Fic: We Only Part To Meet Again (1/?)
We Only Part To Meet Again
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock
Warnings: Sexual situations
Spoilers: The Reichenbach Fall
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. He is the property of ACD and the BBC respectively. I also don't own this title - it is a quote from John Gay's Black-Eyed Susan.
Beta: The wonderful lady_t_220. Without her help and encouragement, this would have been abandoned and left for dead.
Summary: One year after Reichenbach, John is sent to Corsica on an errand for Mycroft. What he doesn't expect to find is a second chance to say all the things he never said.
Author's note: I've never been to Corsica. I am relying entirely on Google Images and Wikipedia so please allow for a liberal sprinkling of artistic license.
****
Corsica is truly beautiful, all spectacular mountains and endless greenery and a stunning coastline that John follows as he drives from Ajaccio up to the very tip of the island. It’s quiet too, which is a welcome respite from the hustle and bustle of London, and especially the people of London. Because, in all honesty, it is the people who have made London unbearable for John. It is a city full of those who are only too happy to doubt, to mock, to cast aspersions on a dead man’s character. John is well and truly fed up - and quite happy to get away from it all. Yet he wonders, not for the first time, what he’s doing here: on a deserted beach at the northern tip of the island, doing a favour for Mycroft Holmes, of all people.
He had spoken to Mycroft a scant three times in the year that has passed since Sherlock's death, because if Sherlock was not around to disdain his brother for the betrayal that led to his downfall, then John was quite content to do it for him. Apparently this wasn't enough to deter Mycroft and so John had been surprised - and yes, a little annoyed - when Mycroft had asked for his help.
Just go to Corsica and pick up a message - simple enough, really, if a bit cloak and dagger. John had refused, twice, but Mycroft Holmes was nothing if not persistent. He probably had a hundred lackeys that could have carried out this simple errand, but for some reason he had been adamant that John be the one to go. John had finally relented, having neither the energy nor the inclination to continue arguing indefinitely and especially not with a Holmes. They always won in the end and, after all, he could probably do with some time away from London and the memories that still haunted him.
It was how he found himself on an isolated beach in the middle of the Mediterranean on a warm June afternoon, waiting for a man he didn't know to give him a message for a man he doesn't particularly like. The beach is empty except for a local fisherman (blonde-haired, he notes absently, slightly strange for this part of the world) who is doing something with a boat further along the beach. He had given John a friendly wave when John arrived but then returned to his work, so John had discounted him as being the mysterious messenger. John stood around awkwardly for a few minutes, before dropping to the warm sand and staring mindlessly out to sea while he waited.
An hour later and John is more than a little annoyed. Not a single person has come to the beach: it’s still just him and the fisherman. He is angry enough that he pulls out his phone and, regardless of the cost of international calls, dials Mycroft's number. At least, he tries to - and then he realises that, quite predictably, there is no signal on this beach in the middle of nowhere.
"Damn."
He’s really annoyed now and he pushes himself to his feet, muttering angrily to himself.
"Right. Brilliant. Bloody brilliant."
He growls and rakes a hand through his hair in frustration.
"This is ridiculous. What the hell am I even doing here?"
He turns to leave, and it's then he hears a voice. A deep voice that he has only heard in his dreams for the last year.
"Hello, John."
He drops his phone in shock and he thinks he might faint, but instead he closes his eyes; tries to will the apparition away.
"This isn't real," he whispers, "You're not here."
"John."
That voice. God, that voice. He knows he shouldn't succumb to this madness but he wants to see this vision. If he's going crazy, he's at least going to take advantage of it because he hasn't seen Sherlock for a year. He wonders what his imagination will produce. He turns slowly towards the source of the voice and frowns when he takes in the vision before him. His imagination has apparently put Sherlock's face on the fisherman's body because the Sherlock before him is blonde and slightly tanned, wiry and lean in jeans and a T-shirt.
John rubs his face tiredly. He doesn't want to be haunted by a ghost that doesn't even look like the friend he lost.
"You're not really here. Go away."
He covers his face in desperation because it hurts. It still hurts so goddamn much he feels sick to the stomach.
"I'm not a figment of your imagination, John," the vision says and John scoffs, but then there is a hand at his elbow, and it's like a lightning strike to his senses. His confused gaze flies to pale blue eyes and his legs buckle but Sherlock's there, lowering him gently to the sand.
"Sherlock," he breathes, reaching out to grab Sherlock's shoulder, warm and solid under his fingers.
"Yes."
All he can do is stare, because this can't be real. I saw you fall, he wants to say, I saw your lifeless body.
"You're blonde," is what he actually says and of all the things he could have said, it is probably the most inane. Sherlock seems to think so too because he's trying hard to suppress a smile and not quite succeeding.
"Easier to blend in."
And yes, John supposes it is. There had been something otherworldly about the combination of that dark hair and pale skin, pale eyes. Now, he almost looks like a normal bloke. Except he's not. He's Sherlock, and he's supposed to be dead, and John doesn't know what to do with that. He wants to be angry, he wants to scream and shout, but he's completely numb.
The next few minutes are a blur but one minute he’s on the beach and then he’s not, he’s sitting at a rickety table in a beach house and Sherlock is putting a cup of tea in front of him. This must be a dream, because Sherlock never makes the tea. As if he can sense John’s confusion, Sherlock sits beside him and rests a hand somewhat hesitantly over John’s on the table.
“John, I know this is a shock to you.”
John just scoffs and stares at Sherlock’s hand resting on his.
“I'm not sure where to start, how to -” Sherlock says.
“‘Sorry I lied to you and made you think I was dead’ might be a good start,” John cuts in because he’s starting to get his wits together again and, now he is, it hurts twice as much. It’s all been a lie: his grief, his loss, his pain. He can feel his left hand starting to tremble and he clenches it into a fist and raises his head to meet Sherlock’s gaze.
“John, I’m sorry,” Sherlock says, genuinely contrite.
“Why?” John snaps. Why did you do it? His eyes fall to their hands once more because he can’t bear to look Sherlock in the eye: it’s too overwhelming and he has questions he needs answered before he can break down.
“To keep you safe. You and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade.”
“Moriarty?”
“Dead.”
“Really dead? Or fake dead?” John asks, raising his head once more as, finally, anger starts to make itself known. “It must be nice being a genius and being able to fake your own death when things get tough.”
“Really dead,” Sherlock says calmly, ignoring the rest of the remark, and John hates him for his calm. He tears his hand from Sherlock’s grip and twists his fingers together, knuckles turning white from the pressure.
“I am sorry, John. If I’d had any other choice...”
John shakes his head, fixes his eyes on the dirty floor.
“You were dead, Sherlock. Do you have any idea-”
“Yes.”
There is something awful in Sherlock’s voice that draws John’s reluctant gaze and in that moment, he sees what a difference a year can make. Aside from the change in hair colour, it is evident that Sherlock is thinner than before, but there is still a wiry strength visible in his bare forearms and the hint of bicep. There is also a scar beside his right ear and another, much worse, trailing down his left arm. He looks older, he looks exhausted and, as he holds John’s gaze, he looks completely lost.
“Where have you been?” John asks, his voice wavering despite his best efforts.
“All over. Moriarty’s network stretches across most of Europe, parts of Asia, Africa, the US of course, even South America.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. Mycroft has helped with a few necessary things - money, passports, that sort of thing - but I haven't seen him."
“And now he’s sent me.”
“Yes.”
“Why not just come home?”
“I can’t,” Sherlock says, “Not yet.” He pauses, considers, then adds: “Maybe not ever.”
“So why am I here, Sherlock?”
Sherlock looks at him for a long moment, then drops his gaze to the table.
“I’ve missed you, John,” he says quietly.
Somehow, it is this soft admission that makes John truly angry. So angry that he has to close his eyes and take a quick, sharp breath, fists clenching so hard he can feel his nails digging into his palm.
“If you’re going to hit me, I’d rather you get it over with.”
He lets out a shaky breath but refuses to look at Sherlock, not while he has so little control over his temper.
“I don’t want to hit you,” he bites out.
“You quite clearly do.”
“Sherlock.” He doesn’t say anything more, because there are too many things he wants to say but none of them will come out: I hate you. Why did you do this to me? Do you realise what it did to me, losing you? I missed you too, you idiot.
He pushes the chair back with a start and gets to his feet, trembling hands running over his face. He realises, with a burst of embarrassment, that despite his anger he is close to tears. He swallows hard, forces the tears back and braces his hands on the back of the chair, making himself look at Sherlock again. Oh God, he’s alive. He’s really alive.
“Look,” he says, pursing his lips, “This is too much. I’m... I’m going to go.”
Sherlock doesn’t look surprised in the least and John nods, once, twice and turns for the door.
“Will you be back?” Sherlock asks, his voice stopping John at the door.
“I honestly don’t know,” he answers. He leaves before he can change his mind.
****
John finds his way back to the beach, back to the rental car, and somehow gets himself back to his hotel room without incident, although he can’t remember any of the journey. He shuts the door behind him and just like that, he’s on the floor and he’s shaking and he can’t stop the tears. His stomach feels like it’s been twisted into a knot and his chest burns and his head is thumping from too many thoughts; too many emotions. He’s angry - furious, even - but he’s also so happy he might burst and he hasn’t felt like this, hasn’t felt anything this strongly since he watched his best friend plummet to his death. And now he’s not dead and John’s world has been turned upside down once again.
John spends two hours in his room, tearing himself into pieces and then trying desperately to regain some control, and then he realises what an idiot he’s been. What if this was his only chance to see Sherlock? What if Sherlock is going to disappear into the ether again and those few minutes were all he had? He’s in the car before he can process it and speeding back to the beach, finding his way to the beach house which is half a mile further down. He parks and jumps out of the car and then runs round to the back of the house. He rushes up the steps, across the veranda, throws the kitchen door open - and lets out a harsh breath in relief. Sherlock hasn’t moved an inch. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, elbows resting on the top, hands pressed together against his lips.
“You came back,” he says slowly.
“You sound surprised.”
“I never could predict your reactions.”
John smiles, just a twitch of the lips at first, and then he’s grinning so much it hurts.
“Come here,” John says, moving round the table and beckoning Sherlock up out of his chair.
“Are you going to punch me now?” Sherlock asks, arching an eyebrow, but he gets to his feet anyway.
“No, I’m not going to punch you, you prat.”
And then he’s wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s middle and it’s awkward because they’ve never done this before, but John simply doesn’t care. He saw Sherlock dead, his head smashed in and those blue eyes completely lifeless; he'd felt the lack of pulse in his wrist in the few seconds before he was pulled away; he'd buried his best friend, and grieved for him. After all that, he thinks Sherlock can bloody well put up with a few minutes of awkward hugging because John needs to touch him; needs to feel his body warm and alive.
“John,” Sherlock murmurs, but it’s not the reproach he had expected and a beat later Sherlock is returning the hug, long arms wrapped tightly around John's shoulders, his head buried against John’s neck.
They stay like that for a long time, the only sounds their slow breathing and the crashing of the waves in the background. Finally, John manages to get himself together and pulls away, sinking into the other chair.
“So,” he says with a smile, “Go on then. How did you do it, genius?”
Sherlock gives him a wide, genuine smile and then he’s off, talking a mile a minute and gesturing wildly as he explains just how he faked his own death. John smiles and watches him and it’s almost as if they’re back in Baker Street and Sherlock is doing the big reveal after a case. God, John has missed this: missed Sherlock and his excitement and his inappropriate humour and - everything.
After he has explained his fake suicide, Sherlock goes on to recount every detail of his adventures over the last year and John laughs and admonishes and rolls his eyes when necessary. Finally, they fall into a comfortable silence and John is still smiling. He feels alive in a way he hasn’t for the last twelve months and he can’t bear the thought that this feeling will be gone again soon. He can feel Sherlock’s eyes on him as his smile slowly fades as he turns to his friend.
“How long do we have?”
“A few days. Four, maybe five.”
“And then you’ll be gone again.”
Sherlock nods and neither of them says it, but they both know that he will go alone and John will have to return to London and the lie his life has become.
“You can stay here,” Sherlock says decisively, “There’s a spare bedroom. Enough food for two.”
“Yeah, alright. I’ll get my stuff from the hotel tomorrow. I'm sure Mycroft can fund a new return ticket."
Sherlock smiles softly and John settles back in his chair, suffused with warmth.
****
Part Two
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock
Warnings: Sexual situations
Spoilers: The Reichenbach Fall
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. He is the property of ACD and the BBC respectively. I also don't own this title - it is a quote from John Gay's Black-Eyed Susan.
Beta: The wonderful lady_t_220. Without her help and encouragement, this would have been abandoned and left for dead.
Summary: One year after Reichenbach, John is sent to Corsica on an errand for Mycroft. What he doesn't expect to find is a second chance to say all the things he never said.
Author's note: I've never been to Corsica. I am relying entirely on Google Images and Wikipedia so please allow for a liberal sprinkling of artistic license.
****
Corsica is truly beautiful, all spectacular mountains and endless greenery and a stunning coastline that John follows as he drives from Ajaccio up to the very tip of the island. It’s quiet too, which is a welcome respite from the hustle and bustle of London, and especially the people of London. Because, in all honesty, it is the people who have made London unbearable for John. It is a city full of those who are only too happy to doubt, to mock, to cast aspersions on a dead man’s character. John is well and truly fed up - and quite happy to get away from it all. Yet he wonders, not for the first time, what he’s doing here: on a deserted beach at the northern tip of the island, doing a favour for Mycroft Holmes, of all people.
He had spoken to Mycroft a scant three times in the year that has passed since Sherlock's death, because if Sherlock was not around to disdain his brother for the betrayal that led to his downfall, then John was quite content to do it for him. Apparently this wasn't enough to deter Mycroft and so John had been surprised - and yes, a little annoyed - when Mycroft had asked for his help.
Just go to Corsica and pick up a message - simple enough, really, if a bit cloak and dagger. John had refused, twice, but Mycroft Holmes was nothing if not persistent. He probably had a hundred lackeys that could have carried out this simple errand, but for some reason he had been adamant that John be the one to go. John had finally relented, having neither the energy nor the inclination to continue arguing indefinitely and especially not with a Holmes. They always won in the end and, after all, he could probably do with some time away from London and the memories that still haunted him.
It was how he found himself on an isolated beach in the middle of the Mediterranean on a warm June afternoon, waiting for a man he didn't know to give him a message for a man he doesn't particularly like. The beach is empty except for a local fisherman (blonde-haired, he notes absently, slightly strange for this part of the world) who is doing something with a boat further along the beach. He had given John a friendly wave when John arrived but then returned to his work, so John had discounted him as being the mysterious messenger. John stood around awkwardly for a few minutes, before dropping to the warm sand and staring mindlessly out to sea while he waited.
An hour later and John is more than a little annoyed. Not a single person has come to the beach: it’s still just him and the fisherman. He is angry enough that he pulls out his phone and, regardless of the cost of international calls, dials Mycroft's number. At least, he tries to - and then he realises that, quite predictably, there is no signal on this beach in the middle of nowhere.
"Damn."
He’s really annoyed now and he pushes himself to his feet, muttering angrily to himself.
"Right. Brilliant. Bloody brilliant."
He growls and rakes a hand through his hair in frustration.
"This is ridiculous. What the hell am I even doing here?"
He turns to leave, and it's then he hears a voice. A deep voice that he has only heard in his dreams for the last year.
"Hello, John."
He drops his phone in shock and he thinks he might faint, but instead he closes his eyes; tries to will the apparition away.
"This isn't real," he whispers, "You're not here."
"John."
That voice. God, that voice. He knows he shouldn't succumb to this madness but he wants to see this vision. If he's going crazy, he's at least going to take advantage of it because he hasn't seen Sherlock for a year. He wonders what his imagination will produce. He turns slowly towards the source of the voice and frowns when he takes in the vision before him. His imagination has apparently put Sherlock's face on the fisherman's body because the Sherlock before him is blonde and slightly tanned, wiry and lean in jeans and a T-shirt.
John rubs his face tiredly. He doesn't want to be haunted by a ghost that doesn't even look like the friend he lost.
"You're not really here. Go away."
He covers his face in desperation because it hurts. It still hurts so goddamn much he feels sick to the stomach.
"I'm not a figment of your imagination, John," the vision says and John scoffs, but then there is a hand at his elbow, and it's like a lightning strike to his senses. His confused gaze flies to pale blue eyes and his legs buckle but Sherlock's there, lowering him gently to the sand.
"Sherlock," he breathes, reaching out to grab Sherlock's shoulder, warm and solid under his fingers.
"Yes."
All he can do is stare, because this can't be real. I saw you fall, he wants to say, I saw your lifeless body.
"You're blonde," is what he actually says and of all the things he could have said, it is probably the most inane. Sherlock seems to think so too because he's trying hard to suppress a smile and not quite succeeding.
"Easier to blend in."
And yes, John supposes it is. There had been something otherworldly about the combination of that dark hair and pale skin, pale eyes. Now, he almost looks like a normal bloke. Except he's not. He's Sherlock, and he's supposed to be dead, and John doesn't know what to do with that. He wants to be angry, he wants to scream and shout, but he's completely numb.
The next few minutes are a blur but one minute he’s on the beach and then he’s not, he’s sitting at a rickety table in a beach house and Sherlock is putting a cup of tea in front of him. This must be a dream, because Sherlock never makes the tea. As if he can sense John’s confusion, Sherlock sits beside him and rests a hand somewhat hesitantly over John’s on the table.
“John, I know this is a shock to you.”
John just scoffs and stares at Sherlock’s hand resting on his.
“I'm not sure where to start, how to -” Sherlock says.
“‘Sorry I lied to you and made you think I was dead’ might be a good start,” John cuts in because he’s starting to get his wits together again and, now he is, it hurts twice as much. It’s all been a lie: his grief, his loss, his pain. He can feel his left hand starting to tremble and he clenches it into a fist and raises his head to meet Sherlock’s gaze.
“John, I’m sorry,” Sherlock says, genuinely contrite.
“Why?” John snaps. Why did you do it? His eyes fall to their hands once more because he can’t bear to look Sherlock in the eye: it’s too overwhelming and he has questions he needs answered before he can break down.
“To keep you safe. You and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade.”
“Moriarty?”
“Dead.”
“Really dead? Or fake dead?” John asks, raising his head once more as, finally, anger starts to make itself known. “It must be nice being a genius and being able to fake your own death when things get tough.”
“Really dead,” Sherlock says calmly, ignoring the rest of the remark, and John hates him for his calm. He tears his hand from Sherlock’s grip and twists his fingers together, knuckles turning white from the pressure.
“I am sorry, John. If I’d had any other choice...”
John shakes his head, fixes his eyes on the dirty floor.
“You were dead, Sherlock. Do you have any idea-”
“Yes.”
There is something awful in Sherlock’s voice that draws John’s reluctant gaze and in that moment, he sees what a difference a year can make. Aside from the change in hair colour, it is evident that Sherlock is thinner than before, but there is still a wiry strength visible in his bare forearms and the hint of bicep. There is also a scar beside his right ear and another, much worse, trailing down his left arm. He looks older, he looks exhausted and, as he holds John’s gaze, he looks completely lost.
“Where have you been?” John asks, his voice wavering despite his best efforts.
“All over. Moriarty’s network stretches across most of Europe, parts of Asia, Africa, the US of course, even South America.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. Mycroft has helped with a few necessary things - money, passports, that sort of thing - but I haven't seen him."
“And now he’s sent me.”
“Yes.”
“Why not just come home?”
“I can’t,” Sherlock says, “Not yet.” He pauses, considers, then adds: “Maybe not ever.”
“So why am I here, Sherlock?”
Sherlock looks at him for a long moment, then drops his gaze to the table.
“I’ve missed you, John,” he says quietly.
Somehow, it is this soft admission that makes John truly angry. So angry that he has to close his eyes and take a quick, sharp breath, fists clenching so hard he can feel his nails digging into his palm.
“If you’re going to hit me, I’d rather you get it over with.”
He lets out a shaky breath but refuses to look at Sherlock, not while he has so little control over his temper.
“I don’t want to hit you,” he bites out.
“You quite clearly do.”
“Sherlock.” He doesn’t say anything more, because there are too many things he wants to say but none of them will come out: I hate you. Why did you do this to me? Do you realise what it did to me, losing you? I missed you too, you idiot.
He pushes the chair back with a start and gets to his feet, trembling hands running over his face. He realises, with a burst of embarrassment, that despite his anger he is close to tears. He swallows hard, forces the tears back and braces his hands on the back of the chair, making himself look at Sherlock again. Oh God, he’s alive. He’s really alive.
“Look,” he says, pursing his lips, “This is too much. I’m... I’m going to go.”
Sherlock doesn’t look surprised in the least and John nods, once, twice and turns for the door.
“Will you be back?” Sherlock asks, his voice stopping John at the door.
“I honestly don’t know,” he answers. He leaves before he can change his mind.
****
John finds his way back to the beach, back to the rental car, and somehow gets himself back to his hotel room without incident, although he can’t remember any of the journey. He shuts the door behind him and just like that, he’s on the floor and he’s shaking and he can’t stop the tears. His stomach feels like it’s been twisted into a knot and his chest burns and his head is thumping from too many thoughts; too many emotions. He’s angry - furious, even - but he’s also so happy he might burst and he hasn’t felt like this, hasn’t felt anything this strongly since he watched his best friend plummet to his death. And now he’s not dead and John’s world has been turned upside down once again.
John spends two hours in his room, tearing himself into pieces and then trying desperately to regain some control, and then he realises what an idiot he’s been. What if this was his only chance to see Sherlock? What if Sherlock is going to disappear into the ether again and those few minutes were all he had? He’s in the car before he can process it and speeding back to the beach, finding his way to the beach house which is half a mile further down. He parks and jumps out of the car and then runs round to the back of the house. He rushes up the steps, across the veranda, throws the kitchen door open - and lets out a harsh breath in relief. Sherlock hasn’t moved an inch. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, elbows resting on the top, hands pressed together against his lips.
“You came back,” he says slowly.
“You sound surprised.”
“I never could predict your reactions.”
John smiles, just a twitch of the lips at first, and then he’s grinning so much it hurts.
“Come here,” John says, moving round the table and beckoning Sherlock up out of his chair.
“Are you going to punch me now?” Sherlock asks, arching an eyebrow, but he gets to his feet anyway.
“No, I’m not going to punch you, you prat.”
And then he’s wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s middle and it’s awkward because they’ve never done this before, but John simply doesn’t care. He saw Sherlock dead, his head smashed in and those blue eyes completely lifeless; he'd felt the lack of pulse in his wrist in the few seconds before he was pulled away; he'd buried his best friend, and grieved for him. After all that, he thinks Sherlock can bloody well put up with a few minutes of awkward hugging because John needs to touch him; needs to feel his body warm and alive.
“John,” Sherlock murmurs, but it’s not the reproach he had expected and a beat later Sherlock is returning the hug, long arms wrapped tightly around John's shoulders, his head buried against John’s neck.
They stay like that for a long time, the only sounds their slow breathing and the crashing of the waves in the background. Finally, John manages to get himself together and pulls away, sinking into the other chair.
“So,” he says with a smile, “Go on then. How did you do it, genius?”
Sherlock gives him a wide, genuine smile and then he’s off, talking a mile a minute and gesturing wildly as he explains just how he faked his own death. John smiles and watches him and it’s almost as if they’re back in Baker Street and Sherlock is doing the big reveal after a case. God, John has missed this: missed Sherlock and his excitement and his inappropriate humour and - everything.
After he has explained his fake suicide, Sherlock goes on to recount every detail of his adventures over the last year and John laughs and admonishes and rolls his eyes when necessary. Finally, they fall into a comfortable silence and John is still smiling. He feels alive in a way he hasn’t for the last twelve months and he can’t bear the thought that this feeling will be gone again soon. He can feel Sherlock’s eyes on him as his smile slowly fades as he turns to his friend.
“How long do we have?”
“A few days. Four, maybe five.”
“And then you’ll be gone again.”
Sherlock nods and neither of them says it, but they both know that he will go alone and John will have to return to London and the lie his life has become.
“You can stay here,” Sherlock says decisively, “There’s a spare bedroom. Enough food for two.”
“Yeah, alright. I’ll get my stuff from the hotel tomorrow. I'm sure Mycroft can fund a new return ticket."
Sherlock smiles softly and John settles back in his chair, suffused with warmth.
****
Part Two