Fic: We Only Part To Meet Again (5/5)
We Only Part To Meet Again - Part Five
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Warnings: Sexual situations
Spoilers: The Reichenbach Fall
Beta: lady_t_220
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.
Notes: This was so much fun to write, even when it was a complete pain in the arse. Somehow it feels worth the pain after all of the lovely comments from you wonderful people. Once again, a million million thanks go to my beta, lady_t_220, for her speedy work, encouragement, thoughts etc. etc. Thank you all for joining me on this ride. See y'all soon...
Part Four
****
London is dull and overcast, even at the beginning of June. There is a faint threat of rain and the temperature drops towards late afternoon. It leaves John aching for the warmth of Corsica. It has come to feel like a second home, for all that he has only been there four times in total.
It has been two years since he left Sherlock that first time. They have met at the beach house on three further occasions, but it has been five months since he last saw the place. He aches for Sherlock too, more than anything. He has long been resigned to the fact that he can not be with Sherlock; can not follow him and help him with his mission. It does not make it any easier to be stuck at home, hoping for news day after day, panicking himself with thoughts of illness, injury, and worse.
Early on, in the weeks after their first parting, John had gone to Mycroft, desparate for news. He had bullied and cajoled, tried to play on Mycroft's guilt, and eventually begged for anything he might know, but Mycroft had remained silent. It left John angrier than he had ever been with the elder Holmes and it was not until three months later, when Mycroft silently handed him a ticket to Corsica, that John could bring himself to talk to him again. As much as it pained him to admit it, he knew that Mycroft's silence was to protect his brother and John had to accept that.
Two years is a long time though, and a handful of days spent together is hardly enough to make up for the long months apart. There are times when John wishes it were easier; wishes he could fall for someone else. He dreams of Sherlock and then wakes alone, and it is the worst feeling in the world. All he can do is wait, and hope that someday soon, Sherlock will come home.
John has been working long shifts at the hospital for weeks, trying to distract himself from the loneliness that gnaws at him. It makes his heartache somewhat more bearable when he keeps himself busy and only returns home to sleep. He has worked eighteen hours straight today and it is close to midnight when he finally lets himself into 221b. He is exhausted and can barely keep himself on his feet. He needs a drink, maybe some green tea, and then he needs to sleep.
John heads straight through to the kitchen as soon as he has thrown his coat off, and comes to a dead halt. The door to Sherlock's bedroom is open. It has been closed for months, all of Sherlock's belongings locked away, out of sight. It serves a double purpose: to convince others of his continued grief, and to prevent the pang of loss he feels when he is reminded of what he is missing. Now the door stands open and John edges forward cautiously.
He hears movement from within the dark room and a shadowy figure appears in the doorway a moment later. He braces for an attack but then the man takes a step forward, and John's breath leaves him in a rush.
"Sherlock," he whispers.
Sherlock is dark-haired again and seems taller than ever as he looms in the doorway. John blinks, twice. For a moment he is sure he is hallucinating. Sherlock takes another step forward and then he smiles.
"John."
John moves forward quickly and cups Sherlock's face in his hands. He is suddenly smiling so hard his face hurts.
"You're home."
"I'm home," Sherlock says, and he pulls John towards him and dips his head, pressing their lips together.
"It's over? Tell me it's over," John breathes against Sherlock's mouth.
"It's over. Finished."
John kisses him hard and guides him backwards into the room, pushes him to the bed that was once his. Sherlock moans and tugs him close, presses his face against John's neck.
"I missed you so much," Sherlock murmurs. "It's been too long."
"God, yes."
John draws him back into a hungry kiss and presses down against him, desperate to erase five months of longing. Sherlock hooks his legs around John's and pushes up against him.
"Five months," John groans. "Five months without this, without you."
"John."
John crushes their mouths together and buries his hands in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock is already working one hand under John's jumper and shirt, while the other is at the button on John's trousers.
"Wait, stop," John gets out, pulling away. Sherlock gives him a shocked look that quickly turns into an expression of realisation.
"You've found someone else."
"No, you idiot," John says, pinning Sherlock's wrists to the bed just so he can see Sherlock's eyes go wide with arousal. "This bed is cold and it’s not made. And I've wanted you in my bed for a very long time."
Sherlock gives him a sly smile and John smiles back and dips his head to press a quick kiss to his lips, before pulling away and releasing him. John gets to his feet and grabs Sherlock's hand, pulling him along behind as he rushes out of the room, through the kitchen, and up the stairs to his own bedroom.
As soon as the door shuts behind them, John tackles Sherlock to the bed and then sits back on his heels to get a good look at the man below him.
"I hope you're not just going to sit there," Sherlock says, fingers going to the buttons of his shirt.
"You have no idea how many times I've dreamt about this."
John puts his hands over Sherlock's and pushes them away, undoing the last few buttons himself. He sweeps the shirt open and his eyes flick over Sherlock's bare torso, noting a few new scars.
"Did you get stabbed?" he asks with a frown, resting his hand over a particular nasty scar just below Sherlock's ribs.
"Just a nick."
"Liar," John counters with a smile. He leans down and presses his lips to the scar. Sherlock inhales sharply and a moment later, he is fumbling with John's jumper, trying to get it off. John sits up to help and quickly gets his shirt off as well, before settling over Sherlock.
"John..." Sherlock starts, but then trails off, his hands resting either side of John's face.
"I know."
John leans in and kisses him, his hand going to Sherlock's trousers. He manages to get them undone and, with a bit of wriggling, Sherlock gets them off. John runs a hand over Sherlock's bare thigh and hooks it around his hip, grinding against the warm solidity beneath him. Sherlock moans and John cuts it off with a kiss. He is torn between the urge to take and have right this instant, and the desire to draw this out and savour the moment. The decision is taken away from him when he realises he’s missing a few necessary things.
“Shit,” he growls, tearing himself away from Sherlock’s mouth. “I don’t have anything. No condoms and definitely no lubricant.”
“How disappointing, John,” Sherlock says sarcastically.
“In my defence, I’ve been in a monogamous relationship with a dead man for the last two years.”
Sherlock smiles and hooks his other leg around John, pulling him close once more.
“Luckily for you, I have been preparing for this moment for the last week.”
John practically growls his approval and crushes their lips together. He is determined to get them both naked in minimal time and, as soon as he gets rid of Sherlock’s boxers, he strips off his remaining clothes. Sherlock leans over the side of the bed, grabs his trousers and retrieves a condom and a small tube of lubricant from one of the pockets.
“Hurry up,” he says, shoving both things into John’s hands.
John is too impatient himself to mock and he is already in the process of spreading the lube over his fingers when Sherlock grabs his wrist, stopping him.
“No. Just get on with it. I’m more than ready.”
“Are you sure?” John asks. They’ve still only done this a few times and every time before he has taken the time to prepare Sherlock.
“Yes. John, please.”
Sherlock lays back and hauls him close, pulling him into a desperate kiss. He snatches the condom from John and rolls it on, and John has to take several deep breaths to calm himself down at the touch of Sherlock’s hand.
“John.”
“Yes, yes, alright.”
He slicks himself and manoeuvres them both into a better position, Sherlock’s legs wrapped around him. He hesitates for just a moment but then he is sinking inside Sherlock, his breath leaving him in a rush.
“God, Sherlock.”
Sherlock lets out a stuttered groan and throws his head back. John sinks all the way in and then has to pause, holding on to the bare edge of control before he pulls out and luxuriously sinks back in.
“Missed you so much,” John chokes out. “Every bloody day.”
“I’m home now,” Sherlock gasps, hands clenched around John’s biceps. “I’m not going anywhere. You said you were going to tie me to the bed.”
John laughs and thrusts harder, drawing another gasp from Sherlock.
“As soon as I’m done making up for lost time,” he promises. His back arches forward, bending so he can kiss Sherlock.
They fall into an easy rhythm, even after all this time apart, their bodies moving together, their mouths joined. After so many months of nothing, it is overwhelming and wonderful at the same time. John knows he isn’t going to last much longer and, by the sound of Sherlock’s moans, neither is he. John grabs one of Sherlock’s hands and guides it to his ready cock. Sherlock lets out a strangled moan and starts to move his hand in time with John’s thrusts.
“Oh God,” John breathes, tension crawling through his body, building and building until suddenly it explodes and he folds forward, choking out a cry as he comes. Sherlock seizes up underneath him and, almost immediately afterwards, comes with a long, drawn-out moan.
John’s arms give out and he collapses on top of Sherlock, his nose pressed against Sherlock’s collarbone.
“As good as you dreamt?” Sherlock pants lazily, his fingers stroking the back of John’s neck.
“A hundred times better.”
Sherlock laughs softly and his lips brush against John’s temple.
“I’m sorry it took so long,” Sherlock says quietly.
“You’re home now. That’s all that matters.”
Sherlock hums in agreement and John yawns, his tired body finally protesting. He manages to untangle himself long enough to clean up and then sinks back on the bed, his head pressed to Sherlock’s.
“You’re home,” he repeats, simply for the sake of it.
“I’m home.”
John smiles and slides his arm under Sherlock’s head as the other man shifts closer, reaching out to lace his fingers through John’s. He is content and peaceful, for the first time in too long, and in moments he falls asleep with Sherlock in his arms.
****
John dreams of Sherlock in his bed and, for the first time, he wakes to find Sherlock fast asleep next to him. The room is flooded with sunlight and when John reluctantly rolls over, the clock on his bedside table tells him that it’s already gone eleven in the morning. He is just thankful that he doesn’t have a shift today. He slips out of bed to the bathroom and returns to find Sherlock now sprawled out across the bed, sheets gathered around his hips, exposing the long sweep of his back and the very top of his buttocks. John smiles at the sight and climbs back into bed.
Sherlock stirs and his eyes flicker open. He breaks into a smile as soon as he sees John.
“Morning.”
“Morning,” John replies, leaning in for a kiss.
As soon as their lips touch, Sherlock tugs John close and deepens the kiss. John smiles and slides his tongue over Sherlock’s, resting a hand low on Sherlock’s back.
They break apart with a start at the sound of knocking downstairs.
“Ah, Lestrade. About time,” Sherlock says.
“Lestrade?”
The knocking comes again, followed by Lestrade’s voice calling out for John.
“You’d better go down before he comes looking for you,” Sherlock suggests, rolling onto his back.
“But what does he want?”
“John?” Lestrade calls and John jumps off the bed and hurries to pull on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.
“Sherlock?” John prompts but Sherlock waves him away.
“Go.”
John rolls his eyes but leaves, rushing down the stairs and almost colliding with Lestrade at the bottom.
“Greg!”
“Oh, there you are. Thought you were out.”
“Sorry, I was completely out of it. Had a long shift last night.”
Greg nods and follows John into the living room. He looks pleased, but nervous, and he is holding a file in his hand.
“What’s going on?” John asks with a nod towards the file. He feels awkward and is just glad that Greg doesn’t possess Sherlock’s observational skills.
“Good news.”
“Oh?”
John sinks into an armchair, looking up at Lestrade expectantly.
“Yesterday morning, Interpol arrested a man called Sebastian Moran, in Paris. They got an anonymous tip, apparently.”
“Okay... So who is he?”
“Moriarty’s right-hand man.”
John’s gaze flies to Lestrade’s, eyes wide in surprise. He has a sneaking suspicion as to the identity of the anonymous tipper.
“And?” John prompts.
“He’s confessed to everything. All of Moriarty’s schemes. How he set Sherlock up. His plan to have you, me and Mrs. Hudson killed if Sherlock didn’t jump off the roof of Bart’s. Everything.”
John spends a moment taking it in, the enormity of what Sherlock has accomplished.
“So, Sherlock’s name has been cleared?”
“Yes.”
Lestrade sighs and runs a hand through his hair.
“What?” John asks.
“There’s something else. This bloke - Moran - he claims... he says Sherlock’s still alive.”
John isn’t sure what his expression does, but he can tell it isn’t the shock Lestrade expects by the look on the Inspector’s face.
“John-”
“I’ll save you the bother of asking John what he knows,” Sherlock speaks up, appearing in the doorway as Lestrade whirls round to look at him.
“Jesus,” Lestrade chokes out. “You are alive.”
“Evidently.”
“I didn’t know whether to believe him.”
“Yes, well,” Sherlock says awkwardly, crossing his arms across his chest. It is only then that John notices Sherlock is wrapped in John’s dressing gown. Lestrade glances at John, then back to Sherlock, but before he can say anything another voice floats up the stairs.
“Did you find him, Inspector?” Mrs. Hudson calls, the sound of her shoes echoing on the stairs. “Haven’t heard a peep out of him all morn-”
Mrs. Hudson’s voice cuts off and Sherlock turns in the doorway to face her, a hesitant smile on his face.
“Oh, Sherlock!” she cries.
Nobody seems to know what to expect, but then Mrs. Hudson appears, throwing her arms around Sherlock’s middle.
“Oh, you wicked boy! All this time!”
Mrs. Hudson lets out a little sniffle and Sherlock wraps his arm around her shoulders, hugging her against him.
“Hello, Mrs. Hudson,” he says, his tone soft with affection.
“And poor John,” Mrs. Hudson continues. “He was so distraught. You’ve treated us all very badly.”
“I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Hudson. And I intend to make it up to John.”
Their gazes meet across the room and Sherlock smiles.
“I was thinking of a nice holiday,” Sherlock announces and John smiles wider.
“I hear Corsica’s very nice this time of year,” John says.
Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson look confused but all John can focus on is the man across the room from him - back where he belongs, with the people he loves and the people who love him.
THE END
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Warnings: Sexual situations
Spoilers: The Reichenbach Fall
Beta: lady_t_220
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.
Notes: This was so much fun to write, even when it was a complete pain in the arse. Somehow it feels worth the pain after all of the lovely comments from you wonderful people. Once again, a million million thanks go to my beta, lady_t_220, for her speedy work, encouragement, thoughts etc. etc. Thank you all for joining me on this ride. See y'all soon...
Part Four
****
London is dull and overcast, even at the beginning of June. There is a faint threat of rain and the temperature drops towards late afternoon. It leaves John aching for the warmth of Corsica. It has come to feel like a second home, for all that he has only been there four times in total.
It has been two years since he left Sherlock that first time. They have met at the beach house on three further occasions, but it has been five months since he last saw the place. He aches for Sherlock too, more than anything. He has long been resigned to the fact that he can not be with Sherlock; can not follow him and help him with his mission. It does not make it any easier to be stuck at home, hoping for news day after day, panicking himself with thoughts of illness, injury, and worse.
Early on, in the weeks after their first parting, John had gone to Mycroft, desparate for news. He had bullied and cajoled, tried to play on Mycroft's guilt, and eventually begged for anything he might know, but Mycroft had remained silent. It left John angrier than he had ever been with the elder Holmes and it was not until three months later, when Mycroft silently handed him a ticket to Corsica, that John could bring himself to talk to him again. As much as it pained him to admit it, he knew that Mycroft's silence was to protect his brother and John had to accept that.
Two years is a long time though, and a handful of days spent together is hardly enough to make up for the long months apart. There are times when John wishes it were easier; wishes he could fall for someone else. He dreams of Sherlock and then wakes alone, and it is the worst feeling in the world. All he can do is wait, and hope that someday soon, Sherlock will come home.
John has been working long shifts at the hospital for weeks, trying to distract himself from the loneliness that gnaws at him. It makes his heartache somewhat more bearable when he keeps himself busy and only returns home to sleep. He has worked eighteen hours straight today and it is close to midnight when he finally lets himself into 221b. He is exhausted and can barely keep himself on his feet. He needs a drink, maybe some green tea, and then he needs to sleep.
John heads straight through to the kitchen as soon as he has thrown his coat off, and comes to a dead halt. The door to Sherlock's bedroom is open. It has been closed for months, all of Sherlock's belongings locked away, out of sight. It serves a double purpose: to convince others of his continued grief, and to prevent the pang of loss he feels when he is reminded of what he is missing. Now the door stands open and John edges forward cautiously.
He hears movement from within the dark room and a shadowy figure appears in the doorway a moment later. He braces for an attack but then the man takes a step forward, and John's breath leaves him in a rush.
"Sherlock," he whispers.
Sherlock is dark-haired again and seems taller than ever as he looms in the doorway. John blinks, twice. For a moment he is sure he is hallucinating. Sherlock takes another step forward and then he smiles.
"John."
John moves forward quickly and cups Sherlock's face in his hands. He is suddenly smiling so hard his face hurts.
"You're home."
"I'm home," Sherlock says, and he pulls John towards him and dips his head, pressing their lips together.
"It's over? Tell me it's over," John breathes against Sherlock's mouth.
"It's over. Finished."
John kisses him hard and guides him backwards into the room, pushes him to the bed that was once his. Sherlock moans and tugs him close, presses his face against John's neck.
"I missed you so much," Sherlock murmurs. "It's been too long."
"God, yes."
John draws him back into a hungry kiss and presses down against him, desperate to erase five months of longing. Sherlock hooks his legs around John's and pushes up against him.
"Five months," John groans. "Five months without this, without you."
"John."
John crushes their mouths together and buries his hands in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock is already working one hand under John's jumper and shirt, while the other is at the button on John's trousers.
"Wait, stop," John gets out, pulling away. Sherlock gives him a shocked look that quickly turns into an expression of realisation.
"You've found someone else."
"No, you idiot," John says, pinning Sherlock's wrists to the bed just so he can see Sherlock's eyes go wide with arousal. "This bed is cold and it’s not made. And I've wanted you in my bed for a very long time."
Sherlock gives him a sly smile and John smiles back and dips his head to press a quick kiss to his lips, before pulling away and releasing him. John gets to his feet and grabs Sherlock's hand, pulling him along behind as he rushes out of the room, through the kitchen, and up the stairs to his own bedroom.
As soon as the door shuts behind them, John tackles Sherlock to the bed and then sits back on his heels to get a good look at the man below him.
"I hope you're not just going to sit there," Sherlock says, fingers going to the buttons of his shirt.
"You have no idea how many times I've dreamt about this."
John puts his hands over Sherlock's and pushes them away, undoing the last few buttons himself. He sweeps the shirt open and his eyes flick over Sherlock's bare torso, noting a few new scars.
"Did you get stabbed?" he asks with a frown, resting his hand over a particular nasty scar just below Sherlock's ribs.
"Just a nick."
"Liar," John counters with a smile. He leans down and presses his lips to the scar. Sherlock inhales sharply and a moment later, he is fumbling with John's jumper, trying to get it off. John sits up to help and quickly gets his shirt off as well, before settling over Sherlock.
"John..." Sherlock starts, but then trails off, his hands resting either side of John's face.
"I know."
John leans in and kisses him, his hand going to Sherlock's trousers. He manages to get them undone and, with a bit of wriggling, Sherlock gets them off. John runs a hand over Sherlock's bare thigh and hooks it around his hip, grinding against the warm solidity beneath him. Sherlock moans and John cuts it off with a kiss. He is torn between the urge to take and have right this instant, and the desire to draw this out and savour the moment. The decision is taken away from him when he realises he’s missing a few necessary things.
“Shit,” he growls, tearing himself away from Sherlock’s mouth. “I don’t have anything. No condoms and definitely no lubricant.”
“How disappointing, John,” Sherlock says sarcastically.
“In my defence, I’ve been in a monogamous relationship with a dead man for the last two years.”
Sherlock smiles and hooks his other leg around John, pulling him close once more.
“Luckily for you, I have been preparing for this moment for the last week.”
John practically growls his approval and crushes their lips together. He is determined to get them both naked in minimal time and, as soon as he gets rid of Sherlock’s boxers, he strips off his remaining clothes. Sherlock leans over the side of the bed, grabs his trousers and retrieves a condom and a small tube of lubricant from one of the pockets.
“Hurry up,” he says, shoving both things into John’s hands.
John is too impatient himself to mock and he is already in the process of spreading the lube over his fingers when Sherlock grabs his wrist, stopping him.
“No. Just get on with it. I’m more than ready.”
“Are you sure?” John asks. They’ve still only done this a few times and every time before he has taken the time to prepare Sherlock.
“Yes. John, please.”
Sherlock lays back and hauls him close, pulling him into a desperate kiss. He snatches the condom from John and rolls it on, and John has to take several deep breaths to calm himself down at the touch of Sherlock’s hand.
“John.”
“Yes, yes, alright.”
He slicks himself and manoeuvres them both into a better position, Sherlock’s legs wrapped around him. He hesitates for just a moment but then he is sinking inside Sherlock, his breath leaving him in a rush.
“God, Sherlock.”
Sherlock lets out a stuttered groan and throws his head back. John sinks all the way in and then has to pause, holding on to the bare edge of control before he pulls out and luxuriously sinks back in.
“Missed you so much,” John chokes out. “Every bloody day.”
“I’m home now,” Sherlock gasps, hands clenched around John’s biceps. “I’m not going anywhere. You said you were going to tie me to the bed.”
John laughs and thrusts harder, drawing another gasp from Sherlock.
“As soon as I’m done making up for lost time,” he promises. His back arches forward, bending so he can kiss Sherlock.
They fall into an easy rhythm, even after all this time apart, their bodies moving together, their mouths joined. After so many months of nothing, it is overwhelming and wonderful at the same time. John knows he isn’t going to last much longer and, by the sound of Sherlock’s moans, neither is he. John grabs one of Sherlock’s hands and guides it to his ready cock. Sherlock lets out a strangled moan and starts to move his hand in time with John’s thrusts.
“Oh God,” John breathes, tension crawling through his body, building and building until suddenly it explodes and he folds forward, choking out a cry as he comes. Sherlock seizes up underneath him and, almost immediately afterwards, comes with a long, drawn-out moan.
John’s arms give out and he collapses on top of Sherlock, his nose pressed against Sherlock’s collarbone.
“As good as you dreamt?” Sherlock pants lazily, his fingers stroking the back of John’s neck.
“A hundred times better.”
Sherlock laughs softly and his lips brush against John’s temple.
“I’m sorry it took so long,” Sherlock says quietly.
“You’re home now. That’s all that matters.”
Sherlock hums in agreement and John yawns, his tired body finally protesting. He manages to untangle himself long enough to clean up and then sinks back on the bed, his head pressed to Sherlock’s.
“You’re home,” he repeats, simply for the sake of it.
“I’m home.”
John smiles and slides his arm under Sherlock’s head as the other man shifts closer, reaching out to lace his fingers through John’s. He is content and peaceful, for the first time in too long, and in moments he falls asleep with Sherlock in his arms.
****
John dreams of Sherlock in his bed and, for the first time, he wakes to find Sherlock fast asleep next to him. The room is flooded with sunlight and when John reluctantly rolls over, the clock on his bedside table tells him that it’s already gone eleven in the morning. He is just thankful that he doesn’t have a shift today. He slips out of bed to the bathroom and returns to find Sherlock now sprawled out across the bed, sheets gathered around his hips, exposing the long sweep of his back and the very top of his buttocks. John smiles at the sight and climbs back into bed.
Sherlock stirs and his eyes flicker open. He breaks into a smile as soon as he sees John.
“Morning.”
“Morning,” John replies, leaning in for a kiss.
As soon as their lips touch, Sherlock tugs John close and deepens the kiss. John smiles and slides his tongue over Sherlock’s, resting a hand low on Sherlock’s back.
They break apart with a start at the sound of knocking downstairs.
“Ah, Lestrade. About time,” Sherlock says.
“Lestrade?”
The knocking comes again, followed by Lestrade’s voice calling out for John.
“You’d better go down before he comes looking for you,” Sherlock suggests, rolling onto his back.
“But what does he want?”
“John?” Lestrade calls and John jumps off the bed and hurries to pull on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.
“Sherlock?” John prompts but Sherlock waves him away.
“Go.”
John rolls his eyes but leaves, rushing down the stairs and almost colliding with Lestrade at the bottom.
“Greg!”
“Oh, there you are. Thought you were out.”
“Sorry, I was completely out of it. Had a long shift last night.”
Greg nods and follows John into the living room. He looks pleased, but nervous, and he is holding a file in his hand.
“What’s going on?” John asks with a nod towards the file. He feels awkward and is just glad that Greg doesn’t possess Sherlock’s observational skills.
“Good news.”
“Oh?”
John sinks into an armchair, looking up at Lestrade expectantly.
“Yesterday morning, Interpol arrested a man called Sebastian Moran, in Paris. They got an anonymous tip, apparently.”
“Okay... So who is he?”
“Moriarty’s right-hand man.”
John’s gaze flies to Lestrade’s, eyes wide in surprise. He has a sneaking suspicion as to the identity of the anonymous tipper.
“And?” John prompts.
“He’s confessed to everything. All of Moriarty’s schemes. How he set Sherlock up. His plan to have you, me and Mrs. Hudson killed if Sherlock didn’t jump off the roof of Bart’s. Everything.”
John spends a moment taking it in, the enormity of what Sherlock has accomplished.
“So, Sherlock’s name has been cleared?”
“Yes.”
Lestrade sighs and runs a hand through his hair.
“What?” John asks.
“There’s something else. This bloke - Moran - he claims... he says Sherlock’s still alive.”
John isn’t sure what his expression does, but he can tell it isn’t the shock Lestrade expects by the look on the Inspector’s face.
“John-”
“I’ll save you the bother of asking John what he knows,” Sherlock speaks up, appearing in the doorway as Lestrade whirls round to look at him.
“Jesus,” Lestrade chokes out. “You are alive.”
“Evidently.”
“I didn’t know whether to believe him.”
“Yes, well,” Sherlock says awkwardly, crossing his arms across his chest. It is only then that John notices Sherlock is wrapped in John’s dressing gown. Lestrade glances at John, then back to Sherlock, but before he can say anything another voice floats up the stairs.
“Did you find him, Inspector?” Mrs. Hudson calls, the sound of her shoes echoing on the stairs. “Haven’t heard a peep out of him all morn-”
Mrs. Hudson’s voice cuts off and Sherlock turns in the doorway to face her, a hesitant smile on his face.
“Oh, Sherlock!” she cries.
Nobody seems to know what to expect, but then Mrs. Hudson appears, throwing her arms around Sherlock’s middle.
“Oh, you wicked boy! All this time!”
Mrs. Hudson lets out a little sniffle and Sherlock wraps his arm around her shoulders, hugging her against him.
“Hello, Mrs. Hudson,” he says, his tone soft with affection.
“And poor John,” Mrs. Hudson continues. “He was so distraught. You’ve treated us all very badly.”
“I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Hudson. And I intend to make it up to John.”
Their gazes meet across the room and Sherlock smiles.
“I was thinking of a nice holiday,” Sherlock announces and John smiles wider.
“I hear Corsica’s very nice this time of year,” John says.
Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson look confused but all John can focus on is the man across the room from him - back where he belongs, with the people he loves and the people who love him.
THE END