"You're being awfully quiet," John says, looking over the top of his newspaper at the detective.
Sherlock frowns, though he doesn't open his eyes or indeed, move an inch from where he's reclined comfortably against the sofa in his dressing gown. Its left sleeve has ridden up, exposing the pale expanse of his forearm, on which - John notes with sudden alarm - are a total of four nicotine patches.
"Sherlock, how long have you been -" he starts, tossing the newspaper down onto the coffee table.
"Not long enough," Sherlock snaps, tugging the silk sleeve down so the patches are hidden. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to -"
"No," John says shortly, voice clipped. "You don't."
At that, Sherlock opens his eyes. "I beg your pardon?"
"Go to your mind palace," John says, and winces; he can feel the beginnings of a headache coming along. "You're not going to your bloody mind palace. It was a good case, I know you gave it a 7, but -"
"6.5," Sherlock cuts in, sitting up to plant his feet on the floor as he turns to face John. "It was so disappointingly obvious it hardly warrants a 7. Besides, we knew who the murderer was from the start."
"No," John says, his smile sharp enough to cut, "You knew who he was. Not me, not Lestrade, and almost certainly not anyone else."
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Idiots, the lot of them. It was hardly my fault Beppo was being so horrendously obtuse and careless with the murder. The least I could've done was make it more bearable for myself, you see."
"And what about me, hmm? What about the rest of us?" John says, and he doesn't know how, or when, but his feet must've taken him across the room because he's standing right in front of the sofa and Sherlock has to crane his neck to meet his gaze, and God, if it doesn't feel good, to be looking down on the smug git for once. "The bastard tried to smother me, you realize that? You also realize this is the third time I've been almost choked to death on your account?"
"I -" Sherlock says, sitting up straighter, pale eyes darting up to meet John's and then skittering away almost at once. Panic. Trepidation. Fear. His hands are trembling where they're loosely clasped in his lap, and it could just be the nicotine talking but John really, really doesn't think it is.
Interesting, John thinks. He tugs the collar of his shirt down, and watches with grim satisfaction as Sherlock's eyes go straight to the bruises purpling his throat, courtesy of their sculpture-burgling murderer.
He raises a hand to his own neck, slots his fingers against the faded imprint of Beppo's hand, where they'd been crushing his windpipe into submission less than three hours ago.
He presses, hard, and watches as the detective's face crumples and his resolve breaks.
"John, John, I -" Sherlock wrests himself into a standing position, crowding John's personal space as he pries John's hand (gently) away from his neck. "Stop that, stop. I was, it was - wrong, of me."
"Sorry, it was what?" John says, eyes narrowed as he glances up. (This close to the detective, he has to glance up. Otherwise he'd be stuck conversing with the dip between the pale collarbones jutting out from the vee of Sherlock's worn pajama top.)
Sherlock's mouth twists into an unhappy moue. "You heard me perfectly well, John."
John's hand strays upwards again, making a beeline for his own throat.
"Alright, alright!" Sherlock practically yelps, catching John's hand in his own. He takes a deep, steadying breath. "It was - ill-advised of me not to tell you or the Inspector about Beppo. I am... I'm sorry. And I'll make the apology to Lestrade tomorrow," he adds, at John's raised eyebrow.
John sniffs. "And to Donovan, if you don't mind. She spent half the day on the wrong side of London on that wild goose chase you sent her."
"Fine, fine," Sherlock groans, "And Donovan. Happy? Why don't I just apologize to the whole bloody Yard while I'm at it? Make an announcement on the PA system?"
"Hmph," John says, sounding like he's actually considering it. "I think it'd be better if you -"
"Lestrade and Donovan," Sherlock cuts in sharply, "That's it. No one else." He pauses, as if mulling something over, "And you, of course."
"Yoohoo!" Mrs Hudson trills at that point, rapping sharply on the door and pushing it open before they have a chance to reply. "I've brought you tea and - oh! Sorry to interrupt, boys. I'll let you - I'll just leave the tea and let you, let you get on, shall I?"
She potters around, placing the teapot and biscuit tray on the kitchen table, and heads for the door, though not before she gives Sherlock a rather conspiratorial wink.
There's a brief silence in which they both abruptly become aware of the rather precarious situation they're in: Sherlock, backed up against the sofa and John, pressed against Sherlock's front with his wrists held hostage by the detective. (John's gaze flickers down to Sherlock's throat, where he can see his friend's pulse fluttering, hummingbird-quick.)
Sherlock clears his throat. "Now Mrs Turner'll definitely start talking to her married ones," he groans, releasing his hold on John and flopping back down onto the sofa.
"Damn Mrs Hudson and her gossipy friends," John says emphatically, straightening his shirt collar. (No wonder Mrs Hudson thought they were having a go at it, it's practically slipped off his shoulder.)
He catches the detective's eye where he's sprawled languidly on the sofa, and a split second later they're both gone; John clutches the sofa cushion and wheezes with laughter, Sherlock rolling to hide his grin against the back of the sofa.
It's ridiculous, they're ridiculous, and John's never felt happier.
3 years later
"What the fuck do you mean, you were sending him to his death?" John shouts, and Sherlock's never seen him this angry in the years they've known each other (and that's including the time he found a dismembered testicle in their bathroom sink). He tries to recall the last time John's gotten angry on his behalf, and can only conjure up pre-Moriarty, pre-Magnussen memories.
He watches with amusement now as John advances towards Mycroft, who's still sitting in the armchair (John's armchair, no less), and sipping the tea Mrs Hudson made with an air of snide condescension.
"I wasn't sending him to his death, Doctor Watson," his brother replies easily, setting the cup back in its saucer and steepling his fingers in front of his lips. "It was a mission to Eastern Europe that he may or may not have returned from, depending on his own skills of preservatio-"
Mycroft doesn't get much further before John's fisted a hand in the collar of his shirt and hauled him to his feet. The tea wobbles in its saucer, perched precariously on the armrest, so Sherlock quickly liberates it and places it on the coffee table.
"I don't like confrontation either," he whispers conspiratorially to the Earl Grey. It remains impassive. "But I'm rather enjoying this one."
Mycroft raises an unimpressed eyebrow at John, but makes no move to escape his hold. "Violence? Really, Doctor Watson? I would have thought, after the years you spent in Kandahar saving people from this sort of thing, you wouldn't be quite so quick to-"
John's fist connects with the underside of Mycroft's jaw at the same time Mrs Hudson clatters in, a steaming pot of tea in one hand and a plate of shortbread in the other.
"Boys!" she admonishes, scandalized and concerned in equal measure as she sets the assortment down on the coffee table, next to the rescued Earl Grey. "I wish you'd all sit and talk like civilized folk. Tea, anyone?"
"No, thanks," John says, at the same time Sherlock and Mycroft snap, "Leave, Mrs Hudson."
Mrs Hudson tsks, straightening and bustling back out. "Don't let the tea go cold!"
"You're not worthy," John hisses, yanking Mycroft closer by the knot of his tie, "To call yourself Sherlock's brother. You're not worthy of calling him his anything. What kind of monster sends their brother off to his own death without batting an eye because it was 'best for the government'?"
Mycroft opens his mouth to reply, but before he can do so the door bangs open and Mrs Hudson sweeps in, feather-duster in hand. The anger on her face shows she's heard the entire conversation.
"Out!" she screeches, and Sherlock half-rises from his perch on the sofa in concern because he's never seen her face quite so red, nor hear her voice quite so livid with fury. She strides up to where John and Mycroft are standing in tableau, staring at her transfixed, and starts batting Mycroft's arm with the duster. "Out of my house, you reptile!"
"Mrs Hudson, I-" Mycroft starts, appalled.
"Go on, then," John says, shoving Mycroft towards the door (Sherlock watches with grim satisfaction as his brother stumbles before regaining his footing), "Get."
Mycroft clears his throat, brushing invisible lint off his trousers as he collects his umbrella and turns back to look at them. "Sherlock," he says, and when Sherlock refuses to meet his gaze he sighs, continues, "Remember that I did what I had to to save your life. I had a very good reas-"
"If there's anything the war's taught me, Holmes," John says quietly, only the slightest tremour in his right hand betraying his anger, "It's that there's never a good reason to send a good man to his death, and in my book, that makes you as bad as the enemy."
Mycroft's lip tightens. "Good evening," he says, spinning on his heel and stalking down the stairs.
John waits till the creak on the fifteenth stair is heard before he blows out a breath and some of the tension bleeds out of his shoulders. He sinks down into the recently vacated armchair, elbows on his knees as he stares at the floor.
"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson murmurs, tossing the duster onto the sofa and enveloping him in a hug. He pats her awkwardly on the back because he doesn't know what else to do; he doesn't need consolation. He'd known what he was getting himself into from the moment Magnussen taunted John and he palmed the gun from John's pocket.
"I'll just, make you boys a fresh pot of tea, shall I?" Mrs Hudson says at length, pulling back and sniffing once, hard.
"That would be lovely, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock says, and as soon as she bustles off he's across the room, kneeling in front of John.
"John, John," he says, and when all John does is stare unseeingly at their burgundy carpeted floor, he rests a palm lightly on John's knee. "Look at me."
John jolts at the touch, and he turns glazed eyes on Sherlock. "Why didn't you say something?"
"What would you have had me say, John?" Sherlock says lowly, "Everything I had to say-" (that I still want to say, his mind helpfully reminds him, the traitor), "- would have been better off unsaid. And besides," his lips twist, a rueful smile, "You would've thought it was a bid for attention, anyway."
"That's not -" John says, voice cracking. He licks his lips and tries again, "That's not true. All I needed was a word, Sherlock. Just one, and I would've stood by your side again, just like old times."
"And what of Mary?" Sherlock says, a gentle reminder. "You wouldn't - couldn't - have left her. She needed you more than I did." More than I do, his mind protests, unhappy.
"And you were just going to - what, bugger off to your death without even leaving me a note?" John snaps, ire rising. He jabs a finger at Sherlock's chest. "At least when you walked off St. Barts' roof you had the decency to call and leave me a note."
"I -" Sherlock says, voice tight and pained at the reminder of the mistakes he's made, the time he'll never be able to make up to John. "This was different, if I'd told you you would have-"
"I would have what, exactly?" John says, "What's the worst that could've happened, hm? I could've stopped you getting on that plane, I could've gotten on it with you, you fucking bastard."
"I wouldn't have let you go on that suicide mission with me, John!" Sherlock growls, tightening his hold on John's kneecap to the point of pain.
"Oh, so you admit it was a suicide mission?"
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Don't be daft, John. Of course it was a suicide mission, it was six months to infiltrate Eastern Europe's largest underground terrorist organziation from the inside, it had 'death' stamped all over the front cover-"
He's cut off by John hauling him up by the lapels, eerily reminiscent of how he'd held Mycroft, and Sherlock blinks, finding himself plastered along John's front from chest to hips to knees.
"-John?"
"Sherlock," John says steadily, his eyes an impossibly vivid cerulean. This close, Sherlock can feel the staccato beat of John's heart against his ribcage more than clearly enough. "For once in your goddamn life, shut up."
Sherlock isn't given much time to process these cutting words before John tugs Sherlock closer (his knees slot easily to bracket John's hips; he'll never look at this chair the same way again) and covers Sherlock's mouth with his own.
It might as well have been the fifth of November for all the fireworks lighting up behind Sherlock's closed eyelids, and he's never been a fan of poetry, but oh, he could write sonnets about the curve of John's lips, the seamlessness with which they mold against his own.
Moments and a lifetime later, they break apart and Sherlock rests his forehead against John's. They're both breathless and John's starting to giggle.
Sherlock clears his throat, feeling the need to address a Serious Matter before they both descend into hysteria. "John, Mary, we can't-"
"We'll deal with that later," John says, "I've - we've - both been thinking of filing for divorce. We just haven't gotten round to that yet, what with the baby and all."
"Oh," Sherlock says, wondering how on earth he'd missed that on John Heart-on-his-sleeve Watson. Then, coming back to himself, he smirks. "Is that a Browning L9-A1 in your pocket, John, or are you-"
John groans, and shoves at Sherlock's chest lightly. "Just pleased to see you, yeah, yeah, I get it. Ha bloody ha."
Sherlock grins, unfolding and standing quickly, ignoring John's protests. He turns and heads for his bedroom, untying the belt of his dressing gown as he does so.
"Well?" he says over his shoulder, standing in the doorway as he slips the gown off, "Aren't you coming?"
He hears the armchair scrape across the floor as John hurriedly stands, and grins at nothing in particular. John comes up behind him and presses a kiss into the nape of his neck, the other snaking around his waist; Sherlock sighs, leaning back into the touch.
So worth getting shot for.
"You do remember the Beppo case, don't you, boys?"
The voice is insidious, and it wraps around Sherlock like the poison fog from Dartmoor.
He opens his eyes, and isn't surprised to find he can't lift his head any more than an inch. The last thing he remembers is stopping for a pint at John's favourite pub after the case (a mere 7, but Mycroft had asked and lately, he's not been in much of a position to refuse his brother anything). He tries moving his hands, and succeeds in twitching a finger or two; whatever he's been given, it's starting to wear off.
He takes stock of his surroundings: the starched sheets and the stench of sterilization scream hospital, with an underlying odour he can't put his finger on, but the cold metal of the surface he's lying on feels nothing like a bed. Sherlock blinks and wills himself to focus on the man who had spoken, his drug-addled brain resisting his efforts every step of the way.
He's short, shorter than John even (unless his muddied mind's playing tricks on him), and in a tailored suit (D&G) and ridiculously round glasses. Sherlock makes a mental note to switch all his own suits to Armani.
"I asked you a question," the man says now. He doesn't sound annoyed; if anything, he sounds amused. His gaze flickers away from Sherlock's to land on the corner of the room, out of Sherlock's line of sight, before flicking back again. "For both your sakes, I'd suggest you answer."
Sherlock frowns. Both? The realization hits him like a freight train (or a bullet to the chest - thanks, Mary) and he struggles to sit up despite the paralytics in his system. It's useless; he does manage to roll onto his side, however, and his eyes widen when he sees John slumped against the far wall, unconscious and held at gun point by his ex-wife.
"Ma - ry," he manages, despite the drugs coursing through his bloodstream, and vice-like chokehold of abject terror aroudn his throat, "Fuc - off."
She doesn't acknowledge him except to step closer, digging the barrel of the gun into John's temple as Sherlock watches, his heart plummeting and lodging itself behind his diaphragm at the sight.
The short man starts clapping, the sound reverberating around the room. Sherlock winces at the assault on his eardrums. He stalks closer to Sherlock's side, crouches so they're at eye-level. "The Six Thatchers," he says, his voice one of lilting mockery, "Or so Doctor Watson calls it on his blog. Do you remember?"
Sherlock raises an eyebrow. Why should I cooperate with this little madman and his games?
He gets his answer when, at the man's signal, Mary thumbs the safety off, the sound sending phantom echoes of pain lancing through his chest as his body remembers the bullet it had taken.
"John, no - I'll, yes," Sherlock says, the words falling in a nonsensical rush from his mouth. He flexes his jaw; it's still stiff, but at least he can speak properly. "Yes, I remember."
"Good, good," the man murmurs, and proffers a hand to Sherlock. "Culverton Smith, how d'you do."
Sherlock glances at it, unimpressed. "I'll have to decline, I'm afraid. Your drugs are still doing a rather wonderful job at the moment."
"Oh, silly me," Smith says, lips pulled back as he bares his teeth in a grin. "I'm sure you won't mind if I do this then," and clasping Sherlock's left hand, he produces a switchblade from a pocket and presses the blade into Sherlock's palm.
Sherlock watches as the skin breaks and his blood starts coating the knife. "How disarmingly pedestrian," he says, eyeing the cut to gauge how deep it is. Deep enough that, when the anaesthesia wears off, it'll be noticeable. How terribly annoying.
"I do try," Smith says, lip curling as he wipes the blade on the sleeve of Sherlock's suit jacket (G&B and yes, he's definitely switching to Armani after this). Then, so quietly he might have missed it otherwise - "Beppo killed himself, two months into his sentence."
"Oh?" Sherlock says, wondering why John hadn't said anything to him, at the time. He's always made a point of being meticulous in following up their clientele, even after a case is closed. "What's it to you?"
"He was my nephew," Smith says, in an uncharacteristic moment of quiet. (Sherlock has a thousand snide comments about their clear relationship, based purely on hereditary insanity, but he refrains.) Smith's eyes are fixed on the far wall; the cut on Sherlock's palm drips steadily, staining the metal surface he's on. "I loved him like he was my own son."
"My condolences," Sherlock says, "But if it helps, he died a self-confessed and convicted murderer, and a notorious thief of Thatcher statues-"
Smith's knife slams onto the metal table (Sherlock's decided it's a table he's on; a bed wouldn't be quite so unyielding), two inches from the bridge of Sherlock's nose. The drugs in his system are the only things stopping him from flinching away.
"You're responsible for this," Smith hisses wildly now, all composure gone, his fingers drumming out a ceaseless rhythm next to Sherlock's head, "You - take a look around, Mr Holmes - this is all you, no one else. How does it feel, hm? To know you could've prevented this, if only you'd kept your goddamn mouth shut those years ago."
Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, but John chooses this moment to stir, eyes opening blearily before he assesses the situation - the gun at his temple, Sherlock on the table, Smith with a knife in hand - and his instincts kick in. He moves quickly, but Mary's faster. He barely unbalances her with a sweep of his leg at her feet before she recovers, this time digging the barrel of the gun into the tender underside of his jaw and her other hand clamping down on the nape of his neck.
Smith turns his back on the scuffle, uninterested. "Call off your attack dog, Mr Holmes, or I'm afraid Agatha will have to put him down."
"John, it's - it's fine," Sherlock says, praying John listens. He glances at Mary. "Agatha, really? No wonder you changed your name."
Mary purses her lips, expression tight, and doesn't say anything, though the gun at John's throat does dig in a little harder. Sherlock winces in sympathy.
"Now, where were we?" Smith murmurs, picking up the switchblade and flipping it, over and over again, until it's a blur of silver in the harsh fluorescent lighting. "Oh, yes." He catches the blade and slides it (gently almost) over Sherlock's cheek.
The pain is a sharp juxtaposition to the numbness he's been feeling for hours now, and Sherlock sucks in a sharp breath, using the pain to ground himself, a reminder that this is real, that Smith and the threat he poses, are real and tangible.
"What do you want," John spits out, his strained voice belying his indifferent tone.
"What I want," Smith says, wiping the blade on Sherlock's shirt once more (Sherlock decides he detests the man), "is my nephew back. But since that's a rather tall order, I think I'll settle for sending one of you off to an early grave."
With that he stalks out of Sherlock's sight and pulls a lever, and it's with mounting fear that the facts coalesce into a horrific picture in Sherlock's head. The stench of decay mixed with sterilization, the metal autopsy table he hadn't known he'd been lying on, and now, with the lever pulled, the roaring of what must be the cremation chamber behind him.
He twists sideways to glance at John with what limited mobility he has, and sees the flames of the crematorium reflected in the blues of his eyes.
His lips twist into a faint, rueful smile. He doesn't think he'll mind terribly if this is the last thing he sees. Goodbye, John.
The last thing he registers before heat envelops him is the unmistakable crack of a gunshot, and a pained, cut-off 'Sherlock!'
Damn. This would mark the third time he forgot to leave John a note.
When he comes to, he's in a hospital. Not a morgue, not a crematorium (he checked) and John's dozing at the foot of his bed, chin drooping and arms crossed over his chest. A glance to his left shows the IV drip feeding him morphine; his hand itches to up the dosage.
Sherlock licks his parched lips, tests his voice out. "John."
It comes out a hoarse croak, but it's enough. John tenses, brow furrowing as he wakes. His expression clears when he sees Sherlock's awake.
"You're okay," Sherlock says, part question, part self-reassurance.
"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" John mutters, shaking his head as he stands and fills a plastic cup from the water jug on his bedside table. He hands it to Sherlock, and they both pretend not to notice the way Sherlock's hands tremble as they bring the cup to his lips.
"What happened, after -" Sherlock says, feeling less like his throat's being split in two.
John raises an eyebrow, lips quirking into a grin as he glances down at his own rumpled, blood-spattered clothes, the bandaging on his forearm, and back up at Sherlock. "You mean you haven't already worked that out?"
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I have a theory." At John's expectant glance, he says, "It was a blank, wasn't it. In Mary's gun. And she deliberately missed." His gaze flicks to the gauze hiding the shallow cut on John's arm.
"Yeah." John takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Goodness knows why she did that. She's in custody with the police, now."
"Good," Sherlock says, too fast, though from the relaxed slump of John's shoulders he can tell the sentiment's mutual. He frowns, as a thought occurs to him. "She shot Smith?"
John shakes his head. "Knocked him out. I, uh. I shot him, after I got you out."
Sherlock sniffs, lifts his hands and inspects the bandages over his burns. "Please, the thing wasn't even heated properly. What are these, first-degree?"
"Just," John says, tight-lipped and worried, and Sherlock's stomach plummets.
"John, I -" he says, and pauses, because he made a promise to himself on the autopsy table, that if he ever made it out, he'd leave nothing unsaid. Leave John all the notes he's been too much of a coward to leave, before.
"Before I got on that plane, John," Sherlock says, watching as John's eyes widen in surprise (they'd both agreed that day was taboo as a topic of discussion), "What I was going to say - was that between you and the rest of the world, there wasn't ever a choice for me to make. I realized this when the Lotus Tong kidnapped you and nothing in the world mattered except getting you out. Getting on that flight was one of the hardest decisions I've had to make, and by the time I got on it, I'd convinced myself that life without you by my side wasn't worth living - hence, the drugs. Sorry about that, by the way, I was only trying to-"
He's silenced by the insistent press of John's lips against his. He slides a hand into John's hair and traces his apology against the roof of John's mouth, his lips, and maybe it's the morphine, because all of a sudden his head's fuzzy and higher functions appear to be impaired.
"You're a fucking idiot," John declares finally, smoothing an errant curl from Sherlock's forehead. "And I hate you."
Sherlock grins, and the age-old wound in his chest no longer hurts (he suspects it never will again). "Likewise."
3 months later
"Sherlock," John groans, plucking a sheet of paper taped to the windshield of a police cruiser, "This isn't what I meant when I told you to 'leave me a note' whenever possible."
John - it reads in Sherlock's characteristically pristine writing - I've taken the victim's dismembered arm to St. Bart's for analysis. (Do not disclose to Lestrade.) We're out of milk and I do believe this week's your turn. Buy the milk and meet me home by 2.
P.S. You might want to hurry, since I've liberated Lestrade's handcuffs and we have an hour before the analysis report comes out ;)
P.P.S. Do not disclose to Lestrade re: handcuffs.
See you at home, love,
Sherlock
John hates that the image of Sherlock and police-issue handcuffs, now that they've been conjured, refuse to leave his mind.
"John!" Lestrade calls, straightening from where he's crouched over the body. "You wouldn't happen to have seen a mangled arm anywhere, would you?"
John swallows. "Uh, no, sorry Greg."
Lestrade sighs in evident vexation, hands on his hips. There's a beat, and then Lestrade shouts again. "John! Have you seen my handcuffs?"
"Nope," John says, folding the note up and stuffing it in his back pocket. His conscience screams bloody murder at him, but his libido raises both middle fingers back and silences it. "Gotta dash, Greg, sorry. See you soon!"
John ducks under the police cordon and fairly jogs to the nearest Tesco's. He's never bought milk this quickly in his life.
Lestrade's handcuffs, as it turns out, are very secure.