On the Ninth Day of Sherlockmas... "It's the Thought That Counts", a gift for pro_prodigy.
Author: ?
Title: It's the Thought That Counts
A gift for: pro_prodigy
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John pre-slash
Category: Slash
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mild swearing. Discussion of illness, alcoholism and surgery. Off-screen murder.
Summary: Sherlock discovers the true spirit of giving.
Author's Notes: Many thanks to ? for beta duties.
December is boring. Dull. Tedious. Interminable. Nothing ever happens in the week before Christmas. It's as if the entire criminal fraternity of London takes a holiday. True, the police will be busy over the festive period, but it's all just domestic violence and drunken brawling - mundane crimes with transparent motives, nothing worth leaving the flat for. To add insult to injury, Sherlock's violin and music stand have been evicted from their usual corner to make way for a specimen of Abies nordmanniana, festooned with shiny pieces of plastic.
He ought to throw it from the window - would have done so already if it weren't for John. But Sherlock was there when John hauled the thing triumphantly through the front door; he saw the happiness lighting his friend's face. The sharp words died, stillborn, on his lips, and he found himself rolling up his sleeves and hefting the trunk of the oversized conifer. They wrestled the thing around the turning of the stair, close enough that John's breath panted hotly on the nape of Sherlock's neck, and the detective knew - with a certainty that defied logic - that if he twisted round, and leaned closer still, John's lips would be warm and pliant against his. He trembled in place through one long, vertiginous moment. He retreated.
Sherlock isn't used to being a coward. But he's not sure what it is yet, this strange new glow that ignites in him when he looks at John, when he thinks about John.
The front door bangs shut, and Sherlock's pulse speeds up fractionally, the way it does these days when John is near. Sherlock levers himself up onto one elbow, his head clearing the arm of the sofa and inclining towards the sound of John's approach. The doctor is labouring up the stairs - a bad day at the surgery, perhaps, or weighted down with shopping. Possibly Christmas shopping; Sherlock collapses back onto the cushions. These are simple deceptions, and they make John happy: allowing his friend the illusion of secrecy when he hurries the gifts up to his room; pretending he doesn't know what John has bought him. It's not that Sherlock made an effort to find out, but, really, it couldn't have been more obvious. At least the antique microscope is something he can appreciate; at least he won't have to fake the pleasure as well as the surprise.
The footsteps reach the landing - a hesitant, shuffling tread - and the anticipation simmering in Sherlock's stomach curdles into alarm. The door opens; John stumbles in.
“Are you all right?” Sherlock blurts, launching himself upright.
John's head jerks in something that's not quite a nod. “Yeah, I'm -” He sucks in a breath that seems to give him pain. “Not really, no.”
Sherlock knows he ought to stay calm, but there's a bitter, hospital reek hitting his nostrils, and it triggers something in his hindbrain that's beyond the reach of reason. With that, he's leaping the coffee table, heart pounding, and his hands are not quite steady when he seizes John's shoulders.
“Are you hurt?” he demands. “Are you ill?” There's no obvious sign of trauma, but John's skin is ashen and his lips are pinched into a thin line.
“What? No, not me. It's Harry.”
Relief floods Sherlock's brain, dulling the incisive edge of it for a moment. Then it hits him: John is concerned, not grieving. Whatever has happened, it isn't over. His fingers dig into John's biceps with a force that must be painful, but John says nothing, merely allows himself to be pushed towards the sofa.
“Aren't you going to offer me a cup of tea?” John asks, with a shaky laugh.
“Do you want a cup of tea?”
“Not really, no.” John rubs a hand across his face, and when he looks up some of the blood is returning to his cheeks. “It's just what you do when someone's had a shock.”
“Do you want to tell me,” Sherlock asks, “or shall I deduce it?” He sinks down next to John. His friend doesn't look at him, simply stares at the floor, so Sherlock says, “The balance of probability favours end stage liver failure.”
John's lips pull back in a grimace. He nods. “She's on the waiting list for a transplant, but -” John's voice thickens and chokes off. His Adam's apple convulses - once, and a second time - and then he sounds like John again. “It's a long list.”
“And she's a recovering alcoholic. She won't get priority.” It's the truth - there's nothing Sherlock can say that will change the facts - but that doesn't make it easier to watch as John's face crumples, and his whole body sags. The weight of the knowledge seems to settle on the small man's shoulders, and suddenly he looks every one of his thirty-seven years.
“You're right,” John sighs, and Sherlock can't just sit here and see him like this, not when there's something he can do about it. “I'm not defending her. It's not like I didn't see this coming. But she's managed to stay sober for months, and - Sherlock, are you even listening?”
Sherlock's on his feet. “I have to make a call.”
“Call?” John's mouth gapes, but his eyes narrow and there's a cold gleam in them that Sherlock rarely sees. “What call?”
Sherlock can explain; he will explain, but not right now. This is urgent, and he needs to set the wheels in motion. He turns away from John's glare, but he can feel the force of it, a prickling sensation at the base of his skull, all the way to his bedroom. He whips out his phone, pushing the door closed with his foot as he dials. He listens to it ring and ring, his heart hammering away in each breathless silence.
But when his brother finally answers, he says, “Mycroft, I -” and the words lodge in his throat. It goes against the practice of long years, against the relentless struggle to protect his independence. There will be a price to pay. But he thinks of John, slumped on the sofa in the weariness of despair, and he sucks a breath in through his gritted teeth. “I need a favour.”
* * * * *
Christmas Eve: halfway through Lestrade's week off. Every day brings Sherlock closer to the inspector's return to duty, and the promise of an interesting case; every day etches the lines a little deeper into John's face, and pushes his stoicism closer to the breaking point. It's grey pre-dawn and the traffic down Baker Street is at its lowest ebb. The sitting room is lit by the cold glow from Sherlock's laptop. The new NHS database has proved laughably easy to hack, and Sherlock has spent an informative half hour reviewing patients' records. He snaps the lid shut at the first faint pad of feet on the stairs.
John's still in his pyjamas and his hair is rumpled by the pillow - he has at least tried to sleep - but there are shadows bruised into the fragile skin beneath his eyes. He's had a rough night, several rough nights in a row, and it's taking its toll. Sherlock's heart clenches at the sight of him, but he knows nothing about how to offer comfort. John shuffles across the room and drops into his armchair, giving no indication that he's even aware of the other man's presence.
“Any news?” Sherlock enquires.
“No.” Of course there isn't. He doesn't know why he asked.
“She's at the top of the list,” Sherlock reminds him. John winces, and finally tilts a haggard face towards him. “I thought you were pleased.”
“I am. Of course I am, but ...” John's hands tighten towards fists, and the muscles of his jaw spasm. “It's not right, is it? There's a reason she wasn't a priority.”
Sherlock shifts uncomfortably, and lays the laptop aside. He'd known that John wouldn't approve; he'd also known John wouldn't ask for Harry's new status to be revoked, and that was why he'd relieved his friend of the burden of having to make the choice. Far better to present it as a fait accompli.
John's eyes are turned on him, bright and piercing, and there's a taut flatness in his voice when he asks, “So what exactly did you promise Mycroft in return?”
Sherlock shrugs. “Nothing I can't handle.”
John frowns. “You worry me, you know, when you start playing the good Samaritan.” This altruism doesn't seem to be working quite the way that Sherlock had expected, and he's wondering what sort of response will make John happy when the man says, “It's all academic, anyway. Nothing will happen unless they get a donor.”
John squares his shoulders, and his chin juts a little, as if he's physically bracing himself for the worst. Sherlock thinks it might be better if Harry died quickly, if John could start to move on, but he can picture the smile that would transform John's face if she were to recover.
“There's a man in St Mary's hospital,” he says, “who's in a permanent vegetative state.” John's eyes widen, and he blinks once before his head twitches a quick negation.
“That sort of patient can hang on for years.”
“Why can't they just pull the plug? It's not like he has any quality of life.”
John's mouth sets in a grim line. “Don't joke about things like that.” At times like this, Sherlock sees the unyielding core of the man: the medic's compassion fused with the ruthlessness of the soldier. Sherlock isn't joking; he needs to tread with care.
Then the other man's expression warms and softens, and he's unassuming, underestimated John again. “You want a cuppa?” John asks, pushing himself to his feet, and he's disappearing into the kitchen before Sherlock can do more than grunt in response. Sherlock listens to the clink of porcelain, the whoosh of the tap, the rumble of the kettle - letting John be useful is the only thing he can think to do. John returns with two steaming mugs, and he rests them both on the coffee table.
“John, I -”
“Look, Sherlock, I've been thinking.” John perches on the sofa. He angles himself towards Sherlock but he won't look him in the eye, and Sherlock knows this won't be anything he wants to hear. “They're doing some amazing things with living donor transplantation.” Cold apprehension settles in the pit of Sherlock's stomach. “They can take up to seventy percent of the donor's liver, and it will regenerate full function in six weeks.”
The apprehension swells and solidifies into full-blown fear, and Sherlock sits there under John's expectant gaze. “It's dangerous,” he says. He wants to cite the risks - bleeding, infection, even death - but the statistics dance just out of his reach.
“It's terrifying, actually.” John's lips quirk into a nervous smile. He's scared; he doesn't want to do this; he shouldn't even be thinking about it. “But sometimes you have to make sacrifices for people.”
There's a kind of desperate determination on John's face, and Sherlock's seen it before. Just like that he's there again, the stink of chlorine in his nostrils, the gun clutched uselessly in his sweating palm, as John tightens his arm around Moriarty's throat and shouts, “Run!” John knows all about sacrifice, but that was different - that was for him.
“You don't even like Harry,” Sherlock protests.
“You don't like Mycroft, but you wouldn't just let him die, would you?” Sherlock's considering that when John starts talking again: apparently it was meant to be a rhetorical question. “She's family. I can't help feeling a sense of duty.”
“It's guilt,” Sherlock snarls. “And it's not your responsibility.” He's not going to risk losing John over this. There must be something he can do, something he can say to talk John out of it, but these are murky waters and he knows he's out of his depth. John's staring down at his clasped hands. There's tension in the set of his shoulders, but his face is calm.
“You've decided then?” In the heavy silence that follows, Sherlock realises that there's more than just John's, or Harry's, future hanging in the balance here.
“Not decided, exactly,” John tells him. “Not yet.”
“Fifty percent of alcoholics relapse after the transplant.” It's not much of an argument, but it's all he has left.
John's face twists into that angry smile of his, and his head jerks from side to side. Then he looks back at Sherlock and sighs. “I don't want to do it,” he breathes, in a voice that's little more than a whisper. “But you made me believe in second chances.” His hand flinches towards his left shoulder.
Duty; sacrifice; another shot at life. Sherlock may not be an expert in emotions, but he knows John. He knows where this is leading, and it's an operating table where they'll open John up and carve something vital out of him. With searing clarity it surges through him, a hot tide that washes away all of his doubts, and in that moment Sherlock knows that he'd rather have them cut into his own flesh. He wobbles upright and balances on unsteady feet. John is right: sometimes you have to do unpleasant things for the person you love.
“I have to go out,” he says, and his voice sounds hollow and distant to his own ears.
“What, now?” John looks stricken, but that's all right; it won't be for long. Sherlock slips into his coat. He's striding for the stairs when John calls out, “Is it something for Mycroft?”
Sherlock doesn't answer. Let John think that - it will make things easier. But this isn't for Mycroft, it's for him. It's all for him.
* * * * *
The reaction hits Sherlock as he steps across the threshold of number 221, adrenaline stinging his nerve endings and spurring his weary limbs back into life. It's a delayed reaction - he's home, he's safe, it's done - but not entirely unexpected. He eases the door shut behind him and rests his weight against it, quieting his heaving lungs while he waits for his heart to stop racing. The hall is a patchwork of darkness, but he makes no move towards the light switch: hopefully, John is asleep. His fingers slide along the glass panel of the inner door and round into the alcove, where he hangs his coat. He takes seventeen cautious steps up to the flat, the timbers protesting softly under his weight.
He creeps the length of the landing on just the balls of his feet, and cuts through the kitchen - it's not like he'll need an alibi, but he wants to be in his room before John receives the call. His head whips round, drawn towards a strangled moan, and he follows the noise into the sitting room. John is wedged, upright, into the corner of the sofa. His head has succumbed to the pull of gravity, his neck stretched back until the tendons stand rigid, and the air rasps through his constricted windpipe. A frown is creased into his forehead, even in sleep. Sherlock sways, pulled off course by the tug of John's proximity; his hand tingles with the exhilarating potential to reach out and touch.
A sharp crack from the street - a car backfiring up towards the main road - and John is on his feet before it's finished echoing. Sherlock can't see his face, just a silhouette poised stiffly against the sodium glare of the street lights. John's head turns in one smooth rotation, scanning the room.
“Sherlock?”
“Who else?”
Sherlock winces when John flicks on the lights: he's been keeping to the shadows since he left the hospital. John is dressed - jeans and flannel shirt, not just rumpled, but creased at the back. He hasn't been to bed. He's been sitting in the dark, weighing his Hippocratic oath and a brother's sense of duty against years of friction and the instinct for self-preservation. The urge to speak swells inside Sherlock, the words burning, unspoken, in his throat. It isn't the guilt that he's feared, not some banal compulsion to confess, just the knowledge that he can bring John's misery to an end. His teeth click together, holding in the secret that he must never tell, because John is not - despite his frequent assertions to the contrary - a complete idiot.
“You're back late,” John says. “Mycroft getting his pound of flesh?”
“Something like that.” Sherlock opts for deflection rather than a lie. He's a consummate actor, but sometimes he'd swear that John sees straight through him. But he needn't have worried: John isn't looking at him, he's glancing at his watch.
“I've just realised - happy Christmas, Sherlock.” For the first time in days, he pulls his shoulders back and stands a little straighter. “Look, I know things haven't been much fun lately ...” His lips curve upwards into a wavering smile. “Okay, just hang on a minute.”
With that he's trotting upstairs. Sherlock hears the screech as he opens the barely-used drawer at the bottom of his wardrobe - he sighs gently at the man's relentless predictability - then the rush of returning feet. John hesitates, eyes fixed on the box cradled under one arm. Then his eyes lift to meet Sherlock's, and whatever he sees there apparently reassures him.
“Sorry, I haven't had chance to wrap it.”
Sherlock's hands close on the polished mahogany, and he unhooks the catch. There it is, nestled into a baize lining - J Swift & Son, London, 1895 - the antique microscope. He doesn't mind that it's not a surprise. He brushes the tips of his fingers across the sturdy enamelled base, the polished brass of the stereoscopic tubes, the knurled focus wheel. It's lovely, but it's not the thing itself that's important. What he wants is the brush of John's fingers against his, the way the smile settles more firmly on John's mouth and the lines around his eyes begin to ease and soften.
“Thank you,” Sherlock says, and his voice is warm. “I didn't buy you anything.” Which is the literal truth, even if it's not the whole story.
“It's okay,” John tells him. “I didn't expect you to.”
That's genuine amusement glinting in John's eyes, but Sherlock doesn't mind. What he's done for John is better than anything that can be wrapped and left beneath a tree. All Sherlock needs is to see John's face, to know that he's got the old John - his John - back again. Just this once he's willing to forego his audience.
John's phone blares - extra loud these days, in case he misses a vital call - and the man flinches. John stares at the caller display; the colour drains from his cheeks. This is it, at last: the call from the hospital. Sherlock watches his friend with wide-eyed anticipation. He wants to remember this moment; this is his applause.
“John Watson.” There's a quiver in his voice that doesn't belong there, but Sherlock knows it will soon be gone. “Yes … Yes. How soon?” John slumps, and for one awful moment Sherlock thinks that something has gone wrong with his plan. Then John breathes, a deep, smooth inhalation that seems to buoy him up. “Thanks for letting me know.”
John beams up at Sherlock, and it's like one of those long-ago Christmas mornings, with Mycroft and Mummy and Father united in the simple pleasure of putting a smile on one another's face.
“They've got a donor organ,” John tells him, and if Sherlock's exclamation of surprise isn't as convincing as it might have been, he doesn't notice. “They're taking her into theatre now.” He's dashing for the door. “I'm going to grab a shower. I want to be there when she wakes up.” John skids to a halt in the doorway.
“Happy Christmas, John,” Mycroft says, and the doctor backs up to let him in. “You've had some good news, I take it?” The smile sags from John's face. How typical of Mycroft to spoil what was promising to be a Christmas actually worth celebrating.
“I'm not sure that's quite the way I'd put it,” John says. “There's a family out there who's just had their Christmas ruined by this.” His face still bears the traces of a smile, but his eyes have gone dark. “I wonder who the donor was.”
It certainly wasn't the patient in St Mary's - not after Sherlock made the mistake of mentioning him - but, with the entire NHS database to choose from, there was no problem finding an alternative.
“Oh, I'm sure you needn't concern yourself with that,” Mycroft says. He's talking to John, but his gaze is fixed on Sherlock, sweeping down to his feet then slowly back up, eyes narrowing as they meet his brother's.
“I'll leave you to it,” John tells them. Sherlock glares at his sibling while he listens to John's footsteps retreating up the stairs.
Mycroft sighs. “It's true, then.” It's not a question. Somehow he knows, although Sherlock would swear he made no mistakes, left no evidence.
“I don't know what you mean,” he says, turning away to hide his consternation.
“Don't act obtuse with me,” Mycroft hisses, his voice vibrating with genuine anger. “Did you even stop to consider what would happen if you were suspected?”
Sherlock whirls to face him. “They'd never be able to prove anything,” he sneers.
“Perhaps not. But even the allegation would be enough to end your career.” He omits the disdain with which he usually mentions his brother's profession, a sure sign of how seriously he's taking this. “The police won't work with a suspected murderer.”
“What do you want?” Sherlock demands. It wasn't a pointless act; it wasn't even a selfish one. He'd do the same thing again if he had to, and sod the risks to his career or anything else that Mycroft might threaten.
“Want?” Apparently, it's now Mycroft's turn to play obtuse, and Sherlock wants to slap that elaborate innocence off his brother's face. At least Mycroft isn't pretending he cares about the crime, or about the victim, or anything other than the implications for the two of them.
“If you had any intention of turning me in, you'd have done it already.” Sherlock's jaw clenches against the instinctive retorts, the abuse, the rebellion. “So, you must want something.”
“All in good time,” Mycroft says, with a wave of his hand. Sherlock isn't fooled. He knows there's going to be a reckoning, and if Mycroft is hesitating, it's only because he hasn't yet decided how to turn this to his best advantage. “Go with John to the hospital. He'll appreciate you being there.”
Mycroft treads heavily towards the door; he stops. “I hope he's worth it, Sherlock. If the good doctor ever suspected … Well, just make sure he doesn't find out. For both your sakes.”
From overhead there comes the creak of the bathroom door, the thud of naked feet hurrying towards the bedroom, and Sherlock aches, right the way into his bones, with the sudden need to be there with him. But his brother is blocking the way out.
Mycroft steps aside; his face winces into a smile. “Happy Christmas, Sherlock.”
Title: It's the Thought That Counts
A gift for: pro_prodigy
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John pre-slash
Category: Slash
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mild swearing. Discussion of illness, alcoholism and surgery. Off-screen murder.
Summary: Sherlock discovers the true spirit of giving.
Author's Notes: Many thanks to ? for beta duties.
December is boring. Dull. Tedious. Interminable. Nothing ever happens in the week before Christmas. It's as if the entire criminal fraternity of London takes a holiday. True, the police will be busy over the festive period, but it's all just domestic violence and drunken brawling - mundane crimes with transparent motives, nothing worth leaving the flat for. To add insult to injury, Sherlock's violin and music stand have been evicted from their usual corner to make way for a specimen of Abies nordmanniana, festooned with shiny pieces of plastic.
He ought to throw it from the window - would have done so already if it weren't for John. But Sherlock was there when John hauled the thing triumphantly through the front door; he saw the happiness lighting his friend's face. The sharp words died, stillborn, on his lips, and he found himself rolling up his sleeves and hefting the trunk of the oversized conifer. They wrestled the thing around the turning of the stair, close enough that John's breath panted hotly on the nape of Sherlock's neck, and the detective knew - with a certainty that defied logic - that if he twisted round, and leaned closer still, John's lips would be warm and pliant against his. He trembled in place through one long, vertiginous moment. He retreated.
Sherlock isn't used to being a coward. But he's not sure what it is yet, this strange new glow that ignites in him when he looks at John, when he thinks about John.
The front door bangs shut, and Sherlock's pulse speeds up fractionally, the way it does these days when John is near. Sherlock levers himself up onto one elbow, his head clearing the arm of the sofa and inclining towards the sound of John's approach. The doctor is labouring up the stairs - a bad day at the surgery, perhaps, or weighted down with shopping. Possibly Christmas shopping; Sherlock collapses back onto the cushions. These are simple deceptions, and they make John happy: allowing his friend the illusion of secrecy when he hurries the gifts up to his room; pretending he doesn't know what John has bought him. It's not that Sherlock made an effort to find out, but, really, it couldn't have been more obvious. At least the antique microscope is something he can appreciate; at least he won't have to fake the pleasure as well as the surprise.
The footsteps reach the landing - a hesitant, shuffling tread - and the anticipation simmering in Sherlock's stomach curdles into alarm. The door opens; John stumbles in.
“Are you all right?” Sherlock blurts, launching himself upright.
John's head jerks in something that's not quite a nod. “Yeah, I'm -” He sucks in a breath that seems to give him pain. “Not really, no.”
Sherlock knows he ought to stay calm, but there's a bitter, hospital reek hitting his nostrils, and it triggers something in his hindbrain that's beyond the reach of reason. With that, he's leaping the coffee table, heart pounding, and his hands are not quite steady when he seizes John's shoulders.
“Are you hurt?” he demands. “Are you ill?” There's no obvious sign of trauma, but John's skin is ashen and his lips are pinched into a thin line.
“What? No, not me. It's Harry.”
Relief floods Sherlock's brain, dulling the incisive edge of it for a moment. Then it hits him: John is concerned, not grieving. Whatever has happened, it isn't over. His fingers dig into John's biceps with a force that must be painful, but John says nothing, merely allows himself to be pushed towards the sofa.
“Aren't you going to offer me a cup of tea?” John asks, with a shaky laugh.
“Do you want a cup of tea?”
“Not really, no.” John rubs a hand across his face, and when he looks up some of the blood is returning to his cheeks. “It's just what you do when someone's had a shock.”
“Do you want to tell me,” Sherlock asks, “or shall I deduce it?” He sinks down next to John. His friend doesn't look at him, simply stares at the floor, so Sherlock says, “The balance of probability favours end stage liver failure.”
John's lips pull back in a grimace. He nods. “She's on the waiting list for a transplant, but -” John's voice thickens and chokes off. His Adam's apple convulses - once, and a second time - and then he sounds like John again. “It's a long list.”
“And she's a recovering alcoholic. She won't get priority.” It's the truth - there's nothing Sherlock can say that will change the facts - but that doesn't make it easier to watch as John's face crumples, and his whole body sags. The weight of the knowledge seems to settle on the small man's shoulders, and suddenly he looks every one of his thirty-seven years.
“You're right,” John sighs, and Sherlock can't just sit here and see him like this, not when there's something he can do about it. “I'm not defending her. It's not like I didn't see this coming. But she's managed to stay sober for months, and - Sherlock, are you even listening?”
Sherlock's on his feet. “I have to make a call.”
“Call?” John's mouth gapes, but his eyes narrow and there's a cold gleam in them that Sherlock rarely sees. “What call?”
Sherlock can explain; he will explain, but not right now. This is urgent, and he needs to set the wheels in motion. He turns away from John's glare, but he can feel the force of it, a prickling sensation at the base of his skull, all the way to his bedroom. He whips out his phone, pushing the door closed with his foot as he dials. He listens to it ring and ring, his heart hammering away in each breathless silence.
But when his brother finally answers, he says, “Mycroft, I -” and the words lodge in his throat. It goes against the practice of long years, against the relentless struggle to protect his independence. There will be a price to pay. But he thinks of John, slumped on the sofa in the weariness of despair, and he sucks a breath in through his gritted teeth. “I need a favour.”
* * * * *
Christmas Eve: halfway through Lestrade's week off. Every day brings Sherlock closer to the inspector's return to duty, and the promise of an interesting case; every day etches the lines a little deeper into John's face, and pushes his stoicism closer to the breaking point. It's grey pre-dawn and the traffic down Baker Street is at its lowest ebb. The sitting room is lit by the cold glow from Sherlock's laptop. The new NHS database has proved laughably easy to hack, and Sherlock has spent an informative half hour reviewing patients' records. He snaps the lid shut at the first faint pad of feet on the stairs.
John's still in his pyjamas and his hair is rumpled by the pillow - he has at least tried to sleep - but there are shadows bruised into the fragile skin beneath his eyes. He's had a rough night, several rough nights in a row, and it's taking its toll. Sherlock's heart clenches at the sight of him, but he knows nothing about how to offer comfort. John shuffles across the room and drops into his armchair, giving no indication that he's even aware of the other man's presence.
“Any news?” Sherlock enquires.
“No.” Of course there isn't. He doesn't know why he asked.
“She's at the top of the list,” Sherlock reminds him. John winces, and finally tilts a haggard face towards him. “I thought you were pleased.”
“I am. Of course I am, but ...” John's hands tighten towards fists, and the muscles of his jaw spasm. “It's not right, is it? There's a reason she wasn't a priority.”
Sherlock shifts uncomfortably, and lays the laptop aside. He'd known that John wouldn't approve; he'd also known John wouldn't ask for Harry's new status to be revoked, and that was why he'd relieved his friend of the burden of having to make the choice. Far better to present it as a fait accompli.
John's eyes are turned on him, bright and piercing, and there's a taut flatness in his voice when he asks, “So what exactly did you promise Mycroft in return?”
Sherlock shrugs. “Nothing I can't handle.”
John frowns. “You worry me, you know, when you start playing the good Samaritan.” This altruism doesn't seem to be working quite the way that Sherlock had expected, and he's wondering what sort of response will make John happy when the man says, “It's all academic, anyway. Nothing will happen unless they get a donor.”
John squares his shoulders, and his chin juts a little, as if he's physically bracing himself for the worst. Sherlock thinks it might be better if Harry died quickly, if John could start to move on, but he can picture the smile that would transform John's face if she were to recover.
“There's a man in St Mary's hospital,” he says, “who's in a permanent vegetative state.” John's eyes widen, and he blinks once before his head twitches a quick negation.
“That sort of patient can hang on for years.”
“Why can't they just pull the plug? It's not like he has any quality of life.”
John's mouth sets in a grim line. “Don't joke about things like that.” At times like this, Sherlock sees the unyielding core of the man: the medic's compassion fused with the ruthlessness of the soldier. Sherlock isn't joking; he needs to tread with care.
Then the other man's expression warms and softens, and he's unassuming, underestimated John again. “You want a cuppa?” John asks, pushing himself to his feet, and he's disappearing into the kitchen before Sherlock can do more than grunt in response. Sherlock listens to the clink of porcelain, the whoosh of the tap, the rumble of the kettle - letting John be useful is the only thing he can think to do. John returns with two steaming mugs, and he rests them both on the coffee table.
“John, I -”
“Look, Sherlock, I've been thinking.” John perches on the sofa. He angles himself towards Sherlock but he won't look him in the eye, and Sherlock knows this won't be anything he wants to hear. “They're doing some amazing things with living donor transplantation.” Cold apprehension settles in the pit of Sherlock's stomach. “They can take up to seventy percent of the donor's liver, and it will regenerate full function in six weeks.”
The apprehension swells and solidifies into full-blown fear, and Sherlock sits there under John's expectant gaze. “It's dangerous,” he says. He wants to cite the risks - bleeding, infection, even death - but the statistics dance just out of his reach.
“It's terrifying, actually.” John's lips quirk into a nervous smile. He's scared; he doesn't want to do this; he shouldn't even be thinking about it. “But sometimes you have to make sacrifices for people.”
There's a kind of desperate determination on John's face, and Sherlock's seen it before. Just like that he's there again, the stink of chlorine in his nostrils, the gun clutched uselessly in his sweating palm, as John tightens his arm around Moriarty's throat and shouts, “Run!” John knows all about sacrifice, but that was different - that was for him.
“You don't even like Harry,” Sherlock protests.
“You don't like Mycroft, but you wouldn't just let him die, would you?” Sherlock's considering that when John starts talking again: apparently it was meant to be a rhetorical question. “She's family. I can't help feeling a sense of duty.”
“It's guilt,” Sherlock snarls. “And it's not your responsibility.” He's not going to risk losing John over this. There must be something he can do, something he can say to talk John out of it, but these are murky waters and he knows he's out of his depth. John's staring down at his clasped hands. There's tension in the set of his shoulders, but his face is calm.
“You've decided then?” In the heavy silence that follows, Sherlock realises that there's more than just John's, or Harry's, future hanging in the balance here.
“Not decided, exactly,” John tells him. “Not yet.”
“Fifty percent of alcoholics relapse after the transplant.” It's not much of an argument, but it's all he has left.
John's face twists into that angry smile of his, and his head jerks from side to side. Then he looks back at Sherlock and sighs. “I don't want to do it,” he breathes, in a voice that's little more than a whisper. “But you made me believe in second chances.” His hand flinches towards his left shoulder.
Duty; sacrifice; another shot at life. Sherlock may not be an expert in emotions, but he knows John. He knows where this is leading, and it's an operating table where they'll open John up and carve something vital out of him. With searing clarity it surges through him, a hot tide that washes away all of his doubts, and in that moment Sherlock knows that he'd rather have them cut into his own flesh. He wobbles upright and balances on unsteady feet. John is right: sometimes you have to do unpleasant things for the person you love.
“I have to go out,” he says, and his voice sounds hollow and distant to his own ears.
“What, now?” John looks stricken, but that's all right; it won't be for long. Sherlock slips into his coat. He's striding for the stairs when John calls out, “Is it something for Mycroft?”
Sherlock doesn't answer. Let John think that - it will make things easier. But this isn't for Mycroft, it's for him. It's all for him.
* * * * *
The reaction hits Sherlock as he steps across the threshold of number 221, adrenaline stinging his nerve endings and spurring his weary limbs back into life. It's a delayed reaction - he's home, he's safe, it's done - but not entirely unexpected. He eases the door shut behind him and rests his weight against it, quieting his heaving lungs while he waits for his heart to stop racing. The hall is a patchwork of darkness, but he makes no move towards the light switch: hopefully, John is asleep. His fingers slide along the glass panel of the inner door and round into the alcove, where he hangs his coat. He takes seventeen cautious steps up to the flat, the timbers protesting softly under his weight.
He creeps the length of the landing on just the balls of his feet, and cuts through the kitchen - it's not like he'll need an alibi, but he wants to be in his room before John receives the call. His head whips round, drawn towards a strangled moan, and he follows the noise into the sitting room. John is wedged, upright, into the corner of the sofa. His head has succumbed to the pull of gravity, his neck stretched back until the tendons stand rigid, and the air rasps through his constricted windpipe. A frown is creased into his forehead, even in sleep. Sherlock sways, pulled off course by the tug of John's proximity; his hand tingles with the exhilarating potential to reach out and touch.
A sharp crack from the street - a car backfiring up towards the main road - and John is on his feet before it's finished echoing. Sherlock can't see his face, just a silhouette poised stiffly against the sodium glare of the street lights. John's head turns in one smooth rotation, scanning the room.
“Sherlock?”
“Who else?”
Sherlock winces when John flicks on the lights: he's been keeping to the shadows since he left the hospital. John is dressed - jeans and flannel shirt, not just rumpled, but creased at the back. He hasn't been to bed. He's been sitting in the dark, weighing his Hippocratic oath and a brother's sense of duty against years of friction and the instinct for self-preservation. The urge to speak swells inside Sherlock, the words burning, unspoken, in his throat. It isn't the guilt that he's feared, not some banal compulsion to confess, just the knowledge that he can bring John's misery to an end. His teeth click together, holding in the secret that he must never tell, because John is not - despite his frequent assertions to the contrary - a complete idiot.
“You're back late,” John says. “Mycroft getting his pound of flesh?”
“Something like that.” Sherlock opts for deflection rather than a lie. He's a consummate actor, but sometimes he'd swear that John sees straight through him. But he needn't have worried: John isn't looking at him, he's glancing at his watch.
“I've just realised - happy Christmas, Sherlock.” For the first time in days, he pulls his shoulders back and stands a little straighter. “Look, I know things haven't been much fun lately ...” His lips curve upwards into a wavering smile. “Okay, just hang on a minute.”
With that he's trotting upstairs. Sherlock hears the screech as he opens the barely-used drawer at the bottom of his wardrobe - he sighs gently at the man's relentless predictability - then the rush of returning feet. John hesitates, eyes fixed on the box cradled under one arm. Then his eyes lift to meet Sherlock's, and whatever he sees there apparently reassures him.
“Sorry, I haven't had chance to wrap it.”
Sherlock's hands close on the polished mahogany, and he unhooks the catch. There it is, nestled into a baize lining - J Swift & Son, London, 1895 - the antique microscope. He doesn't mind that it's not a surprise. He brushes the tips of his fingers across the sturdy enamelled base, the polished brass of the stereoscopic tubes, the knurled focus wheel. It's lovely, but it's not the thing itself that's important. What he wants is the brush of John's fingers against his, the way the smile settles more firmly on John's mouth and the lines around his eyes begin to ease and soften.
“Thank you,” Sherlock says, and his voice is warm. “I didn't buy you anything.” Which is the literal truth, even if it's not the whole story.
“It's okay,” John tells him. “I didn't expect you to.”
That's genuine amusement glinting in John's eyes, but Sherlock doesn't mind. What he's done for John is better than anything that can be wrapped and left beneath a tree. All Sherlock needs is to see John's face, to know that he's got the old John - his John - back again. Just this once he's willing to forego his audience.
John's phone blares - extra loud these days, in case he misses a vital call - and the man flinches. John stares at the caller display; the colour drains from his cheeks. This is it, at last: the call from the hospital. Sherlock watches his friend with wide-eyed anticipation. He wants to remember this moment; this is his applause.
“John Watson.” There's a quiver in his voice that doesn't belong there, but Sherlock knows it will soon be gone. “Yes … Yes. How soon?” John slumps, and for one awful moment Sherlock thinks that something has gone wrong with his plan. Then John breathes, a deep, smooth inhalation that seems to buoy him up. “Thanks for letting me know.”
John beams up at Sherlock, and it's like one of those long-ago Christmas mornings, with Mycroft and Mummy and Father united in the simple pleasure of putting a smile on one another's face.
“They've got a donor organ,” John tells him, and if Sherlock's exclamation of surprise isn't as convincing as it might have been, he doesn't notice. “They're taking her into theatre now.” He's dashing for the door. “I'm going to grab a shower. I want to be there when she wakes up.” John skids to a halt in the doorway.
“Happy Christmas, John,” Mycroft says, and the doctor backs up to let him in. “You've had some good news, I take it?” The smile sags from John's face. How typical of Mycroft to spoil what was promising to be a Christmas actually worth celebrating.
“I'm not sure that's quite the way I'd put it,” John says. “There's a family out there who's just had their Christmas ruined by this.” His face still bears the traces of a smile, but his eyes have gone dark. “I wonder who the donor was.”
It certainly wasn't the patient in St Mary's - not after Sherlock made the mistake of mentioning him - but, with the entire NHS database to choose from, there was no problem finding an alternative.
“Oh, I'm sure you needn't concern yourself with that,” Mycroft says. He's talking to John, but his gaze is fixed on Sherlock, sweeping down to his feet then slowly back up, eyes narrowing as they meet his brother's.
“I'll leave you to it,” John tells them. Sherlock glares at his sibling while he listens to John's footsteps retreating up the stairs.
Mycroft sighs. “It's true, then.” It's not a question. Somehow he knows, although Sherlock would swear he made no mistakes, left no evidence.
“I don't know what you mean,” he says, turning away to hide his consternation.
“Don't act obtuse with me,” Mycroft hisses, his voice vibrating with genuine anger. “Did you even stop to consider what would happen if you were suspected?”
Sherlock whirls to face him. “They'd never be able to prove anything,” he sneers.
“Perhaps not. But even the allegation would be enough to end your career.” He omits the disdain with which he usually mentions his brother's profession, a sure sign of how seriously he's taking this. “The police won't work with a suspected murderer.”
“What do you want?” Sherlock demands. It wasn't a pointless act; it wasn't even a selfish one. He'd do the same thing again if he had to, and sod the risks to his career or anything else that Mycroft might threaten.
“Want?” Apparently, it's now Mycroft's turn to play obtuse, and Sherlock wants to slap that elaborate innocence off his brother's face. At least Mycroft isn't pretending he cares about the crime, or about the victim, or anything other than the implications for the two of them.
“If you had any intention of turning me in, you'd have done it already.” Sherlock's jaw clenches against the instinctive retorts, the abuse, the rebellion. “So, you must want something.”
“All in good time,” Mycroft says, with a wave of his hand. Sherlock isn't fooled. He knows there's going to be a reckoning, and if Mycroft is hesitating, it's only because he hasn't yet decided how to turn this to his best advantage. “Go with John to the hospital. He'll appreciate you being there.”
Mycroft treads heavily towards the door; he stops. “I hope he's worth it, Sherlock. If the good doctor ever suspected … Well, just make sure he doesn't find out. For both your sakes.”
From overhead there comes the creak of the bathroom door, the thud of naked feet hurrying towards the bedroom, and Sherlock aches, right the way into his bones, with the sudden need to be there with him. But his brother is blocking the way out.
Mycroft steps aside; his face winces into a smile. “Happy Christmas, Sherlock.”