a/n: Sherlock is back and next week my life will be ruined. This is to help me cope with the inevitable heartbreak.
I do not own Sherlock, as that is property of the BBC and people much more creative than myself. I also have no ownership of e. e. cummings' work. I only get to claim the mistakes here.
–
'all paths lead home'
'(all doubts, all certainties, as villains strive
and heroes through the mere's mind poor pretend
- grim comics of duration: only love
immortally occurs beyond the mind)'
-e. e. cummings
–
John doesn't listen to Mycroft explain the 'accident' because his mind is filled with images of Sherlock- Sherlock broken, Sherlock bleeding, Sherlock dead. The words swell into an angry buzz that rings in his ears for hours, because John knows it wasn't an accident.
Things slow down for John. Clock hands seem to freeze when he enters the drafty rooms of 221B, memories of Sherlock everywhere- stirring fire in his heart, like a brand searing him constantly. John is not a cowardly man, but it takes every ounce of strength in him to box up all the familiarity and warmth of this place he's called home and put it in a storage unit Mycroft has procured.
Nights are the worst. Dreams of the war used to terrify the doctor, but now those seem like child's play compared to barrage of images depicting the greatest mind of the century finally beaten. Mycroft had covered the incident up, hidden any images from John, refusing to even let him see the bodies of the fallen men. John was secretly thankful for this.
He thinks that he's mad enough as it is and the sight of Sherlock lifeless on some cold slab would be the thing to send him straight to an institution.
–
His leg starts to hurt again, causing him to dig out his cane. The repetition of the life causes the days to blur together and soon four months has passed and he's out of money. Finding a job isn't hard for a veteran, much less a doctor at that. With no one to drag him away from his duties, he finds a stable working environment at another clinic.
John doesn't allow his mind to linger on his work, because in every patient's face he sees Sherlock. But really, he's started to see Sherlock in everything. In cafe windows near Baker Street, in taxi cabs traveling through London, sometimes he thinks he catches glimpses of him around the corners of the flat. Madness isn't uncomfortable for John to sink into- it gives him somewhere to go, somewhere things don't hurt quite so much.
He overexerts himself at work and takes to drinking too much at home and when he looks in the mirror he tries not to see his father. It doesn't work.
"You should see about finding a new flatmate- I can't keep charging you half rent, dearie." Mrs. Hudson says sadly around eight months after the world stopped spinning.
John knows that he should find someone to share the space with, but he can't. He can't give up on this mad notion that Sherlock will come home, because no one else will fit in that space next to him as well as his consulting detective.
He doesn't say this to the elderly lady, instead he replies: "I've got to be off, I'm late for work."
He can't stand to look back and see the pitying expression she's undoubtedly sending him.
–
A year after Sherlock's death finds John at work, refusing to go home when his shift ends, though he'd been examining patients for over twelve hours. He can't be alone, not in their home, not that night. He gets stiff from standing all day and his leg is telling him to sit down but he blocks everything out. Ironically, Sherlock probably would have been impressed by this ability in John, who he often claimed was much too emotional to begin with.
If only Sherlock could see him now.
He walks into the next patient room and finds a young woman sitting on the examination table. She's not an exceptionally pretty woman; her eyes are a lovely shade of blue and her hair is the soft brown color that's never seen a bottle of dye, but there's something about her that seems familiar to John, like a warm blanket or favorite song.
"Hi, Mary, I'm John Watson." He smiles and when she smiles back it's the first time he's felt anything more than depression or numbness in months.
–
If Sherlock was a hurricane, Mary is a gentle breeze. She's an anchor in his messy life, someone to keep him out at night and help him to avoid the bottles that once cluttered the refrigerator. He never brings her to 221B, he knows it's stupid, but he thinks bringing her there would be an insult to his partner's memory.
Deep down John knows the actual reason he never shares his home with her is because that was where he built his life with Sherlock and he couldn't share that with anyone else. Mary understands that John is probably damaged beyond repair and she stays with him anyway.
He splits his time between the clinic and Mary's flat, so much so that the furniture of 221B starts collecting dust and John is paying rent for a place no one even lives in anymore. He doesn't let go of the apartment, just shoves it into the back of his mind, he attempts to do the same with Sherlock. But the thing about Sherlock was that even in death he is stubborn and refuses to be boxed up.
Sometimes when he's with Mary the wrong name slips out but she never says anything and neither does he.
It takes him a while to wonder if she's just using him, too.
–
Two years passes too fast and with everyday John's resolve that Sherlock will come back crumbles a little more. He's practically moved into Mary's apartment and he's picked out a ring, carrying it around with him for a week before he gets the courage up to ask her.
"Oh, John, I thought you understood." She whispers sadly, pushing the velvet lid closed, "It's not me, you know that." He does know that.
"Mary, he's not coming back." Bile rises in his throat with the words, "And I love you." He tries to mean it, he really does.
She strokes his cheek softly for a moment, "But it's not the same." No, of course it wasn't. "I'm going to stay with my mother for a couple of months in Cardiff, I'm sorry, John."
John doesn't watch her pack her bags, her fingers hovering above a solid gold band resting in her jewelery case, because maybe Mary actually understood him a little more than he thought after all.
–
The third anniversary is marked with a ceremony in his honor and John finds the whole thing ludicrous. None of these people had actually liked Sherlock when he was alive, so what was the point in pretending they missed him now?
It makes the doctor angry because none of these people really knew Sherlock or what he could do to them. He'd broken John beyond repair with his high cheek bones and stupid collar and extraordinary intellect. Sherlock, with his cold feet in the morning and broken tea cups and smell of harsh chemicals- all these things had led to John's downfall.
How was it that someone could be the most fascinating and frustrating person on the planet? He stares at the skull still resting on the mantel place. He wonders how Sherlock could spend hours deducing affairs and scandals and love and never once notice the heart John held out in offering from around five minutes after their first case together.
He really was a bastard.
–
He notices the door to 221B has a broken lock and clutches steadily to the cane in his hands, completely forgetting his limp as he climbs the stairs with stealth he had learned in the military. Cautiously he steps into the sitting room and finds the person he expected least.
"Are you going to strike me down, John?" Sherlock's deep voice rings in the silence of the flat, sounding out of place. He's too thin and looks like he hasn't slept in weeks, but when he turns to face John, the universe resumes turning again.
His knees won't support him anymore and John crashes to the floor, alarming the taller man, who rushes to his side.
"Three... three years." John manages, reaching a tentative hand out to touch Sherlock's pale face. He has stubble and bags under his eyes, but he's just as beautiful as he ever was.
"I had to make sure you were safe, John." Sherlock rationalizes, "They would have never stopped. They would have destroyed everything to get to me." He says quietly, closing his eyes at the contact of John's fingers to his own skin.
"I have only one friend, and I couldn't let him die for me." John's eyes snap up to meet Sherlock's and he finally understands.
Sherlock always noticed the looks John shot his way and the heart he had been offered on a platter and always planned on accepting it.