticing.
Until one day when he caught himself doing it after Sherlock's return.
He sees the small signs of Sherlock everywhere, telltale signs, no - they're crying out, screaming Sherlock's presence.
Sometimes John thinks that Sherlock leaves the traces deliberately. Why not.
//
Sherlock makes tea for him. John drinks it because Sherlock knows perfectly well how he likes his tea.
He's not that bad at cooking when he isn't trying to drug you.
Sherlock makes tea for him just once. John drinks it silently, eyes fixed on the telly. Sherlock sits in his chair and pretends to be heavily involved in his website, all the while piercing John with his gaze over the laptop's lid.
John stubbornly continues to drink his strong black tea with milk, but he still hears soft but quick clicking of the keys, glances to the side and sees Sherlock, who is frowning and muttering something under his breath.
"Sherlock."
He raises his head slowly as if it was someone else with his eyes running between John and the laptop at forty times a minute.
"Thanks." He gestures to the tea, at least, to the mug where it just was.
Sherlock nods uncertainly.
"But you don't need to."
He doesn't wait for Sherlock to react. He goes to the kitchen, puts the mug into the sink, sees set-up experiments out of the corner of his eye and smiles.
John washes the dishes and goes back to the living room. Sherlock's attention is very firmly fixed on his computer. John puts the jacket on, unhurried, and throws over his shoulder while going through the door, "Why do you even bother? Just because you've returned from the dead people haven't grown to be more interested in different types of tobacco ash. Or mud." Although maybe, only at this moment, at the peak of interest in his persona…
He would like to think that Sherlock smiled, if only with a corner of his mouth.
//
Some time passes before John asks Sherlock, uncertainly, if he would like to go for a walk with him. John has gotten used to promenades during all those months, it would feel... strange to give them up now.
Sherlock looks at him, uncomprehending, just for a couple of seconds, but John notices and memorises this expression. Then he smoothes his features.
"Fine."
John nods and heads for the door.
"But only if we go round Regent's Park on its left," thrown at his back.
"Deal."
Outside John lets him babble on and on about the construction on the street nearby, about the new restaurant, which owner's support Sherlock's already got (When? he asks silently, and Sherlock rolls his eyes), about a new case which Mycroft wishes him to solve. Sherlock's voice sounds annoyed, but John catches an element of curiousity in it, and he knows that if not for his brother Sherlock would already be rushing to solve it. He'll probably crack in about two days.
John finds himself trembling with excitement and anticipation, he laughs at another spiteful remark Sherlock makes while on the subject of his brother, and he remembers, very distinctly, that it's how it was before.
//
Once (sixteen days; he's not counting) John wakes up with a gasp and chokes on the air. He doesn't remember what he's been dreaming about, but he can guess.
He lifts up his head and sees some shape at the door. He tries focusing on it, usually he's quite good at seeing in the dark, but the image just sort of cracks into pieces.
It's a wonder how easily John falls asleep after that, though.
//
Lestrade comes over. He has a few files with him, but he doesn't mention cases and Sherlock doesn't ask, oddly enough. Well, he did solve a confusing and intriguing case from Mycroft very recently, so it's understandable, in a way.
It wasn't enough before, though.
Lestrade talks of happenings in the Yard without mentioning the crimes themselves. They sit in the kitchen, him and John, and Sherlock stays in the living room, but doctor's sure he listens to every word.
John catches Greg throwing glances at the living room almost every other minute. John watches him and thinks he's recognized the expression: Lestrade can't really believe it either. And he doesn't even live with Sherlock, can't get daily proofs that he's not a product of inspector's imagination.
After musing on that, John decides that they can go to Scotland Yard eariler than he thought.
Because he's not the only one who needs incoscipicuous traces of Sherlock's presence thrown about in every room.
//
It's been thirty days when John says, "I saw you, you know."
The music slowly comes to an end. Sherlock doesn't turn, or else he does it without a sound. John is not sure. He's standing in the kitchen and... he doesn't remember exactly why he got there.
Sherlock also doesn't ask what he's on about.
"That is," John stammers and stares blankly at the table's corner. There's a small spot left over from yet another experiment. Another small sign. He takes a deep breath and continues, "I know, of course, most of these times I was just imagining things, and it's not like it happened all that often... But could I? See you. Theoretically. Once or twice?"
He looks out of the kitchen. Sherlock's turned, of course, and now he's looking at John with his piercing gaze but it doesn't look like he's trying to read him, more like... what? Guess what answer will be the right one? (I never guess, he would say. Did say.)
He's also wincing slightly, as if from a stinging wound - which John's adressed more than a couple of times.
"Once or twice, yes," Sherlock says finally, turning back to the window and raising the violin to his shoulder.
"Right."
John thinks of asking if Sherlock's seen him, but decides against it.
"Tea?"
"Mhmm." John takes this as "yes, I suppose".
While the kettle's boiling he thinks how the anger is still inside him, even after having been washed down by the endless tea and rain they get caught in sometimes, still boiling and seething, reminding him of what Sherlock's done.
But the questions like the one he's just asked seem to be some sort of revenge in itself.
//
John opens his eyes and realises there's someone else in his bed. He forces down his first initial reaction, one of agression.
It's long into the night and he remembers falling asleep alone, but it's hard not to notice Sherlock's pale skin.
He also recognizes the red dressing gown and toes peaking out from under the blanket before he falls asleep again. He's not sure he didn't dream this up.
He wakes up alone, of course.
//
He forces Sherlock into another "how can you not know that" movie night . When John says that criminals, unlike him, are mostly familiar with the mass culture, Sherlock finally succumbs and flops down on the sofa with a characteristic 'oh fine' written all over his face.
John chuckles and sits down beside him, moving Sherlock aside, which makes the latter immediately drop his legs onto John's, and reaches for the remote.
It's only later, just before going to bed that he realises that it's the first movie they've watched after Sherlock's return. He dismisses the thought. What does it matter.
//
For a while they practically don't speak about Moriarty at all, except for Sherlock's detailed retelling of what happened on the roof, his own 'death' and the long absence. John pays greats attention and fights the urge to break something incredibly vital in Sherlock's body, but he doesn't want to raise the topic afterwards. Sherlock starts on something about Moriarty once, but he stops short and glances at John, who doesn't really understand what's just happened. After that Sherlock leaves the late consulting criminal alone.
Gradually the unspoken veto comes to an end, though.
Gradually relationship with Mycroft gets into the groove of arguing with Sherlock and half-secretly cooperating with John, although the latter notes that Mycroft's being… softer with him, and sometimes even with his brother.
Gradually Mrs Hudson start scolding them once more: Sherlock for ruining elements of decoration and John for letting it happen.
They seem to find themselves in Molly's company more often. After some time John even stops throwing suspicious glances at her, wary of what other secrets she might be hiding, unnoticed. It's probably a lot. In her younger days Molly Hooper was probably considered a perfect container to store all sorts of secrets in.
They visit Angelo's, Bart's, after some time - the Yard, and once even the Diogenes club, and it slowly dawns on John that, in his mind, the 'us' has almost completely replaced the 'I', which he's barely adjusted to anyway.
//
Another nightmare, another 4 AM, he goes to the living room once again, never even stopping to think where and why he's going.
John doesn't go around the room frantically, hungrily, taking in everything he can. Not now. He looks around, calm, smiling slightly, if a little nervously. Then he heads to the violin, grips it a bit more tightly than truly necessary. Picks it up, looks it over.
He focuses all his attention on it, failing to notice the dark shadow detaching itself from the wall.
"The bow, John."
"What?" He doesn't even flinch.
"You forgot the bow."
Of course.
Of course, the bow should be here but it's not. Such an obvious proof of Sherlock's presence.
Of course, Sherlock understood perfectly what he was doing here at half past four in the morning. He's understood for a long time, probably.
The detective goes over to the window where John's standing. The latter stubbornly refuses to start the conversation, even to ask if Sherlock's known about his stupid habit for a long time now. How foolish: Sherlock could probably get it the very first day. But did he? It would be just like him simply not to bother.
Sherlock clears his throat.
"I'm sor--"
"No, don't."
John remembers very well how every apology can turn into a not really disguised insult. That wasn't why he interrupted Sherlock, though. How should he, how can he explain to him that this part of his life, semi-life, can't be erased even with the most sincere of apologies?
Sherlock pats him on the shoulder awkwardly. He's still watching him tensely. John sighs and Sherlock walks away and sits down in his chair.
And suddenly he breaks the silence again:
"I didn't know what would happen after I returned. Well, of course, I knew what was happening to you and would find out if any… changes came to be," he adds hurriedly. "But… after the return…" Sherlock hesitates and it's so damn unfamiliar that John wants to punch him if only that would stop it.
"At least you could think about it," John remarks. The words come out strangely bitter, though Sherlock probably doesn't even notice.
But he still refuses to look at John, and the expressions on his face rapidly replace one another, until it's some strange mix of panic and intense concentration.
"I talked to you," he finally forces out. "Continued to. When you weren't there."
John knows that this isn't an attempt to play a pity card on him, that it's his compromise, his trust. Sherlock shares this information with him, it being one of the few ways to reach equilibrium that are known to him.
"Didn't notice my absence at first?" John asks, a smile in his voice, giving Sherlock a chance to change the tone of the conversation to something lighter.
"No, I didn't," Sherlock confirms. "But it became harder not to notice after that."
John swallows, goes over to where Sherlock's sitting down and lays his hand at the back of Sherlock's head.
He thinks that it's not always necessary to erase even the most horrible things.
Sherlock gets that very same bow from god knows where, takes the violin from John's hands without having to ask for it.
And then he begins to play.
//
The first case after his return - the first official police case, not a case from Mycroft or one of his site's guests, - Sherlock solves with the usual flourish, arrogance and insults to the officers on duty.
The second one ends with a bullet grazing a shoulder.
"The right one," Sherlock remarks, sounding disappointed. "Pity. We could match."
It's such a small thing, such a trifle, barely a scratch, it's happened before, he doesn't need an ambulance, they'll go to the clinic, there's only a little blood. They'll stand up, call the police about the knocked out now-definitely-a-suspect. They'll go home.
Such a trifle.
"Never again, do you understand," John spits in his face, because miracles don't happen, if only to Sherlock, constantly, unfailingly, but not to a simple army doctor, - and John's already got two, for some reason, probably stolen from some unlucky bastard. But his limit is undoubtedly up.
Sherlock smirks, and John wants to wash his face from that expression, the way he wanted to do with confusion, self-assurance, arrogance, delight at the most inhuman things, the way he wanted to delete his shaking voice on the phone from his memory, but at the same time hide, save somewhere deep inside him.
He wants to punch him, knock him out, kiss him and kill him and ressurect him and throw him from the roof once more, and be certain this time.
And there it is, that very thing.
And John's glad, so unbelievably glad at this moment that Sherlock can read it all on his oh-so-obvious, telltale, boring face. He doesn't need to risk putting it into words. He's not a poet and he never was one. A biographer. A blogger. Yes.
"Not boring," Sherlock says patiently as if he's repeating himself for a thousandth time. And smirks once more, although it's more of a smile.
John breaks into a smile himself, laughs into Sherlock's neck, hates him, he missed him so much.
//
Most of the time everything's the same with two of them. Insanely confusing and insanely boring cases, comments on John's blog and the lack of them on Sherlock's website, trips to the unhospitable Scotland Yard and unwelcome visits from an elder brother (and an elder sister, on one occasion), ridiculous articles in the papers and the adrenaline-fueled chases across shining London.
There are times when John wakes up at night, and it's not sweeping bullets that ring in his ears, but a sickening crush from a blunt object that gained full speed hitting the hard surface. For some mysterious reason insomnious Sherlock ghosts in the flat on just the same nights. It usually ends in the kitchen where not only can you drink tea, complain about yet another not properly hidden body part in the fringe or eat breakfast (which, oddly enough, is the most well-established meal on Baker St, 221B, while all the others usually occur god knows where), but also listen to the patient explanations of the main point of Sherlock's yet another experiment. It's even more often that they argue ad nauseam about some complete nonsense in the living room. Well, not argue, of course. More like discuss. Violently. John doesn't really think about how much it soothes and calms and distracts him. Although he wakes up on the sofa once, his face nestled into Sherlock's shoulder, which is covered by one of his countless dressing gowns (the red one, John notices, cracking one eye open), while Sherlock's typing something into his phone with his face to the door.
Meanwhile, it's been long since the dawn broke, and John heavily suspects that Sherlock wasn't awake all this time.
There are times, though, when John understands very keenly that it's not how it was before. There are times when a small thing reminds him of what was happening a year ago, or half a year, or even a few months, and there's a huge black hole threatening to open in his chest that he could probably fill up with alcohol. He could if he didn't think of Sherlock whose face he would like to punch so very much at the moments like these.
But it's even more often that he understands, stunned, that Sherlock's here again, that he's standing, running, sitting, whining, snorting, sulking, cursing, smiling, laughing beside him. At such moments John watches him, dopey-eyed, and feels something inside him outmatching, covering up, painting over and filling up the black hole better than any booze could manage.
Oddly enough, Sherlock seems to understand it perfectly.
fin
Title: We can find each other this way (I believe)
Author: veritty
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Characters: Sherlock & John (gen/friendship/pre-slash, any way you want it), Lestrade, a bit of others
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~3600
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: John never let himself imagine what would happen after Sherlock returned (if he did). Reality trumped all imagination anyway.
Warning: Spoilers for S2.
A/N: Not betaed, sadly (if you see something wrong regarding the use of English language, you can tell me). Title from Come and Find Me by Josh Ritter. Also, there is a Russian version (not a translation, just a case of me writing in two languages simultaneously, ahem).
The thing is, John hoped. He wished, he asked, he begged. He hoped against all possible reasons. He might have dreamed of it once or twice.
He never allowed himself to imagine what would happen after Sherlock returned. How could he?
//
It's very strange. Awkward, in some way. John is not sure that Sherlock's the same man he knew before, even though it was only a year and a couple of months. Sherlock, it seems, is not sure that John has completely forgiven him. They are both very, very unsure of where they stand with each other, even after a whirl of emotions which accompanied Sherlock's return, even after catching the final piece of Moriarty's game.
//
Then there's Sherlock's equipment.
There are many matters they need to think about right now. Matters like clearing Sherlock's name once and for all. Matters like where the Yarders stand with Sherlock as of right now. Matters like John's blog, for god's sake. Well, it's not Sherlock's problem, but it's there.
John muses on it.
Mycroft, though. Mycroft is their problem.
Instead, one day, about three days after Sherlock's return, John finds him standing in the kitchen and looking quite uncertain.
"John. Where are my test tubes? Actually, while we're on the matter, I also can't find the--"
"Um, yes," John interjects. "Well, Mrs. Hudson got rid of your equipment, partially, at least. Donated it somewhere. I think. I wasn't here for that part, actually--"
"Why the hell--"
"Well, sorry for thinking you wouldn't need it anymore." John doesn't shout, but Sherlock flinches all the same. His mouth is a thin line, his eyes are full of something John is too tired to decipher. He stands there for a minute, then nods and goes away to his room. Possibly.
//
During the rest of the day John promises himself time and time again to visit Sherlock's room or wherever he's gone to now. He sits on the sofa, savours the tea and the cool whiff of September air from the window.
Then John realises that the room actually is Sherlock's now. Sherlock's once again.
After so many months of not-thinking about the room, it's there once more.
John stares blankly at the mantelpiece until his tea gets cold. He drinks it in big gulps, trying to get rid of the bitterness in his throat.
He's back. He's back. The room is back.
And he promises himself not to go to Sherlock's room today, since he is not quite sure what to expect of himself.
It's not a dream, you know that.
Doesn't he.
//
John's dreams are a mess right now, actually. He really can't figure them out.
First it's the unmistakable chlorine scent which has been missing from his dreams for what, two years? Then it's the sand and the smell of nothing except crisp hot air, then it's, suddenly, the smell of bolognese, and they're back at Angelo's, and then it's the Yard and Sherlock's showing off once again, so arrogant, so insolent, so brilliant, so fantastic and amazing and bright.
Then it's the fall, on the sixth night from Sherlock's return. John wakes up quietly, quietly sneaks out of his room; does not make a sound as he goes to the living room, takes the violin and deduces every small thing which makes it look used.
He's not desperate enough to talk to Sherlock about it, though.
That... might be a bad thing.
//
When Sherlock… wasn't there, John got into a habit of checking everything at his place: in the morning and upon his return from work; while he rented a small place for a time being and when he returned to Baker St.
Hope was a luxury he couldn't allow himself, but once started, he couldn't stop. He tried just-- giving it up, once, but the thought of Sherlock leaving him a sign and John missing it was nagging inside his mind. He couldn't fall asleep for most of the night. In the morning he checked everything again. So it became a routine, a thing he did without noticing.
Until one day when he caught himself doing it after Sherlock's return.
He sees the small signs of Sherlock everywhere, telltale signs, no - they're crying out, screaming Sherlock's presence.
Sometimes John thinks that Sherlock leaves the traces deliberately. Why not.
//
Sherlock makes tea for him. John drinks it because Sherlock knows perfectly well how he likes his tea.
He's not that bad at cooking when he isn't trying to drug you.
Sherlock makes tea for him just once. John drinks it silently, eyes fixed on the telly. Sherlock sits in his chair and pretends to be heavily involved in his website, all the while piercing John with his gaze over the laptop's lid.
John stubbornly continues to drink his strong black tea with milk, but he still hears soft but quick clicking of the keys, glances to the side and sees Sherlock, who is frowning and muttering something under his breath.
"Sherlock."
He raises his head slowly as if it was someone else with his eyes running between John and the laptop at forty times a minute.
"Thanks." He gestures to the tea, at least, to the mug where it just was.
Sherlock nods uncertainly.
"But you don't need to."
He doesn't wait for Sherlock to react. He goes to the kitchen, puts the mug into the sink, sees set-up experiments out of the corner of his eye and smiles.
John washes the dishes and goes back to the living room. Sherlock's attention is very firmly fixed on his computer. John puts the jacket on, unhurried, and throws over his shoulder while going through the door, "Why do you even bother? Just because you've returned from the dead people haven't grown to be more interested in different types of tobacco ash. Or mud." Although maybe, only at this moment, at the peak of interest in his persona…
He would like to think that Sherlock smiled, if only with a corner of his mouth.
//
Some time passes before John asks Sherlock, uncertainly, if he would like to go for a walk with him. John has gotten used to promenades during all those months, it would feel... strange to give them up now.
Sherlock looks at him, uncomprehending, just for a couple of seconds, but John notices and memorises this expression. Then he smoothes his features.
"Fine."
John nods and heads for the door.
"But only if we go round Regent's Park on its left," thrown at his back.
"Deal."
Outside John lets him babble on and on about the construction on the street nearby, about the new restaurant, which owner's support Sherlock's already got (When? he asks silently, and Sherlock rolls his eyes), about a new case which Mycroft wishes him to solve. Sherlock's voice sounds annoyed, but John catches an element of curiousity in it, and he knows that if not for his brother Sherlock would already be rushing to solve it. He'll probably crack in about two days.
John finds himself trembling with excitement and anticipation, he laughs at another spiteful remark Sherlock makes while on the subject of his brother, and he remembers, very distinctly, that it's how it was before.
//
Once (sixteen days; he's not counting) John wakes up with a gasp and chokes on the air. He doesn't remember what he's been dreaming about, but he can guess.
He lifts up his head and sees some shape at the door. He tries focusing on it, usually he's quite good at seeing in the dark, but the image just sort of cracks into pieces.
It's a wonder how easily John falls asleep after that, though.
//
Lestrade comes over. He has a few files with him, but he doesn't mention cases and Sherlock doesn't ask, oddly enough. Well, he did solve a confusing and intriguing case from Mycroft very recently, so it's understandable, in a way.
It wasn't enough before, though.
Lestrade talks of happenings in the Yard without mentioning the crimes themselves. They sit in the kitchen, him and John, and Sherlock stays in the living room, but doctor's sure he listens to every word.
John catches Greg throwing glances at the living room almost every other minute. John watches him and thinks he's recognized the expression: Lestrade can't really believe it either. And he doesn't even live with Sherlock, can't get daily proofs that he's not a product of inspector's imagination.
After musing on that, John decides that they can go to Scotland Yard eariler than he thought.
Because he's not the only one who needs incoscipicuous traces of Sherlock's presence thrown about in every room.
//
It's been thirty days when John says, "I saw you, you know."
The music slowly comes to an end. Sherlock doesn't turn, or else he does it without a sound. John is not sure. He's standing in the kitchen and... he doesn't remember exactly why he got there.
Sherlock also doesn't ask what he's on about.
"That is," John stammers and stares blankly at the table's corner. There's a small spot left over from yet another experiment. Another small sign. He takes a deep breath and continues, "I know, of course, most of these times I was just imagining things, and it's not like it happened all that often... But could I? See you. Theoretically. Once or twice?"
He looks out of the kitchen. Sherlock's turned, of course, and now he's looking at John with his piercing gaze but it doesn't look like he's trying to read him, more like... what? Guess what answer will be the right one? (I never guess, he would say. Did say.)
He's also wincing slightly, as if from a stinging wound - which John's adressed more than a couple of times.
"Once or twice, yes," Sherlock says finally, turning back to the window and raising the violin to his shoulder.
"Right."
John thinks of asking if Sherlock's seen him, but decides against it.
"Tea?"
"Mhmm." John takes this as "yes, I suppose".
While the kettle's boiling he thinks how the anger is still inside him, even after having been washed down by the endless tea and rain they get caught in sometimes, still boiling and seething, reminding him of what Sherlock's done.
But the questions like the one he's just asked seem to be some sort of revenge in itself.
//
John opens his eyes and realises there's someone else in his bed. He forces down his first initial reaction, one of agression.
It's long into the night and he remembers falling asleep alone, but it's hard not to notice Sherlock's pale skin.
He also recognizes the red dressing gown and toes peaking out from under the blanket before he falls asleep again. He's not sure he didn't dream this up.
He wakes up alone, of course.
//
He forces Sherlock into another "how can you not know that" movie night . When John says that criminals, unlike him, are mostly familiar with the mass culture, Sherlock finally succumbs and flops down on the sofa with a characteristic 'oh fine' written all over his face.
John chuckles and sits down beside him, moving Sherlock aside, which makes the latter immediately drop his legs onto John's, and reaches for the remote.
It's only later, just before going to bed that he realises that it's the first movie they've watched after Sherlock's return. He dismisses the thought. What does it matter.
//
For a while they practically don't speak about Moriarty at all, except for Sherlock's detailed retelling of what happened on the roof, his own 'death' and the long absence. John pays greats attention and fights the urge to break something incredibly vital in Sherlock's body, but he doesn't want to raise the topic afterwards. Sherlock starts on something about Moriarty once, but he stops short and glances at John, who doesn't really understand what's just happened. After that Sherlock leaves the late consulting criminal alone.
Gradually the unspoken veto comes to an end, though.
Gradually relationship with Mycroft gets into the groove of arguing with Sherlock and half-secretly cooperating with John, although the latter notes that Mycroft's being… softer with him, and sometimes even with his brother.
Gradually Mrs Hudson start scolding them once more: Sherlock for ruining elements of decoration and John for letting it happen.
They seem to find themselves in Molly's company more often. After some time John even stops throwing suspicious glances at her, wary of what other secrets she might be hiding, unnoticed. It's probably a lot. In her younger days Molly Hooper was probably considered a perfect container to store all sorts of secrets in.
They visit Angelo's, Bart's, after some time - the Yard, and once even the Diogenes club, and it slowly dawns on John that, in his mind, the 'us' has almost completely replaced the 'I', which he's barely adjusted to anyway.
//
Another nightmare, another 4 AM, he goes to the living room once again, never even stopping to think where and why he's going.
John doesn't go around the room frantically, hungrily, taking in everything he can. Not now. He looks around, calm, smiling slightly, if a little nervously. Then he heads to the violin, grips it a bit more tightly than truly necessary. Picks it up, looks it over.
He focuses all his attention on it, failing to notice the dark shadow detaching itself from the wall.
"The bow, John."
"What?" He doesn't even flinch.
"You forgot the bow."
Of course.
Of course, the bow should be here but it's not. Such an obvious proof of Sherlock's presence.
Of course, Sherlock understood perfectly what he was doing here at half past four in the morning. He's understood for a long time, probably.
The detective goes over to the window where John's standing. The latter stubbornly refuses to start the conversation, even to ask if Sherlock's known about his stupid habit for a long time now. How foolish: Sherlock could probably get it the very first day. But did he? It would be just like him simply not to bother.
Sherlock clears his throat.
"I'm sor--"
"No, don't."
John remembers very well how every apology can turn into a not really disguised insult. That wasn't why he interrupted Sherlock, though. How should he, how can he explain to him that this part of his life, semi-life, can't be erased even with the most sincere of apologies?
Sherlock pats him on the shoulder awkwardly. He's still watching him tensely. John sighs and Sherlock walks away and sits down in his chair.
And suddenly he breaks the silence again:
"I didn't know what would happen after I returned. Well, of course, I knew what was happening to you and would find out if any… changes came to be," he adds hurriedly. "But… after the return…" Sherlock hesitates and it's so damn unfamiliar that John wants to punch him if only that would stop it.
"At least you could think about it," John remarks. The words come out strangely bitter, though Sherlock probably doesn't even notice.
But he still refuses to look at John, and the expressions on his face rapidly replace one another, until it's some strange mix of panic and intense concentration.
"I talked to you," he finally forces out. "Continued to. When you weren't there."
John knows that this isn't an attempt to play a pity card on him, that it's his compromise, his trust. Sherlock shares this information with him, it being one of the few ways to reach equilibrium that are known to him.
"Didn't notice my absence at first?" John asks, a smile in his voice, giving Sherlock a chance to change the tone of the conversation to something lighter.
"No, I didn't," Sherlock confirms. "But it became harder not to notice after that."
John swallows, goes over to where Sherlock's sitting down and lays his hand at the back of Sherlock's head.
He thinks that it's not always necessary to erase even the most horrible things.
Sherlock gets that very same bow from god knows where, takes the violin from John's hands without having to ask for it.
And then he begins to play.
//
The first case after his return - the first official police case, not a case from Mycroft or one of his site's guests, - Sherlock solves with the usual flourish, arrogance and insults to the officers on duty.
The second one ends with a bullet grazing a shoulder.
"The right one," Sherlock remarks, sounding disappointed. "Pity. We could match."
It's such a small thing, such a trifle, barely a scratch, it's happened before, he doesn't need an ambulance, they'll go to the clinic, there's only a little blood. They'll stand up, call the police about the knocked out now-definitely-a-suspect. They'll go home.
Such a trifle.
"Never again, do you understand," John spits in his face, because miracles don't happen, if only to Sherlock, constantly, unfailingly, but not to a simple army doctor, - and John's already got two, for some reason, probably stolen from some unlucky bastard. But his limit is undoubtedly up.
Sherlock smirks, and John wants to wash his face from that expression, the way he wanted to do with confusion, self-assurance, arrogance, delight at the most inhuman things, the way he wanted to delete his shaking voice on the phone from his memory, but at the same time hide, save somewhere deep inside him.
He wants to punch him, knock him out, kiss him and kill him and ressurect him and throw him from the roof once more, and be certain this time.
And there it is, that very thing.
And John's glad, so unbelievably glad at this moment that Sherlock can read it all on his oh-so-obvious, telltale, boring face. He doesn't need to risk putting it into words. He's not a poet and he never was one. A biographer. A blogger. Yes.
"Not boring," Sherlock says patiently as if he's repeating himself for a thousandth time. And smirks once more, although it's more of a smile.
John breaks into a smile himself, laughs into Sherlock's neck, hates him, he missed him so much.
//
Most of the time everything's the same with two of them. Insanely confusing and insanely boring cases, comments on John's blog and the lack of them on Sherlock's website, trips to the unhospitable Scotland Yard and unwelcome visits from an elder brother (and an elder sister, on one occasion), ridiculous articles in the papers and the adrenaline-fueled chases across shining London.
There are times when John wakes up at night, and it's not sweeping bullets that ring in his ears, but a sickening crush from a blunt object that gained full speed hitting the hard surface. For some mysterious reason insomnious Sherlock ghosts in the flat on just the same nights. It usually ends in the kitchen where not only can you drink tea, complain about yet another not properly hidden body part in the fringe or eat breakfast (which, oddly enough, is the most well-established meal on Baker St, 221B, while all the others usually occur god knows where), but also listen to the patient explanations of the main point of Sherlock's yet another experiment. It's even more often that they argue ad nauseam about some complete nonsense in the living room. Well, not argue, of course. More like discuss. Violently. John doesn't really think about how much it soothes and calms and distracts him. Although he wakes up on the sofa once, his face nestled into Sherlock's shoulder, which is covered by one of his countless dressing gowns (the red one, John notices, cracking one eye open), while Sherlock's typing something into his phone with his face to the door.
Meanwhile, it's been long since the dawn broke, and John heavily suspects that Sherlock wasn't awake all this time.
There are times, though, when John understands very keenly that it's not how it was before. There are times when a small thing reminds him of what was happening a year ago, or half a year, or even a few months, and there's a huge black hole threatening to open in his chest that he could probably fill up with alcohol. He could if he didn't think of Sherlock whose face he would like to punch so very much at the moments like these.
But it's even more often that he understands, stunned, that Sherlock's here again, that he's standing, running, sitting, whining, snorting, sulking, cursing, smiling, laughing beside him. At such moments John watches him, dopey-eyed, and feels something inside him outmatching, covering up, painting over and filling up the black hole better than any booze could manage.
Oddly enough, Sherlock seems to understand it perfectly.
fin