Discontent: (noun) a restless desire or craving for something one does not have

...

1.

There are a lot of things Sherlock is prepared for when he bursts into 221b at one in the morning, precisely two years after his supposed death. He expects that after he and John have a long, grueling conversation filled with anger, pain, and apologies, John will pull him into a fierce hug and fondly call him a bastard or a git, or something to that effect. Then they'll spend the rest of the night talking by the fireplace, John in his chair, Sherlock in his own, recounting the two years they spent apart, reminiscing on the great times they had in the past, and perhaps even planning great times to have in the future.

Sherlock is not a man of delusions, though. He understands that John sometimes reacts to emotionally-intense moments with physical violence, so he is completely prepared for the scenario of John giving him two black eyes and a few well-deserved shoves.

What he is not prepared for, however, is for the flat to be cold and quiet and clearly uninhabited.

Confused, he stumbles through the door and flicks on the lights, only to be greeted by a room full of white sheet-covered furniture. The dust is an inch thick on any given surface, rolled-up carpets rest against the wall alongside a lone stack of papers and one haphazardly sealed box, and his bookshelf is completely barren. Only his skull remains in its familiar perch on the mantel.

At first, he thinks he must be experiencing some sort of hallucination. After all, it's been a while since he's slept (forty six hours and ten minutes, to be precise) so it could very well be his hazy, overworked mind playing tricks on him. He desperately wants to believe this is the case, but the white cloth beneath his fingertips and the sharp smell of dust feel undeniably real.

Something fierce and panicked roars inside his chest when it occurs to him that John has done the unthinkable and moved on. Sherlock has been forgotten.

The thing is, this wasn't supposed to happen—this wasn't part of the plan. He wasn't prepared for this.

He did not spend two years in what he can accurately call his own hell only to come back to find his old life in tatters. He did not spend every single second of his 'death' thinking about John, regretting all the times he should've done something but didn't, or wanted to say something but refrained, and planning out the perfect apology and most sincere confession, only to realize John has moved on just fine without him.

He did not kill himself for this.

2.

When he finds out John is engaged, an unexpected ache blossoms inside his chest like a rose, all thorny and robust and thoroughly unrelenting.

"Isn't it wonderful, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asks as she refills his glass of orange juice at breakfast, precisely forty eight hours after he has rejoined the land of the living.

Sherlock's heart withers inside his chest, but he does his best to look unaffected; the habit of keeping a steely expression and cold eyes despite great internal distress has apparently stuck with him. He pushes his eggs around his plate and tries to appear neutral. "Yes, it is wonderful. I wonder why John failed to mention it to me when we spoke."

Mrs. Hudson frowns and pauses in her task of brewing their tea. "Now that's odd. He's been practically shouting it from rooftops ever since he proposed a month ago. I wonder why he didn't bring it up."

The thing is, it wasn't supposed to be this way. When he was hunkered down in a rat-infested motel in Dzershinsk, drinking cheap liquor from a paper bag and awaiting his next mission, he kept his spirits up by imagining what John would say when Sherlock finally confessed that he loved him.

When he was wandering the slums of Bremen, kicking up puddles of exhaust and smoking himself halfway to lung cancer, it was the image of 221b that kept him from leaping into the icy waters of the reservoir and ending it all.

When he was trapped against a brick wall with an assassin's knife at his throat in Brescia, it was the thought of John that gave him the strength to fight back and save himself.

3.

There is a lot to say, but neither of them say it.

They don't talk about anything important, John doesn't get angry, Sherlock doesn't fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness, and nothing goes according to plan, because apparently there is someone named Mary in the picture now, and that really changes everything.

"She's incredible, Sherlock," John tells him one afternoon while they're unpacking boxes and moving Sherlock's things back into the flat. "You'll like her." Then John has the gall to pat his knee and smile as if there is even one iota of a chance that Sherlock will not abhor whoever has stolen John away from him.

"Yes, I'm sure," he replies evenly, and places another book back onto the shelf with more force than is perhaps necessary.

After that, they don't say much except for John occasionally asking if this goes there or if that belongs here. Sherlock doesn't mind the silence because it's far better than hearing about Mary Elizabeth Morstan (soon-to-be-Watson) and all of her wonderful, admirable traits.

Bitterness coats his insides like tar, and although he is well aware that it's cruel, he hopes that Mary turns out to be an awful woman who will break John's heart and send him running back to Sherlock. Guilt nips at the tail end of this thought, but not enough to make him regret wishing for it.

Two hours into it, John breaks the silence and says, "I missed you, you know?"

Surprisingly, he isn't looking at Sherlock, he's staring down at something in his hands with glossy eyes and a faraway look. Closer scrutiny reveals that it is a picture of the two of them that Sherlock cut from the papers a few years back. It seems John framed it while he was away.

Sherlock swallows hard and looks resolutely at the floor. He already knows that whatever he can say won't even come close to what he actually feels for John, and for that reason alone he almost forgoes responding altogether. However, the last thing he wants is for John to think that Sherlock does not care about him, so he puts down the box of old files and looks at him. "I missed you too, John. Every single day."

If things were different, he might've punctuated that confession with 'I love you'. He might've reached out and grabbed John's hand and pulled him to heart like he's wanted to for the longest time. He might've told him about the countless nights spent staring at motel ceilings, desperately counting down the seconds till his return to Baker Street.

But things aren't different, so instead of doing any of these things, Sherlock goes back to stacking papers and John resumes shelving books, and the two of them continue dancing around the elephant in the room. Even though John is only a few feet away, the distance between them might as well be ten thousand miles.

…

So glad you're finally going to meet Mary! Do you need the address of the café?

I'll find it. SH

Sherlock, thanks again. I really appreciate this.

…

That night, he dreams that he is swimming in the ocean and John is waving to him from the shore. Sherlock wants to go to him, but every time he attempts to swim towards John, the water surges back and holds him in place like a steel fist. He flails about uselessly and tries to call John's name for what feels like hours, but his voice is muted and the water level continues to steadily rise. Before long, John grows tired of waiting and leaves.

It's when he realizes John isn't coming back that Sherlock finally stops struggling and allows himself to drown.

4.

"Hi, I'm Mary," she says with a smile. Her eyes are as green as sour apple gumdrops and her laughter is reminiscent of chiming bells and summer evenings spent on the beach. There is elegance in her hands, grace in her smile, kindness in her words, and a nonspecific sort of beauty emitting from her like beams of light.

"Sherlock," he says and shakes her hand.

She's a nurse. He can see it in her precise movements, sharp, intelligent eyes, and the way she doesn't look phased when the conversion briefly dawdles near corpses from a recent case. His supposition is proved correct when she tells him that she and John first met at the clinic. She has well-kept nailbeds, shiny blonde hair, a cardigan sweater, and dimples at either end of her smile. She is the epitome of John's 'ideal woman'.

Mary beams at him. "It's so lovely to finally meet you, Sherlock. John talks about you constantly."

John ducks his head and grins. "Now, now, love, it's isn't constantly…"

Mary just chuckles and places her hand over John's, gazing at him warmly from across the table. Equally enamored, John stares back, his features nearly unrecognizable in their blatant tenderness and adoration.

The whole display causes a strange ache to settle inside Sherlock's chest.

Without doubt, she will give John a perfectly acceptable life. There will be Christmas cards with pictures of the family, baked goods cooling on the counter each morning, and neatly-ironed, freshly-laundered clothes hanging in their shared wardrobe. John will come along on cases with Sherlock occasionally, perhaps when he has nothing better to do, but at the end of the night he'll always return to his warm house and beaming family, and Sherlock will go home to a quiet flat with empty rooms.

The Watsons will have two children and a nice house with a white picket fence and a mailbox engraved with both their names. John will work happily at the clinic while Mary continues her career as a nurse, and the two of them will lead a lovely, picturesque life until they are buried side by side in their designated, flower-adorned grave plots.

"Er, Sherlock? Are you alright, dear?" Mary asks.

Mary is all John has ever wanted in life; she is stability, she is beauty, she is constancy, patience, and kindness all wrapped into one convenient, feminine package.

Sherlock bites the inside of his check and flutters his fingers anxiously against the table top.

It does not take a detective to understand that John's family portrait—equipped with the house and the kids and the wife—does not include his lanky, looming form. He doesn't fit in and it's a miracle in itself that he's managed to keep John's company this long.

"Sherlock? Hello? John, is he alright?"

It's only been fifteen minutes and their drinks haven't even arrived yet, but Sherlock can't stand to be here another second. Mary is saying something—probably to him, judging by her gaze and gesturing hands—but his blood is rushing in his ears too loudly for him to hear.

"Sherlock, you okay?" John asks. He looks mildly concerned, probably because Sherlock has barely spoken three words and is currently making a point of ignoring whatever Mary is telling him.

Sherlock stares at John for a long moment, gives him a veiled look, and then abruptly stands. His glass of water is untouched. "This has been lovely, but I'm afraid something vastly important has come up. Apologies, Mary. Shame we couldn't have chatted."

Without another word, he sweeps out of the café in three long strides, his hands fisted inside his pockets and his jaw clenched tightly. Outside, the pavement is slick with rain from this morning's storm and Sherlock nearly slips as he strides from the building, in haste to distance himself from the sharp pain stabbing behind his ribcage.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, what the bloody—hold on, will you?" John shouts as he pushes his way out of the café, the front door's bell chiming in his wake.

John's stride is much shorter than his so it takes a bit of jogging for him to catch up to Sherlock. When Sherlock makes no effort to slow down, John reaches out and grabs the sleeve of his coat, pulling him to a halt. "Sherlock," he pants, "what the hell was that back there? What came up?"

Sherlock pointedly looks away, his tone gruff. "You wanted me to meet Mary, correct? Well, now I've met her. A prolonged interaction was unnecessary and I have more pressing matters to attend to at the moment."

Having caught his breath, John straightens and releases Sherlock's coat. "Oh?" he says with a frown. "What's more important than this?"

Sherlock suddenly feels the strangest urge to hurt John. Not physically—he'd never do that. No, instead Sherlock has the cruel urge to make John feel as miserable as he does; he wants John to feel that rotting ache behind his ribcage, that stabbing pain that pieces through his heart like knives and long nails and drags itself all the way down to his toes. He wants John to understand how bloody miserable he feels. And the thing is, he knows exactly how to do it, too. His words can be cutting when he wants them to be.

"Perhaps staring at a blank wall," he replies coolly. "Or maybe watching paint dry."

His words provoke the intended reaction and John immediately looks angry. Unfortunately, he also looks hurt, but Sherlock supposes that's collateral damage he'll just have to live with for now.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Do you not like Mary?"

Mary is perfect and, more importantly, she is normal. She's exactly what John wants. However, she is nowhere near what John needs.

Rainclouds assemble overhead. Sherlock keeps his tone even and detached. "She's dull, John. Insipid."

Now John looks furious. He steps towards Sherlock and Sherlock backpedals into the mouth of the alley, his back hitting the brick wall behind him. "Fucking hell, Sherlock, what's your problem?"

Tension crackles and spits in the air like embers of fire. He can practically hear John's heart pounding—can practically feel it from their close proximity. Yearning scorches the insides of his chest so fiercely that the sensation could easily be mistaken for anger. If this were a different day, he might've ducked down and kissed John. He might've pressed his lips to every inch of his skin and sobbed into John's neck from the utter relief of it.

But today is not that day. John is Mary's now—only she can do those things.

"Problem?" he laughs, because the only alternative is to sob. "I don't have a problem, John. You have a problem. You're trying to convince yourself that she can give you the kind of life you want, but she can't and you know it as well as I know it."

Sherlock wants to say awful things, he wants to fight. He knows he's goading John and he's pretty sure that John knows it too, but they're both obviously itching to hash things out—for different reasons, of course—so, instead of being a rational adult and calming down, Sherlock gets harsher.

"She's dull and typical, John. I thought you'd already moved past the pathetic phase of your life in which you intentionally sought unsatisfying things. Don't begrudge me for not being impressed with this false little suburban existence you're endeavoring to construct for yourself, and do not dare resent the fact that I abhor this virtuous, picture-perfect woman you've chosen to place at the center of your terribly misguided universe—"

"Shut up!"

When John's fist connects with his face, white stars explode behind his eyelids and unbelievable pain scorches through his skull like liquid fire. His nose is in agony. He staggers and braces himself against the brick wall, then pauses for a moment to take stock of the situation. John is breathing heavily and staring at him with regret written all over his face. There is a smear of blood on his knuckles. John looks like he hates himself.

However, Sherlock doesn't want an apology. He wants his face to ache—it provides a lovely distraction from the pain blooming in his heart.

"You broke my nose," he marvels, allowing the blood to drip over his lips and down his chin.

John's voice is shaky. He takes a step closer. "Sherlock, I'm sor—"

Sherlock takes a large step back. "Don't."

Overhead, the heavens split open and the rainclouds begin to weep.

"I don't like Mary," he repeats, and he isn't quite sure why he says it, only that the words are sitting there on his tongue and he has no pressing reason to hold them back.

John looks up at him with tired eyes. "You're so selfish, you know that?"

Sherlock doesn't feel like laughing anymore. He laughed earlier because at the time it felt marginally better than crying, but now he suddenly feels too tired for either. Subdued, he drops his gaze to John's shoulder and plucks at the hem of his sleeve. "Yes. I know."

John flexes his sore fingers and stares down at the crimson streaks across his knuckles. "You were gone for two years, Sherlock. You were dead and now you've just decided to waltz back into my life and demand that everything fall in sync with your plan. What about me? What about what I want?"

Sherlock exhales, feeling as if he has the weight of the world on his breath. "What do you want, John?"

John doesn't answer him immediately. "You were dead," he repeats instead. "Maybe if you hadn't—if you—I don't know, if you hadn't disappeared for all that time, maybe things would be different. But now, I just…I want," he runs his hand gruffly through his hair and looks skyward. "I want you to not hate her. I want both of you in my life, alright? Please, just give her a chance, Sherlock."

Two years ago, he told himself that he wouldn't lie to John anymore, so instead of promising anything, he settles with a nod. It's acknowledgement, at least. "I really must be going," he lies. "Busy schedule and all."

John bites at the inside of his cheek. "I'll call you, okay?"

Sherlock's smile is twitchy and forced. He knows there are bloodstains on his teeth but he shows them anyway. "Yes. Okay."

…

But it isn't okay.

So he goes home and breaks a few things, and winds up where he usually does, holed up in John's old bedroom on the unused mattress, burying his nose into the material and trying to conjure up John's scent. It's pathetic and useless—like most things he does these days—but he can't seem to help himself. He thinks perhaps he needs distance from John, just until he can get his head on straight and put his heart back in his chest where it belongs, instead of on his sleeve for the world to see.