One Word, Sherlock. That is all I would have needed. One word to let me know that you were alive.
- John Watson
John gets word that his best friend is dead (again) on a Tuesday. He has just come back from Tesco's to find Mycroft Holmes in the flat (his flat, not their nice house in the suburbs, but his flat). He freezes, instinctively knowing that something is wrong. Something is very very wrong. He has not seen the elder Holmes since Sherlock's exile six months ago. Not since Sherlock got on that damn plane and left his life. Again. This time maybe for good.
John is not an idiot. He is a doctor, was in the army and lived with the world's only consulting detective. All of those positions have taught him something, but none as much as Sherlock. He will never reach the genius' level, but his intelligence is nothing to scoff at either. Just because he always looked like the dumb one (the normal one) next to Sherlock, doesn't mean he is.
And so when he hears 'six months in Eastern Europe', he knows what that means. He can read between the lines. Especially after Sherlock gave that shrug. 'Who knows' his arse. Bloody idiot went off on a suicide mission and didn't have the guts to tell him.
Although to be fair, John probably couldn't have handled hearing it just then (probably, ha!). His head was still a mess from everything. His head is still a mess from everything. It seems like ever since Sherlock came back from the dead the first time, nothing has made sense. Now it makes even less.
He puts his bags down with a sigh. "Tea?" he asks.
"Thank you doctor Watson, that would be much appreciated."
John nods and turns the kettle on. "Well?" he says as he waits for the water to boil, "What is it this time?"
Mycroft gives him a long look. Giving a solemn nod, he replies, "Yes, I am afraid I have come to confirm your conclusion."
John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "Right." He take time to fiddle with the tea longer than necessary before he hands one of the mugs to Mycroft. "Anything else?"
"I have left a copy of my brother's will for you. You are welcome to read it at your leisure, but the short of it is that you have inherited everything."
It takes John a few moments to process this. "Everything?" he finally manages.
"Of course. Who else would he have left anything to?"
"You, Mrs Hudson, Molly, Greg," John rattles off.
"A few mementos, merely. Everything else is yours." He sets the cup down. "My condolences doctor Watson. I know what my brother meant to you."
John nods and looks away.
Mycroft walks to the door before pausing. "John..." he starts, then pauses again, giving a sigh and starts again. "My brother left you everything. What might we deduce about his heart?" he asks, exciting for good this time.
What might we deduce about his heart? John remembers the first time Mycroft asked him that, during the whole Irene fiasco. John didn't know the answer then and he doesn't now. Or rather, he'd rather not think about what the answer is. It would only lead to heartache. And it wouldn't change anything. Not now.
But then why did he ask?
Mycroft is a Holmes. No Holmes does anything without a reason. So what is his?
John shakes his head. That is a question for another day. One where he doesn't feel like drowning at the bottom of a bottle. He takes another deep breath and turns to put the food away, ignoring the envelope on the table. Bloody Holmes.
It takes John three days to work up the courage to read Sherlock's will. Three days because if he doesn't, then it isn't real. Sherlock can still be alive, out there somewhere. His mad detective driving everyone around him crazy. Three days before he feels like he can read it without having another bloody breakdown. There's no one to put him back together this time. (Mary did last time. But John and Mary have already parted ways. Mary is the reason they are in this mess to begin with.)
But after three days, John admits to himself he is never going to have the composure he wants to read it. At this point best to rip the bandage right off. It is going to be painful either way, no use lingering. So he sits down and slowly, page by page, begins to read.
There are page filled with legal jargon and complex sentences, but at the end is a letter. A letter from Sherlock outlining just want John now owns and... wow. (The hell if Sherlock actually needed a flatmate. John will never have to work again.) John lets out a breath. Of course Sherlock had to be able to afford those suits somehow. And his homeless network. And his equipment. And his books. And... Well. The point is, not all of that is from the cases.
And now it is all John's.
Not only is he now a very wealthy man, he is now the owner of both Baker Street and a cottage in Sussex apparently. Both of which have John sighing. Because how long has Sherlock owned Baker Street? Why? Does he want to know? And because he remembers, once long ago, how Sherlock made a comment about retiring to Sussex to raise bees. Looks like the man was serious after all. John hadn't been sure at the time.
Damn bloody madman, giving him options now that he's dead. What use has he for this now? Maybe if he was still with Mary. If it hadn't gone to hell in a handbasket. But now? Once again he is alone in the world.
John sighs again and turns on the telly. Nothing like some crap telly to drown out the thoughts.
John's world is once again turned upside down a week later. As he goes through his post, he finds a postcard of the Sussex downs. The message on it is simple. One short sentence. But one short sentence is all that is needed. Just this.
This is your word.
This is John's word. Because one word is all that he would have needed. One word to let him know. Fuck. That bastard. That bloody impossible bastard. Alive.
His reaction is much different than last time. Last time John wanted to kill Sherlock (some nights he thinks he just about did). He was ecstatic that Sherlock was alive, but anger won out over joy. This time... Yes, there is anger. But there is relief and happiness and it feels like John can breath again. Like the iron band around his lungs is finally gone.
He wonders if Mycroft knows and then decides it's a stupid question. Of course he does. Mycroft is a bloody Holmes. Is this what he was going to tell him, that day? Was he actually going to tell him instead of asking his cryptic question? A question that is much more relevant now than it was last week.
John should probably have an answer for that question. Because it is obvious what his next step is. Just as it is obvious that this time Sherlock is staying 'dead'. Because last time John sure didn't get any of this. Not a penny. (Only free rent until he moved out. But if Sherlock owned the building why were they paying rent? Damn it when did the man get ownership of it?!) Not that it matters to him. There is only one thing that matters now.
John starts packing.
It doesn't take John long to pack. Even after all these years out of the service, he still hasn't fully broken all of the habits he formed. Some are more useful than others. The one that is most useful right now – pack light, don't get weighed down by things. John doesn't realize just how much of that mentality he kept until he boxes everything up.
Most of this isn't even technically his. They are things from Baker Street that he claimed as his. Little things mostly – books, knick-knacks from cases (the ashtray from the palace being a prime example), gifts Sherlock randomly gave him. There is almost nothing from his time with Mary. Funny how his priorities show without him noticing.
When he is done, his boxes are packed into a truck and transported to the cottage, via Mycroft. John follows the next day by train. When he finally arrives at the cottage it is empty, which is what he expects. John take time to settle in, looking around before making himself a cup of tea. Overall, the cottage is modest, but also purely Sherlock, scorched marks on the wall and all.
It's not until evening that Sherlock makes an appearance. He walks in and the only thing John can do is stare. He can't help it. Not only is his best friend back from the dead (again), he looks different. Younger. John hadn't realized just how much the other man had aged until just now.
Gone are the worry marks, the strands of gray hair, the small scars on Sherlock's hands. Everything. He looks just like he did that first day at Bart's. Maybe even better. The change is startling to say the least.
"Hello John," he greets casually, but eying him warily. No doubt waiting for the anger. Not that John can blame him. He was very angry last time. But now, the anger has all but faded away before he even came here.
He gets up and gives Sherlock a tight hug. Out of character maybe, but he has decided not to worry about that ever again. They have been through too much to let other people's opinion dictate their actions. Nor will he let himself – his insecurities and fear – get in the way. No more fretting. Follow his heart (as cheesy as that sounds). Sherlock returns it just as tightly.
"Hello John," he repeats.
"Hello yourself. Been busy have you?"
"A bit."
Sherlock pull back and looks at him. "You are no longer with Mary."
"No. It got to be too much. It was bad enough that she almost killed you the first time. But for it to happen again. No," he shakes his head firmly. "She claims to love me and then she breaks my heart in the most excruciatingly way possible. I only went back to her the first time because of you."
"John," he pauses, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean... That is, it was not my intention –"
"No, I know it wasn't. I understand why you did it. I always knew, I just never wanted to admit it to myself before now. I was too much of a coward. I am sorry for that."
"No, no, it's fine," Sherlock reassures him quickly.
"It really isn't, but ta." John sighs and leans his head against Sherlock's shoulder. He feels the detective stiffen in surprise before relaxing again. Slowly he runs a hand up and down his back. "Yes," he says, answering Sherlock's unasked question, "it's fine. More than fine. It's good." They stay like that for a few more moments before John looks up at Sherlock. He leans closer. "May I?"
Sherlock pulls farther away. "John, I know. And I'm flattered, but..."
"If you say you are married to your work," John warns, more teasingly than serious. But he still can't help but feel hurt.
Sherlock fidgets. "There is something you need to know before I let this go any farther. If we do, I won't be able to stop. And you have a right to know."
"Know what?"
"John..."
He has never seen Sherlock look so lost. What could be that bad that Sherlock is hesitating that much? He leans up and kisses Sherlock's cheek. "Alright?"
He nods.
"Right, well obviously this needs tea."
Sherlock chuckles. "Tea. John Watson's answer to everything."
"Not quite everything," John replies with a laugh. He once again enters the kitchen and turns on the kettle. He leans against the counter, patiently waiting for Sherlock to continue. Then, finally –
"I'm not human," Sherlock says quickly.
John takes time to fully understand and appreciate that sentence. Not human? Why the hell not. "What are you then?" he asks carefully.
"Phoenix."
Phoenix. Phoenix. "A phoenix?" How in the world does that even work? And, more importantly, how is this his life? "What?" he asks, summing it up in one word.
"Yes. Technically a shapeshifter, but my other form is a phoenix. Rather useful actually."
John nods. "Right. Of course. Naturally."
"You are taking this better than I thought."
"Just wait till it has fully sunk in. Can I see it?"
Instead of a verbal answer, Sherlock shifts. Suddenly there is a phoenix standing on their table. A bloody gorgeous phoenix at that. John walks over to get a closer look and raises a hand. "May I?" John swears the phoenix rolls his eyes at him before pushing his head into John's hand.
The feathers under his hand are warm, but not burning hot. And very soft. He runs his fingers through the fire feathers. Sherlock trills. Next thing John knows, Sherlock shifts back, John's hand still in his hair.
"Bloody show," John informs him, but doesn't pull away.
Sherlock grins. "Yes," he agrees before he frowns. "John... phoenix's mate for life," he tells the other man.
Mate for life. Right, of course. This just goes along with everything else in his bloody life. At least this is more of a benefit than a hindrance. Or it is to John at least. But... The kettle sounds, making John jump. Tea. Right. He turns off the kettle and returns to Sherlock, abandoning the idea for better things. His hand makes its way back into Sherlock's hair automatically. (Who can blame him? That hair... ) Also, "Just how long is life?"
"Mycroft is my many times great nephew. I would say them all, but it is tedious."
Meaning Sherlock is too nervous to tell him straight up, so he'll imply that it's a long time instead. Slightly daunting yeah, but he has known for a long time just what he would do for this man."Alright. So wait, he knows then?"
"Obviously."
"Great. Bloody great." He lets his hand slid off Sherlock's head onto his cheek. "Is this an automatic thing or what?"
"Sex needs to happen," is Sherlock's blunt and short answer.
John grins. "Sounds good to me."
"John... are you sure? It is a long life. If this doesn't work out, you will still be tied to me. Permanently."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"John."
"Sherlock," John huffs out a laugh. "I know you said that is was always me. Why can't the reverse to true as well? I know I didn't always show it very well. Or at all. But ever since the start," he shakes his head. "Besides," he adds, grinning, "you said dangerous and here I am."
Sherlock laughs and the last of his tension fades away. "John," he says again before kissing him.
John kisses him back gladly. "You know," he says when they break apart, "you are saying my name an awful lot. Why don't we go upstairs and I can really give you a reason to say it."
"What an excellent idea my dear John."
At it was.
[postscript]
"Sherlock?" John asks one day, "Since when did you own Baker Street?"
Sherlock grins at him. "Isn't it obvious?"
"No you prat, it isn't."
"Oh how nice it must be, in that head of yours."
"Sherlock."
"So quiet."
"Sherlock."
"So peaceful."
"Sherlock Holmes!"
"A true joy to behold."
"Oh that's it." John gets up from his seat.
"Tisk, tisk John. Wouldn't want to start something you can't finish, now would you?" Sherlock stands as well.
"Answer the bloody question Holmes."
Sherlock gives John a mischievous wink and bolts out the door. "Who do you think the original owner was John?" he calls back.
"What? You mean you owned the building this entire time?! Sherlock? Get back here you bloody wanker! Sherlock!" John gives chase.
Ta-da. I'm not completely happy with it, but this is the best it is probably going to get and I wanted to post it anyways.
Title from Ashes of Eden by Breaking Benjamin