Warning for spoilers: This story picks up after The Six Thatchers. If you have not yet seen the episode (what are you doing here? Watch the episode instead!), you should probably stop reading.
Remember that this is written before The Lying Detective has even aired. It will of course not fit into the rest of series 4, unless by some crazy coincidence.
Summary: Two months after Mary's death, Sherlock finds himself in the hospital. John, who has not yet forgiven him for what happened, comes to visit.
Healing the Wounds
John walked briskly through the hospital halls and found a teary Mrs. Hudson sitting outside the emergency room.
"Oh, John." Mrs. Hudson got out of her chair and closed the gap between them. When she leaned against him and wept, John awkwardly patted her back for a few seconds. Something unpleasant tugged at him on the inside. He placed his hand on the elderly woman's shoulder to encourage some distance. She pulled away a little and looked at him.
"How – how is he?" John asked.
"I don't know." Mrs. Hudson put a shaking hand in her bag, pulled out a handkerchief and held it to her nose. "He has been in there for a long time, he –" She broke into tears again. John let her cry.
It took another minute before the landlady could continue. "He got shot, John. He got shot again."
- o - o - o - o - o -
"Sherlock? Sherlock, dear, can you hear me?"
Mrs. Hudson.
"He's not waking up."
Wake…
"He still needs rest, Mrs. Hudson."
John?
"Let's go. I'll get you home."
Don't…
…
Footsteps.
Door.
…
Gone.
- o - o - o - o - o -
The cab ride to Baker Street was very quiet. Even the street noises seemed to drown in a pool of emptiness. John was staring out the window without really seeing anything.
Eventually, Mrs. Hudson broke the silence.
"John."
John turned slowly towards the woman.
"I know it's difficult for you, I do. But.."
His glance wandered to some place outside.
"… he is really sorry. He feels terrible."
John sighed. His head dropped.
"Mrs. Hudson. I can't talk about it now."
He let her die. Mary…
He felt a soft touch on his arm. Mrs. Hudson's hand. John looked up at her again.
"He almost died, dear."
Her eyes were pleading with him.
"You need to talk to him. For both your sakes."
- o - o - o - o - o -
"From now on, I swear I will always be there."
It's his fault that she's gone.
"I am a show off, it's what we do."
And that cost her life!
"He feels terrible."
Doesn't matter. She's gone. She's gone, and it's your fault! How do you think I can forgive…"
"Miss you."
Guilt washed over him. John shut his eyes at the memory.
That's not the same, it has nothing to do with this.
- You made a vow, too.
That's not the same, it's –
- No, it's worse.
John opened his eyes, bolted out of the chair and walked over to the window. A couple passed by on the street, holding hands.
- Mary loved you. She was your wife.
He covered his face with his hands.
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Mary…
He rubbed his eyes, trying to drown out the voices.
John looked out the window again. The evening was quiet in this part of town. A dog barked nearby. A few cars drove by. Otherwise it was silent.
At Baker Street it would be different.
It hurt.
Don't go there.
He still let her die.
An image of Sherlock's face, as he looked at John, appeared. It was how he had looked at him, when Mary died.
- It wasn't on purpose.
It was still his fault!
- And what about your fault?
Another pang of guilt hit him.
- Do you deserve forgiveness?
He knew the answer.
No.
But I'm still angry.
- o - o - o - o - o -
The first thing Sherlock heard was a quiet beeping.
He struggled to open his eyes, only to be met with a light that made him shut them tight again.
Then a sharp pain followed that made him catch his breath. He moaned.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock opened his eyes at the familiar voice.
"Sherlock, are you okay?"
John stepped closer.
"Fine." Sherlock tried to regain composure. John shouldn't see him like this. Moaning over the pain. Being alive.
"Sure you are," John commented sarcastically and called a nurse.
…
After the nurse had checked Sherlock's vitals, she left. John pulled out a chair and sat down next to the detective's bed.
They looked at each other in complete silence for a long moment.
"I –" John cleared his throat and tried again. "I – I honestly don't know what to say."
Sherlock continued looking at him. Neither did he. He swallowed and let his gaze drift.
"I've been… blaming you for what happened, and…"
Sherlock looked at his friend, who wasn't looking back at him. Instead, he looked like he was having some kind of internal battle.
John continued, "I didn't… want… to see you. I wanted to be angry with you."
"I know," Sherlock said quietly.
John caught his gaze. There was another moment of silence.
"How… how is Rosie?" Sherlock asked, even as he worried that he was crossing a line, and that John might bolt.
"Yeah, she's fine." John cleared his throat again.
Sherlock nodded, relieved.
"Mrs. Hudson and Molly have been very kind and attentive. Not sure what I would have done without them."
Sherlock felt another stab of pain, but not a physical one. He closed his eyes.
"She could use her godfather, when he's feeling better."
Her godfather. Sherlock blinked. His heart pounded as he turned his face to catch John's solemn gaze.
"You sure?"
Sherlock waited.
"I'm sure."
- o - o - o - o - o -
Three weeks later
Violin music flowed quietly through John's flat. Mrs. Hudson carried a tray of tea and cups into the living room. John followed her, carrying biscuits and sugar. Sherlock danced slowly with Rosie in his arms.
"Oh, she looks like she's enjoying it!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed.
"Yes, entertaining a child is remarkably simple," Sherlock responded.
"Obviously you haven't been here when she's tired. She needs constant entertainment, I've thought of buying a Duracel bunny." John sat down in the couch and watched Sherlock and his daughter.
Sherlock's glance caught his, and John looked away shortly.
The music ended, and Sherlock carried Rosie over to her high chair and sat her down. "There, Rosie." He handed her a rattle. "Remember what we talked about."
"What did you tell my daughter?" John asked curiously.
"Oh, I just had a chat with her about the consequences of throwing one's rattle, when one wants to keep one's rattle."
John looked amused at Sherlock. "You had a chat with a five-month old about consequences?" He helped himself to a cup of tea.
Sherlock could not help smirking. "Actually, that was m-" He caught himself, and his expression changed.
John frowned.
"Well, that was entirely useless," Sherlock tried to smooth over his near-mistake. "She keeps throwing it anyway." He reached for the cup of tea that Mrs. Hudson had just poured.
John sat with his cup in his hands, staring down at it as he took a sip.
- o - o - o - o - o -
A month later
The rain was coming down heavily, as John and Sherlock ran to get a cab. When they got hold of one, they jumped in.
"Where to first?" Sherlock looked at John.
"221b Baker Street," John addressed the cabbie.
Though lightly surprised, Sherlock kept quiet and simply pulled off his gloves. They sat in silence for the entire drive. Not much was said between them these days. They got along, and John even joined him on cases, like this night, but the tension was still there.
The cab pulled up to 221b, and Sherlock got out.
"Actually, would you mind if I came up for a cuppa?" John asked.
The detective stared at him, astonished.
"Of course – I mean, I don't mind," Sherlock stumbled on his words.
They went inside, as Sherlock gestured for John to go first.
"Mrs. Hudson?" He cried. "Mrs. Hudson, John is here. Can you put on tea?"
There was no reply.
"She must have gone out," Sherlock stated.
"That's alright, Sherlock, I'll make the tea." John started up the stairs, and Sherlock followed him, still bewildered.
Inside the flat, John headed immediately for the kitchen. Sherlock just stood in one spot, looking from John to the living room. Finally, he took off his coat and scarf, and went to sit down in his chair. Opposite him, John's chair was still sitting there, barely used for months. Sherlock looked at it, almost fixated. The rattling of cups brought his attention back to the kitchen and to John. His eyes followed the man, but neither of them said anything.
John brought in two cups of steaming hot tea, one with sugar. He handed the other one to Sherlock.
"Thank you." Sherlock took the cup from John.
John sat down in his old chair and took his own cup in hand. They both had a sip at the same time.
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
Sherlock put aside his tea and bolted from his chair. "I remembered I had an interesting text from someone earlier; I thought you might –"
"Sherlock."
Sherlock got out his phone, as he continued, "It could be of interest –"
"It wasn't your fault."
John's word made him stop dead in his tracks. He was standing next to John. Slowly, he lowered his tortured gaze to him. John was looking down.
"I know I – said that it was, but…" John let out a deep breath. "It wasn't your fault." He finally looked up at his friend.
Sherlock walked back to his chair and carefully sat down again. For a moment he could not speak, could not even look at John. Then, he lifted his eyes and met John's.
"But it was," Sherlock said solemnly. "It was, I – I – provoked that woman, I – didn't even listen to Mary." His voice was strained. "Didn't stop to think, I just –"
"It still wasn't you," John said. "It was Mrs. Norbury who shot… and Mary chose to dive in front of you." John struggled to get the words out. "It was out of your hands."
Sherlock just looked at him, pain written on his face. "You don't really believe that, do you?" It was a statement, not a question.
John's gaze did not falter. "Yeah, I do."
Sherlock leaned forward on his elbows and brought his hands up to rub his face.
When he looked back up again, his eyes were moist. "I'm sorry. I am so sorry."
John looked down on the carpet, biting his lip.
When he spoke again, Sherlock was shocked at what he heard.
"I had an affair."
Following an uncomfortable pause, John told Sherlock about the affair, how it had started with a bus ride, and how it had ended with Mary's death.
"After that… I couldn't go on." John paused again, looking up at Sherlock. The man's expression was troubled.
They sat in silence for a little while.
Eventually, John rose from his chair. "I should get home to Rosie. Molly must be getting tired of waiting."
Sherlock looked at him and got out of his own chair. They walked towards the door. John put on his jacket. Then he looked at Sherlock for a moment. Neither said anything.
John turned and took a step out of the flat, but then stopped and turned back to Sherlock.
"I wouldn't mind stopping by tomorrow," he said. "To look at that case you mentioned. With you, obviously. Not on my own."
Sherlock's troubled expression softened. A corner of his lips turned slightly upwards.
"Of course."
"I'm probably bringing Rosie."
"Good."
John turned around again and walked down the stairs.
Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. As he heard the door open to the street, he walked over to the window and pulled away the curtain. He watched as John crossed the street. A mixture of peace and sadness filled him.
He stood there until John was out of sight.
So, this is the end of the story for now, though I might write an epilogue or another chapter, who knows.
Please let me know what you thought!