Sherlock is not mine.
And this little plot bunny was most insistent when I went browsing for episodes and ended watching John/Sherlock fanart videos.
Comments, reviews, feedbacks, all are welcome.
"Up with your turret
Aren't we just terrified?
Shale, screen your worry
From what you won't ever find..."
Roslyn, Bon Iver & St Vincent
Molly was the last to leave. Mrs Hudson had been cleaning up the cups and dishes but the events of the day were a little too much for. She sniffed an excuse and ducked out of the flat, hiding her tears. Molly finished the task Mrs Hudson had started. She did not have to, but she did anyway.
There was mostly silence in 221B. Molly, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade had all received a text from John, asking them to come over to the flat, if they could spare an hour or so.
They also received another text with a similar request.
Unknown number.
That turned out to be Sherlock's.
Molly and Mycroft were the only ones unsurprised. For three years they held a secret. For three years they looked after John, in manners that were subtle and sometimes not so. And now, it looked like they will bear his wrath for as long as it takes.
Mrs Hudson was her usual chatty, concerned self, making pots and pots of teas and ensuring no one's plate was empty even though none of them could barely swallow a bite. Lestrade had questions, many questions. Mycroft nursed a glass of whiskey the whole time he was there, avoiding John's eyes. Molly was more quiet, the other mastermind behind Sherlock's… disappearance. All in all, once they had gotten over their shock, they were glad to have Sherlock back. Things will change, but for now, Sherlock is here and suddenly all their worlds were a little brighter.
John almost envied them.
Sherlock drank the cups of tea Mrs Hudson kept pushing into his hand. He poked at the chicken pie with a fork. He answered their questions quietly and patiently. Anyone could understand that he was making an effort, for their sakes.
They spoke in hushed tones, the atmosphere heavy with the same cheer and warmth of being at a funeral of a person they did not know. Sherlock was simultaneously avoiding and seeking eye contact with John. Their only interaction had been when John opened the door two hours ago and Sherlock spoke aloud John's name for the first time in three years.
'John."
A greeting. An apology. A plea. An assurance.
John was dumbstruck. He extended a hand. Placed it above Sherlock's heart, gasping when he felt the beat. Blinking away tears, he pulled Sherlock into an embrace. Sherlock just stood there, his lifetime of emotional restraint now in championship form. Sherlock was unresponsive, knowing that any reaction from him would be wrong… or least, not right… for the moment.
"You cold bastard."
That was what John said, when he broke the embrace. It was the only thing he spoke all evening, save for thanking Mrs Hudson when she gave him mugs of tea and food.
Lestrade left first, his promise of returning in the morning sounding like a threat. Mycroft excused himself soon after, citing unfinished work in the office. He did not speak to Sherlock the entire time he was there. But the brothers Holmes displayed a comfort of ease in each other's presence that had been lacking before; Mycroft gave Sherlock's shoulder a squeeze before he left. He extended a hand to John. It was ignored. Mrs Hudson and Molly started clearing everything not too long after and it was past midnight when Mrs Hudson retired to her flat. Molly finished in the kitchen, straightened out a cushion and a book, trying not look too uncomfortable in a room where Sherlock was staring at the blank television and John out the window.
She says good night and began gathering her things. John gets up from his seat at the table and helps her with her coat. He walks her down to the door, his silence deafening.
"He did it to protect you," Molly says, for the sake of saying something.
John, of course, was no stranger to this statement. Lestrade's "What the fuck were you thinking, Sherlock?" had been rather to the point.
"Keeping you, Mrs Hudson and John safe."
John had not looked at Sherlock. He pretended to be engrossed with the content at the bottom of his tea mug.
Molly looks at John expectantly, as if waiting for him to say that he was fine and with Sherlock back, everything was fine. Instead, he holds his hand up for a taxi. A black cab peels away from the side of the road and stops before them.
"Good night, Molly," John says, unable to feel anything but sorry for this girl who thinks he was mad at her when he was not. And at the same time, he could not bring himself to tell her that. He would, maybe, one day, but not that day. He needed to deal with things one at a time.
John holds the cab door open for Molly. She gets in, looking at John. John looks at the road. He nods and turns away from Molly and the cab.
John opens the door and steps into the narrow space between the hallway and the staircase to 221B. He stands at the exact same spot when four years ago, the decision was made; that "Doctor Watson will take the room upstairs". And it was the exact same spot he stood a year later, realizing, that after begging Sherlock "don't be dead", he was alone. Again. He had stood in that exact spot for hours not knowing what to do or think. Mycroft was the one who came and took him away. A new flat. Closer to Lestrade's. An arrangement that lasted all of the two days John was under medication. John returned to 221B and had sent Mycroft a text. "Don't you even dare". It was another eighteen months before John saw or spoke to Mycroft again.
Three years. Three years of just going through the motions. Holding out for miracles, and then accepting it would not happen and then fighting against it not happening, hating himself for thinking that it will not happen, wondering if he was going insane when he thinks it was going to happen. Life on a repeat cycle that had left him emotionally and physically bereft for anything else. Work was a necessity, allowing him to focus on something else for a bit. But that was it. John Watson was the shell of a man he was once was. It was if… he had ceased to be.
And now the miracle he had been holding out for, the prayer he uttered in the churchyard, before the headstone that reflected his desperation, had been answered.
Sherlock is not dead.
Sherlock is back.
Sherlock is home.
John could not feel anything. He felt empty. Where his whole being had been consumed with the loss of Sherlock and his absence, Sherlock's presence has rented it asunder again.
What else was there left to feel?
Happiness.
Glad.
Relief.
All those boxes are ticked, despite his silence and his non-expressions.
It was not enough.
Because the day Sherlock fell, it was John who was broken. Piece by piece he picked himself up…
No. No. The pieces picked itself up. John just moved along.
And now, Sherlock is here. And John is incomplete. The pain of Sherlock's loss is gone. John did not know how to fill that void.
Standing in the hallway, for one, is not going to help, he decides, taking the stairs back to the flat. The living room was empty. As was the kitchen. The flat was still in its silence, unchanged even after three years. Not a single book was moved. Just in case.
John toes off his shoes and goes to the sofa by the wall (which was still graced by the grotesque spray-painted smiley face). He sits down on the lumpy sofa, exhaling. Then, he swings his legs up to stretch out, the day's toll bearing down on him. He props the Union Jack cushion behind his head against the armrest and stares at the ceiling. His eyes begin to flicker, his mind emptying.
There was a dip in the cushion as Sherlock sits on the edge of the sofa, halfway down the middle. John shuts his eyes, willing it not to open, willing his hands don't reach out, to make sure again that Sherlock is really here. And maybe, maybe just hold on to him, so that he would not leave him again.
Sherlock takes a deep breath. And the next thing he knew, John was engulfed in warmth as Sherlock stretches out next to him on the sofa. There was barely space for him to do so without falling, but Sherlock managed it. John suppressed a smile, at the absurdity of it. And for something else, still unnamed, but not unfamiliar.
A leg hooked between John's, an arm behind his head and another one around his waist.
"I'm not going to move."
"No. That'll be fine. I expect you to stay the way you are."
"I still haven't forgiven you."
"You will."
"Won't."
"You will." Sherlock takes a deep breath, edging closer to John. His hand found John's above John's heart and there it remained.
That was when, perhaps, the healing began.
***THE END***