Title: A Stone I Died - Epilogue
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: A stern T, shall we say?
A/N: I can’t write porn. So I didn’t. I mean, not really.
***
John fidgeted the whole cab ride home, clearly eager to leave the hospital behind. He had been an agreeable enough patient - too kind if you asked Sherlock, though John pointedly never did. He smiled kindly at the nurses who came in time and again: for more blood draws, to run more tests, to ask more questions to verify his cognitive abilities. Apparently, being dosed with a shiny new poison led to a bit of a celebrity status at the hospital. Every doctor wanted his or her own data with which they could form their own theory. John had insisted it was flattering but Sherlock could see the relief in the man’s eyes when he had been wheeled out of the ward doors and settled into a black cab.
Sherlock, on the other hand, was drawn into himself across the seat of the taxi. He sat very still and watched as John absentmindedly tugged at his clothing and readjusted himself in the seat. John moving was good. He liked very much when John did that because it made it more difficult for Sherlock to recall how still and silent John had been before. Sherlock had never known that some things were too horrible to delete, but that particular memory, the first sight of the corpse from the doorway, was proving impossible to scrub from his mind.
The car stopped outside of 221b and they trudged out into the rain. This was a bit of a homecoming for Sherlock as well. He had slept in the hospital for the three nights John had been kept there, stopping at Baker St. only to grab clothes and a quick shower.
The days were spent running around London, picking up Moriarty’s trail. He was getting closer now, although taking a day off like this would set him back some. It was worth it, though, to settle John in, of course it was.
Still, more delays loomed in the future, and the thought of having to use patience set Sherlock’s teeth on edge. He would have to work a bit more stealthily with his flat mate back. John Watson was not going to be involved in this case anymore. He was to be kept far, far away from Moriarty (not that John knew that yet) and it was better to avoid the subject for the time being and hold the inevitable fight off until John had recovered a bit more.
And when Moriarty was caught, he would be sent off to a prison in the furthest time zone so that John Watson wouldn’t even be in the same day as him.
Unless Sherlock just killed him on the spot.
It had yet to be determined.
Climbing the well-worn seventeen steps, Sherlock let John do the honors of opening the door to their flat and stepping inside. The doctor gave a pleased little sigh as he set his bag down and shrugged off his coat. His sigh deepened when he turned and saw that the couch had been swung around and shoved roughly against the wall, leaning on its front with a vicious tear across the back fabric.
“Poor Mrs. Hudson. The sofa did come with the flat, didn’t it?”
“Hmmm,” was the only reply. Sherlock felt no pity for the hateful thing and made sure to send it a quick glare.
John walked towards it, probably to see how badly damaged it was, but Sherlock caught his arm.
“A new sofa is being delivered tomorrow. I’ve taken care of it. Now, off to bed.”
“I’ve told you a dozen times, Sherlock, I feel fine! No pain, no dizziness, no fatigue. In fact, I don’t think I’ve had this much sleep since I’ve moved in here. I don’t need to rest, so -”
“Good.” Sherlock cut him off, grabbing the front of his jumper to pull him closer and leaning in so that their lips were ghosting each other. “Because I have no intention of letting you sleep just yet.”
The look on John’s face was so lovely and alive. Sherlock let him guide them up the stairs to their bedroom, focusing on removing as many of John’s clothes as possible during the trip. Their kisses were long and teasing as they stumbled towards the bed.
Sherlock’s mind ticked observations, trying to record all of the infinite aspects of John. His harsh breath against Sherlock’s neck. Each tiny movement, every single flex or shift of muscle. The noises coming from his mouth as Sherlock slid a long digit in. And then, finally, when Sherlock drove home, the warmth that surrounded him. Everywhere was warm and moving and vibrantly, gloriously living.
Afterwards, they lie slumped and spent, arms thrown around each other. John must really have been well rested because he began fidgeting again after only a few minutes, getting up to grab a washcloth and clean them off. Sherlock was still pleasantly sated and couldn’t be bothered to move when John returned to bed. He felt the other man lean over him, putting the lube back in the nightstand drawer.
“Hey, Sherlock, what’s all this?”
John’s voice was all surprised amusement. Begrudgingly, Sherlock opened an eye to see what he was talking about.
Several photos, all of John, were spread out on top of the nightstand. There was a photo of him in full military dress, a few more recent shots - one with Sherlock, and a truly embarrassing photo from a formal his senior year. John was staring at them curiously, as though he’d never seen them before.
“Ah, yes, those. Mycroft was…helping me to choose one.”
“But how did he…no, never mind. I have no interest in knowing how your brother managed to dig up my prom picture. And what would you have done with it?”
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. “Well, it was really just to distract me. I wasn’t…responding well at the time. But I suppose the idea was to have some blown up for the memorial. Send one out to the newspapers. You know, it would have been printed up. With your announcement.”
“My…“
“Your obituary. Yes.”
John let out a low whistle as he settled back into bed.
“You know, sometimes I forget that I was dead.”
Sherlock shifted closer, ducking his head so that it rested just under the crook of John’s chin.
“I don’t.” he answered softly, nuzzling at John’s neck.
- his neck, stiff and cold, no pulse pressing against his fingers, no -
“I don’t.” Sherlock repeated, lacing their fingers together.
- the hand so still hanging off of the couch, fingers that should be responding just laying on his palm, a dead weight, a dead -
“I definitely do not.” Sherlock growled as he pulled himself more fully on top of John‘s body, covering and claiming.
- the body that had been dead and waiting for Sherlock to find, that had been shipped off to the morgue and scheduled for an autopsy, that had been hours away from being cut up, dissected, buried, decomposed, rotting -
John cupped Sherlock’s face gently, stopping the increasingly frantic kisses that the detective had been placing on his neck. Sherlock's head was forced up and he found his gaze being held by deep, sorrowful blue eyes.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”
“Why on earth would you apologize? None of this was your fault.“ He tried to duck his head back into John’s neck, but the other man held firm.
“You shouldn’t have had to see me like that. I’m so very sorry that happened.”
John seemed to be waiting for something - a signal - so Sherlock nodded once to show he understood. With a smile, John released his hold on Sherlock’s chin and leaned up for a soft kiss but Sherlock evaded him.
“Never again. You can’t die. Ever.”
John laughed and hugged him closer.
“Yes, well, I’ll see what I can do. In the mean time…”
Sherlock was suddenly flipped onto his back and John hovered above him, a dangerous smirk playing on his face.
“Let’s pack a bit more living into my life, shall we?”
***
Yeppppp, that’s it. I should go write something else, now. You know how I do.
Also, if anyone can guess where I quoted a TV show, I will be shocked and awed and give you fresh, outta-the-oven artichoke dip.
First Part