This fic follows the scene in which Smith is arrested after trying to murder Sherlock. It ignores the rest of TLD and all of TFP. Yes, this means it bypasses the text from Irene and the conversation about romantic entanglements, and John's confession about the bus lady and his feelings about Mary, and The Hug.
Sherlock hadn't said anything when John had entered his hospital room on the heels of the nurse doing rounds. John had watched as she bustled about her business, hanging a new bag of Ringer's solution, checking the output in the Foley, and making notes in Sherlock's chart. He'd not been able to look at Sherlock.
But he knew Sherlock was watching him.
Sherlock had been transferred to Bart's shortly after Smith's arrest. John had not been permitted to ride with him in the ambulance, and neither of them had tried to insist.
Now, the nurse long since departed, John paced in front of the window in Sherlock's private room. And Sherlock watched him, saying nothing. John hated the silence, but knew it was his to break.
He turned his steps from their path in front of the window and moved to the side of Sherlock's bed. He wrapped his hands around the railing on the bed and lifted his gaze to face Sherlock.
He was shocked again at the livid evidence of his violence on his friend's face, but it was the expression Sherlock wore that staggered him.
Sherlock was wary of him.
He had expected it, really. How could he not? After the brutal beating he'd inflicted, of course Sherlock would be cautious around him. Apprehensive of setting him off again, triggering another assault.
John had thought he couldn't feel worse. He'd been wrong.
"It wasn't about her, you know. This, I mean," John said sadly, lifting a hand to indicate the bruising on Sherlock's face. "I know you thought it was, and I said as much, then. But it wasn't. Not really."
Sherlock's gaze darted to John's raised hand, then returned to John's face. He did not flinch as John's raised hand drifted closer, but John could see the effort it took for Sherlock to keep still.
"May I?" John asked.
Sherlock swallowed hard, and gave a quick nod.
John's hand trembled slightly as he reached to brush his fingertips gently across the damage.
"What was it about, then?" Sherlock asked, and John's fingers stilled.
"You leaving me," John replied eventually. "Tricking me, and leaving me behind. That's the root of it, I think."
He slid his fingers back into the tangle of dark curls, seeking evidence that the damage that still haunted his nightmares was not real. His breath caught in his throat as Sherlock leaned slightly into the touch, pressing his unbroken skull into John's palm.
"Everything follows from that. And, logically I can see why you did what you did, but emotionally, I was devastated. Am. Devastated."
"Still?"
"Still."
Sherlock blinked. John waited, giving Sherlock time to absorb the information.
"You said you forgave me," Sherlock said after a moment. It was meant to be a statement.
"And I did. Or, I wanted to. I didn't want to be angry, Sherlock. It would have been … churlish, given the reasons for everything. I shouldn't have been angry."
"But you were."
"I was," John agreed. "I was overjoyed, too. I don't know if you knew that. I never said, and I should have." He swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the regret that caught in his throat. "I should have thanked you, too. For all the things you went through, to keep us safe. Me, and Greg, and Mrs H."
"You'd have done it for me," Sherlock asserted.
"I would. And I'd have done it with you, then, to keep them safe. To keep you safe," John replied roughly. "But that wasn't an option."
"As much as we both wish otherwise, no."
John nodded unhappily.
"So you came back, and I was thrilled, Sherlock. Bloody thrilled. And angry. And guilty, because I wasn't allowed to be angry."
Realizing that his thumb was stroking lightly over Sherlock's cheek he withdrew his hand, moving it to rest on Sherlock's shoulder.
"And then there was the anger and the guilt about Mary ..."
"It is about her, then." Sherlock shifted slightly so that his shoulder slid out from under John's touch.
"Not that," John replied, moving his hand back to the railing. "Not the way she died."
"No?"
"No. That was her past catching up with her. It was always going to. We all knew that, didn't we?"
"Then why the anger and guilt over her?" Sherlock asked, rolling carefully to his side to better observe John.
"I was angry that she was there at all. In my life. When you came back," John answered slowly, trying to find the right words. "I wanted what we'd had before. The two of us against the rest of the world. Wanted it so badly I almost couldn't breathe for wanting it."
Sherlock frowned, clearly puzzled. "Then why ..."
"Because I didn't think I'd survive it. Survive you. I thought, if I went back, it was only a matter of time before the rest of me was ashes."
"The rest of you?"
John caught himself before he could step away to pace. He wanted desperately to move. To run away, putting as much distance as he could between himself and any admission of vulnerability.
But running away was, in the end, what had brought them to this, and he was done with running.
He took a deep breath and forced himself to say it.
"My heart had already been burned out of me."
Sherlock ... flinched.
Stricken, John pried his hands loose from the railing and lifted them to scrub at his face. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.
Christ, when was he going to stop hurting him?
He heard Sherlock's strained breathing just before he felt the other man's fingers closing on his wrist, pulling his hand away from his face. The pain on the other man's face was obvious, though John wasn't sure if it was caused by his words, or the strain on the injuries he'd inflicted. Or both.
"John," Sherlock's voice was thick with emotion.
John shook his head, cutting Sherlock off before he could try to offer John any comfort. He didn't deserve it. He freed his hand with a gentle tug and gripped the railing tightly. The knuckles of his right hand were dark with bruises, damning him. He closed his eyes against the sight, but it didn't erase his guilt.
"You came back," his voice broke. He cleared his throat. "You came back," he repeated, "and I went ahead and proposed to her. I mean, I'd already planned on it. Figured it was expected, yeah? Though, I wasn't sure she would say yes. Honestly, before you came back, I'm not sure I wanted her to. After, though … Well. Then I needed her to. And she did."
John opened his eyes and lifted his head, dragging his gaze up to meet Sherlock's pained expression before darting away again, fixing on the monitors behind Sherlock.
"I married her," John continued. "Not because I loved her, but because she tied me to a life outside of you. Of us. And then she was pregnant, and I was responsible for bringing a child into a loveless marriage. Of course there was guilt. And anger at how I'd trapped myself. And her. And you."
"You did love her," Sherlock said softly.
"I cared for her, yes. For who I thought she was. It might have been love. It was close enough, I thought, to make it work." John met Sherlock's gaze again. "And it might have been, if she'd been real. But I wasn't the only one shamming in that farce of a marriage."
Sherlock shifted position, reaching to reclaim John's hand. He wrapped his fingers around John's hand, his thumb sweeping slowly back and forth over the back of John's wrist. John watched the movement for a moment before speaking again.
"Do you know, when you were shot, before you went walkabout with a hole in your chest, I decided to ask for a divorce? I had a pregnant wife at home, and I didn't leave your side for the better part of three days. I had to face the fact that my attempt to find an anchor to a life I didn't want had failed. And it wasn't fair to Mary, or to the baby, to pretend otherwise."
John huffed out a humorless laugh, his face grim as he continued.
"I never got to tell her, though. Never got to tell you. You organized a pair magic tricks, disappearing from hospital, and revealing Mary as the person who shot you. She shot you. And you insisted that I should forgive her … that was never going to happen, Sherlock. Never."
Sherlock's grip on his hand tightened. John squeezed back, then rotated his hand to wrap his fingers around Sherlock's wrist in turn.
"But it didn't matter that I couldn't forgive her, or that I wanted a divorce. That I wanted to come home. Because I had to go back, didn't I? You sent me away."
"To keep you safe," Sherlock said wretchedly.
"Funny, that," John replied, "because I only left to keep you safe. And it might have worked. She may have been satisfied that you were no threat, with me hostage to that end. But you had other plans. That you did not share with me, and that almost took you from me. Again. Twice over. And even though I got you back, I didn't — I didn't get to keep you. Because I still had to be with Mary. And then she died … and I felt guilty."
"Why guilty?"
"Because I was relieved," John whispered. "She couldn't threaten you anymore, and I felt relief. And guilt because what kind of man is glad when someone is killed? When a child is left motherless? Of course I felt guilt."
"And anger."
"That, too."
Silence followed John's admission as Sherlock searched his face, his mouth drawn down into a frown.
"Are you still very angry with me?" His tone was tentative.
John took a shuddering breath, considering. He was a jumble of emotions, and anger was definitely still among them, but ...
"No, I don't think I am." John replied. "Not with you." He cleared his throat and continued. "To be clear, the fact that I was angry with you … it's not an excuse for what I did. There is no excuse for it. You did not deserve it, and I am a bastard for ever suggesting otherwise. I am so sorry, Sherlock. And I don't know what to do now. I don't know how to be here, with you, knowing that I could — could love you as much as I do and still do this to you. Hurt you this way."
Sherlock's eyes widened at John's words, and he shifted his grip on John's hand, lacing their fingers together and bringing it to rest over his heart, wrapping his other hand over it.
"Don't go."
"What?"
"You said that you don't know how to be with me. And I know it's unfair for me to ask it of you when I left you first. But. John, please don't go."
John heard the sound he made at Sherlock's words, but couldn't say if it was a laugh or a sob. His head was pounding, a hot, dry ache settling behind his eyes. The very thought of leaving Sherlock closed his throat.
"I won't, Sherlock. I can't. I should. But you're … I can't."
"Good."
"Good?" John asked. "This is not good, Sherlock. This is very not good. Look at you. I did this. To you. Why on Earth would you want me to stay?"
"Because I don't want to be without you. Never again. It's miserable."
"More miserable than this? Than wondering if I'm going to snap and hit you again? How can you ever trust me again, Sherlock? I don't trust me."
"Do you trust me, John?" Sherlock asked. "No, stop. Don't just answer reflexively. Think about it, please. Do you trust me? After all the things I've done? All the ways I've hurt you?"
"I want to, Sherlock. More than anything."
"I want that, too, John. I want us to trust each other, and work together, and live together, and … love each other." He held John's gaze, his expression so nakedly hopeful it made John's chest ache. "We can have that, can't we?"
John closed his eyes against the tears that threatened to spill over at Sherlock's words, and pulled his hand away from Sherlock's chest. He heard Sherlock bite back a cry, but John did not move to untangle their fingers, instead bringing their joined hands to his lips and pressing a reverent kiss across their knuckles.
"You're sure that's what you want? Us? Me?" John breathed the questions over their hands, opening his eyes and letting the tears spill, tracing hot trails down his face.
"Yes," Sherlock confirmed, tone sure and eyes shining, his free hand reaching out to snag John's shirt and tug him closer. "And it's what you want, as well."
"It is," John agreed, letting Sherlock pull him in, and leaning the last bit to press his lips to Sherlock's forehead, overwhelmed with gratitude at the chance to finally get this right. When he pulled back to look at Sherlock, the other man's face was wet as well, a tenuous smile tugging at his lips.
"Come home with me, John."
"Oh, God, yes."
A/N: Ice cream sundaes with all. the. sprinkles. for j_baillier, sailonsilvergirl, and hubblegleeflower for loaning me their eyeballs for several rounds of beta reading.
Title from Hozier's song 'Jackie and Wilson' on his self-titled album.
Related to this fic, tangentially, I've posted a headcanon about John Watson on my tumblr. I'm happy to chat about it, or related headcanons about Mary's expectations and reasons for accepting John's proposal, or about why the 221b scene with The Hug didn't quite work for me, or ... anything else, really. In the comments, or on tumblr, where you'll find me under the username Anyawen.