a/n: this is a companion piece for my fic: The Rules. I must thank Howlynn for her feedback which was a nudge which finally pushed me to stop dancing around the idea of writing John's point of view of the same events and just sit and write it. I apologise for any grammar mistake you will find here – I don't have a beta reader and writing John sort of tears me apart:)
Enjoy!
When it happened, and later John was surprised that, despite everything, it really took them so long, it took all his strength, what was left of his willpower, to ask Sherlock to turn off all the lights.
It happened between kisses, while John's mind was short-circuiting, and years of denial and heartbreak and something so deep and all encompassing that had filled up each and every hollow space inside of him, were melting away.
Sherlock kissed him like he, John Watson, belonged to him. Sherlock Holmes trailed his fingers (long, nimble) on his naked skin and John – he was only human. There were plans, there were things already set in motion, there was a daughter, about to be born, who was innocent and needed to be protected, there was a round, puckered scar on Sherlock's chest, Mary's handiwork.
Hence the rules.
He had been asked to lie – and he knew, the same way he knew that his name was John Hamish Watson, that he could shoot, kill, maim and save lives that if he looked at Sherlock while they – did what they were about to do, he would fail.
And that could never happen.
"Turn the lights off." He said. And he was a selfish prick, because he also wanted Sherlock to keep touching him; he wanted Sherlock to kiss him, like he was doing, but he could not turn off the lights himself. He wasn't strong enough.
He couldn't have foreseen how addictive Sherlock's taste was in a million of years – which was a complete lie, since he'd been addicted to Sherlock Holmes since the day they met, but that was the excuse his brain was coming up with and he was sticking to it. He was good at self deception.
Sherlock complied – but he would found out, in about ten minutes or so, that he was not a submissive lover, that he gave as much as he took, that he loved to be marked and that, in turn, loved to mark him as well.
Except that Sherlock's love bites couldn't be seen from the outside; he carried them with him, hours, days later: he saw them, while he shaved and pretended to smile at Mary, brushing with his fingers a spot, his pulse point, where Sherlock had kissed him, over and over, while he climaxed; he felt them, while riding his bike to work, he felt Sherlock's phantom touch over his forearms, his biceps, thinking: "this where he held onto me, this is where he touched me, this happened – I can still feel it. Sherlock and I are lovers."
Sherlock's love bites hurt – and he hated that he loved them.
But, above all, he hated that no one could see them, that no one could ever see them.
They could not see each other whenever they wanted to. Sure, there were cases, there was the job, but it was not the same thing. When it happened it was always like the moments right before a storm: eerie silences, soft breaths and then – it was just them, with the lights off (always steps ahead of him, Sherlock, as if by magic, found ways to turn all the lights off, even the binds) and it was like the first time they had kissed in the hospital, it was as if the world was ending and all those bad clichés that, to his chagrin, he had discovered they were completely true.
There was a downside to that rule, the one that he had imposed – he had to keep his eyes open, because - because he could see Sherlock, as clear as day, whenever he closed his eyes. He would see, with his mind's eyes, the way Sherlock's lips curved in smiles, his face while he touched his skin, his laugh lines and his face lost in pleasure and that? That was not good, it defeated the purpose of that rule.
John kept his eyes open, in the dark, and he blinked, because he would have to lose his bloody memory not to really feel and see Sherlock, and it was a conundrum, wasn't it? Sherlock was everywhere and John could only steal those moments in the dark, forbidding himself to really see, but wishing he didn't have to.
When Mina was born Sherlock was not there. Neither of them had consciously decided for it to happen, for once it had been them coordinating. Mina, actually, wasn't even his daughter's first name, Mary had chosen the first name, Lily (seriously, she was a former assassin, for God's sake!), but had allowed him to choose the second name.
"Wilhelmina." Mary had said, her voice soft, even, a smile on her lips a twinkle in her eyes.
"Yep." John had replied, knowing, even before she nodded her approval, still smiling, that she would not comment, she would not make any remark. Mary was clever. Mary shot to kill and he would never believe, not even in a million of years that she had missed Sherlock's heart out of sentiment.
Sherlock had not been there at the hospital. His mobile phone had stayed mute, even if he had kept it in the pocket of his trousers, while he fell in love with his daughter.
Six hours after Mina was borne, a bouquet of daisies and violets was brought to the hospital, unsigned. John knew they were from Sherlock, but he was absolutely sure when, hours later, rummaging through his coats pockets he found a lone red salvia stem.
A simple google search told him that red salvia, in the language of flowers meant "forever mine".
He kept the red salvia pressed in a book, after.
One of the rules was that there couldn't be anything written that could link the two of them together. John's blog didn't count, of course. John, though, could not write how most of their cases ended up lately.
…and then we went back to Sherlock's flat, which, I'll let you know, does not contain any body parts that I can see these days; the same cannot be said for bodily fluids. I am afraid I was carried away with my primeval need to mark Sherlock Holmes as mine, and mine only, especially because clients of both genders, lately, cannot contain or hide their attraction toward my associate. Therefore, when I went to Baker St. with Sherlock, I proceeded with ripping his clothes off (which he gladly reciprocated, I'll inform you that I have lost a couple of buttons the other night) and sucked him off, with gusto, in the sitting room. I might have made a point of coming all over him, later, just so he knew that he is mine and mine only. Not Mrs. *** or Mr. ***.
No. But that didn't mean that he didn't write such posts in his head, or that he didn't love the feeling of marking Sherlock. He didn't seem to mind, most of the times. He had never commented – which knowing him had come with a certain surprise – to his caveman habits, to the irrationality of his actions.
He had never, not once, reminded him that he was wearing a wedding ring, that he had a wife (only in name, only until AGRA was a go, and God, dear God, how long until it was?).
John, sometimes, wondered whether Sherlock cared at all. He wondered whether he knew how much it was tearing him apart to leave Baker Street (because that was their only safe place, if only because it fell under Mycroft's direct protection) and go back to a life that had become a pantomime.
And then – then Sherlock kissed him, right after he climaxed, still tasting like him, like them, together, and his lips lingered, ghosted over his and John thought that maybe, maybe he did care, maybe it was hard for him as well.
Once, and he doubted Sherlock was aware of that, he had brushed the cold metal of his wedding band over and over with the pad of his thumb, while he was inside of him (and the feeling of Sherlock being inside of him was almost as good and fulfilling as being inside of Sherlock. It was more, more than just sex, more than the high of adrenaline and endorphins that came with sex – it was peace, utter peace.), almost as if he wanted to delete that ring and all that it meant.
And it was a good thing that it was dark all around them when it happened, because John had felt like bursting with rage, unshed tears and love.
God, he loved that man – with everything he was. And it was killing him that he could not say it.
Sherlock didn't play the violin any more. Mrs. Hudson had looked at him pointedly and had told him.
Mrs. Hudson who was not supposed to ever find out about them (it was one of the rules: no one had to know about them, under no circumstance), but who knew and was judging him, looking at him as if he was the scum of Earth, as if he was taking advantage of Sherlock, as if he was using him, as if he wasn't just waiting for the word to finally put an end to that farce.
"He used to play all the time, do you remember, John?" She had said. And John did remember, he remembered impromptu performances, music composed and played after eating take away dinners in the sitting room, sweet music coming to him, during sleepless nights; Bach played at dawn – and a waltz composed for Mr and Mrs. Watson.
"I can't dance, Sherlock." He said. Honestly, who knew how to waltz? He was forty, he would look absolutely ridiculous trying to dance with Mary!
Sherlock let out a sigh, as if he had said something utterly stupid, but his voice was remarkably even when he said, "I'll teach you."
"You know how to waltz? Of course…cases!" John said and if he felt like giggling ("you can't giggle, you're about to waltz!" a voice reminded him, and it was Sherlock's, because that madman apparently was everywhere, including his subconscious!) he really couldn't help it.
"Two words, John: public school. Of course I know how to waltz!"Sherlock had replied dismissively, and that was it. He was going to learn how to waltz, because his best friend, who had once cured his psychosomatic limp had said so, therefore why not?
"He hasn't played once since – well, since…" Mrs. Hudson said.
Since…when? Since he had gotten married? Since Mary had killed him in Magnussen's office? Since he had pulled off another miracle and had come back and had stopped being dead? (had he heard him that time too?) since he had come back to Baker Street where they would make love whenever they had the chance?
He didn't know and Mrs. Hudson didn't elaborate.
And John – he was too afraid to ask, too afraid to know the answer.
He had to remember to buy milk.
Sherlock had actually giggled against his collarbone, moments before kissing him, his fingers wrapped around his penis and still too many clothes between them..
Mina hadn't slept a wink the night before and Mary had asked him not to be too late, because she wanted to have at least a couple of hours of sleep.
Sherlock had wrapped his legs around his hips, his fingers blindly tracing the angles and planes of his face as he entered him (hot, tight, velvety soft skin and him everywhere: he could breathe, taste, touch him. Sherlock was his everything, it was as simple as that)
Mary had said she would cook paella that night. She had said it was ages since she had last eaten it, and she felt like doing something special. John had nodded and smiled at the right times, but he was starting not to taste what he ate, he was starting to feel like the man who sat at that table, who slept in that bed, who had a wash in that bathroom was a ghost, or something like that.
Sherlock didn't make any noise while they made love, he supposed it was a rule, one he forgot to follow, he whispered things, though – his name sometimes, over and over, or words in other languages, most of which he didn't even recognize.
ja tibjà ljubljù
He never asked Sherlock what those words meant, that would mean talking, that would mean going against the rules (there were so many of them, some were reasonable, others felt like punches in the gut, but the alternative was too dangerous for Sherlock and Mina), and that could not happen.
So they didn't talk, the only noises one could hear were the rustling of fabric, skin slapping against skin, moans swallowed by kisses. And it was like drowning, it was taking John's breath away and he could do nothing, say nothing.
It figured that the dam would break, sooner or later, and it was six words which broke it: "Your wallet is on the floor." Sherlock's voice was low and he hadn't heard him say a word since they had finished the case, he had been silent in the cab and once they had closed the door at Baker Street, there had been a long kiss, and steps made toward Sherlock's bedroom and clothes falling to the floor and mouths, hands, teeth and pleasure, so intense and white and deafening that for a short while he had felt at peace.
John stilled. He was getting dressed, in the dark, thinking about Mina needing milk and diapers, about Mary's paella, about Sherlock's taste on his lips and his touch on his skin (maybe he was the ghost in Baker Street, maybe it was not really happening, maybe he was still on his knees on the pavement outside St. Bart's, maybe he had never left Afghanistan…), and it was just too much: his wallet was on the floor, like that was his bedroom and that was something normal that a partner would say to the other, and his hands were trembling and it was a bloody good thing that he couldn't see a thing in the dark because his eyes were filling up with tears and he was just so bloody tired of it all!
"John –" Sherlock trailed. He sounded so unlike Sherlock, so unsure, so utterly human that John's heart broke a little.
Jesus – please, no. Don't. Just – don't.
"Shut. Up." He hissed, and was he too harsh? But how could he explain it to the smartest man in the world that he was falling apart because he was leaving home to go and eat paella with his assassin wife?
I can't
If you come any closer I will fall in bed with you, I will fall in love with you again. and that would be, what? The third time today?
I love you so bloody much.
Don't touch me, please, Sherlock. Just don't.
Sherlock got up from the bed, disappearing in his bathroom and he heard the shower running.
He ran home, hating Sherlock a little because he hadn't touched him, because he hadn't been able to see him, because he hadn't said a word, even though it went against the rules.
The first days after Sherlock had "died" John had counted the minutes, the hours, the days. He had surprised himself, in the oddest moments, reciting numbers. He had told himself that it was a way to keep his mind busy, after a while that excuse had become so filmsy even to himself, that he had stopped keeping count.
He was doing it again, now. He counted the minutes, the hours, the days he spent without seeing Sherlock; and he felt on edge, he felt like when he had his psychosomatic limp, except that the limp was in his soul, in the gut wrenching moments where he was afraid that something happened to Sherlock and he hadn't been there to watch his back.
Meanwhile – he had a baby daughter, whom he called Mina (it worked, Sherlock was right), a wife he found excuses not to have sex with, a job that bored him to tears and a bloody mute mobile phone.
And then:
Baker Street. Come if convenient.
-sh
They both knew that he would run to him, even if it was inconvenient, but those words – were from another time, one without Mary, and bullets piercing skin, blood on his hands and underneath his fingernails and hearts stopping on the operation table.
And then – fifteen, twenty, thirty seconds, taking him in, drinking him – and by God that man was amazing! He was beautiful, he was the cure, a miracle and John tackled him against the wall and kissed him, and Sherlock tasted like home, like reality and sod the bloody rules, he had taken a good look at him before one of them (he would never, ever, remember who) turned off all the lights.
And the sheets in Sherlock's bed were clean, the room smelled like him, and John wanted him so much that he might actually come untouched, like a horny teenager. And Sherlock was all languid movements and tongue flicking over his nipples and hips grinding just like he knew he liked it, and John was lost. Or, perhaps, he was himself: fuck ups and good things and devotion and lies and love.
"What do you want?" He heard himself ask Sherlock. And he didn't give a toss that it went against the rules. Rules were made to be broken and he needed to hear Sherlock's voice, because it had been 10 days, 240 hours, 14400 minutes and too many fucking seconds since they had been together and he had heard his voice and he had felt Sherlock's skin against his and he needed him.
"I almost had sex with Stephen York last week." Sherlock replied. And he said it in a casual tone, as if he hadn't spent the first few years of their friendship living like a bloody monk, as if he wasn't his.
And John knew he had a wife, a daughter and that there were rules. He also knew they had never talked, but – Sherlock Holmes was his! Body, scars, foibles, dickish behaviors and strokes of genius.
It hit John that he had Sherlock's penis in his hand, hard as steel, and they were sort of having a conversation about Sherlock being with another man.
And he knew that Sherlock wasn't trying to make him jealous (he was a genius, he must know that he was jealous, he had been jealous of Moriarty, of Irene, of Janine!). He was simply stating the facts.
"Oh, you did, didn't you?" He asked. Because why not? Mina had burped milk all over his new jumper, Mary had spent money on an hideous set of plates, half of London seemed to have a cold and Sherlock Holmes almost had sex with random men. And if his voice had come out low, too low, if he could see ways in which Mr. Stephen York would find himself without vital organs in the foreseeable future, he really couldn't help it.
He moved, his body flush against Sherlock's, his penis still in his hand (and he was still doing things with that hand) and drawled against Sherlock's ear, "And why didn't you?"
And he wanted answers, he wanted Sherlock to tell him that there would be no one else for him, ever. He wanted Sherlock to tell him all the things that they could not say. Not even in the dark.
"Why. Did. You. Not. Fuck. Him?" He asked, and without noticing he had moved, sitting astride Sherlock and he very much wanted the man to answer him, but he wanted him more and Sherlock was on a mission: driving him crazy (crazier), when he sucked on his fingers, lapping at the pads of his fingers, making him moan.
Tell me.
Tell me that there is only me. That it's you and me. It will always be.
Tell me that you didn't shag him because you can't, because he is not me – because you ruined me for everyone else. And I did the same.
Tell me that you didn't fuck him because he doesn't know you.
He has not seen you die. Twice.
He has not seen your blood.
Tell me that you have not fucked him because you are in love with me, you daft bastard. and I am in love with you and you are mine and mine alone.
Sherlock never replied to his questions, but by the time he left Baker Street (home, it was home), John knew the answer – which didn't help things. Because there was still a charade going on, there were still rules and he was already starting to count the seconds again.
There was a picture John kept in a drawer of his desk, under a stack of medical files. It was a newspaper clipping, actually, it was one of the very few pictures of Sherlock and he that he kept. One was in his mobile phone, even Mary knew about it, but no one, not even Mary – she was good, but he was a paranoid bastard - knew that he had it. The picture had been taken shortly before Sherlock faked his suicide by a journalist. He seldom looked at that picture, even in the first days after Sherlock's death he had tried not to.
The thing was – every time he looked at that picture he thought about what ifs, about the things that might have happened in the weeks before Moriarty had come back and he had soon learned that what ifs, could crush one's soul.
What if I had arrived in time had become: what if Sherlock had told me?
What if my words had stopped him, had become: what if we had both disappeared? Would Mary still be here?
What if we had been lovers before, had remained the same – only it now hurt tenfold. Because he knew what being Sherlock's lover meant. He knew how Sherlock tasted, he knew the sound of the man's heartbeat, he knew the words he said while climaxing: lubim ta, Seni seviyorum
Once in a while, though, he did look at the two men in the picture – he looked at the short, blonde doctor in awe with the tall, dark haired, pale man and counted the moments, the seconds, the minutes and hours – until AGRA was a go, and that farce would end.
Because it would. One way or another.
Sherlock had one rule and one only: John could never, ever, under any circumstance ask about the scars on his body. Sherlock had scars, ugly ones, he had felt them, jagged lines of flesh that told him that some of those scars hadn't even healed properly, some of them must have infected, reopened.
Sherlock didn't shy away from his touch, but he heard him huff breaths when he lingered and touched the scars. And John wanted to see them, he wanted to trace them with his eyes and know the origin of each and any of them.
Sherlock had touched his scars, probably deducing their origins, but unlike what he had thought (fantasized, possibly), he didn't have a particular fascination with his bullet scar. No. He was fascinated with a small, old scar he had on his hip, he had spent long minutes, more than once, tracing it with his lips, his fingers, his tongue.
"I don't remember what happened." He had whispered once, after Sherlock had kissed it, over and over.
"Mmmm…" Sherlock had replied, clearly not believing him. Because of course John remembered. It had been his father's fault. Not that the old man had struck him or anything, but bad things happened when people drank too much – and young boys happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and ended up spending hours at the A&E because of that.
Sherlock had scars on his body and demons in his mind, but those were off limits to him – until the rules were in place, at last.
It had been messy, dirty, fast. Sherlock's words of praise adding to the adrenaline running high in his veins. Tongues, teeth, hands, fingers, scratch marks on Sherlock's skin (he had Sherlock's cells underneath his nails, he brought pieces of him with him), their chests pressed flush against each other, pleasure building, almost painfully, and darkness around them and God – he was going crazy.
It felt suffocating, after. He felt like sobbing, like hitting things, like hating Sherlock and his fucking foolproof logic and Mary and his whole sodding life.
It was raining outside and his skin was still slick with sweat. Had he said goodbye to Sherlock? He didn't remember.
He had bit down on Sherlock's shoulder as he came, that much he remembered, he could still taste Sherlock and he was letting the rain drench him because he had to be ready and put a smile on his face and go and smile at Mary and pretend that he didn't loathe her, that she wasn't responsible for almost killing Sherlock and for all that heartache and the lies and the deceits.
Smile. He had to smile. He had to look convincing, he had to give neutral answers. He had to forget Sherlock's looks of praise and his words.
"You are a marvel, John Watson."
He had to remember his part: John Hamish Watson, devoted husband to Mary Morstan, loving father of Lily Wilhelmina Watson, medical doctor, part time blogger and assistant of Sherlock Holmes.
He refused to cast more than a look at his image in a window, he could see Sherlock, still flush against him, panting hot breaths against him, their fingers twined, their hips moving together.
He wanted to text Sherlock. He wanted to ask him if he was alright. He wanted to – ask him why he had asked to turn off all the lights that time. He couldn't. He didn't.
He smiled, it felt hollow, like a parody of what a real smile should be like, but liars and beggars and men desperately in love with men they couldn't be with except in the dark couldn't be choosers.
One of the rules, one of the most important ones, was that under no circumstance they could indulge (Mycroft's words) in public. No one had to know. People could speculate, people had, as long as Sherlock and he had known each other (and in retrospect that should have clued him in that maybe people were onto something.), but as long as there was no proof, as long as they didn't act foolishly they would be safe.
"Have you met us?" John had quipped to Mycroft when he had laid out that specific rule.
Mycroft Holmes who was possibly one of the most powerful men in the western hemisphere, smiled a smile that he was pretty sure had made grown men cry and said, "I have, hence the rule."
"No, but seriously…" John had trailed, because it had taken them years to even kiss, they surely weren't about to go hand in hand in the middle of Piccadilly Circus!
He had been an idiot, of course.
No, they had not walked hand in hand in the middle of Piccadilly Circus (he wondered whether Sherlock would even want to), they always kept a respectful distance between them, but – he hadn't counted on being sucker punched in the soul the day, afternoon actually, Sherlock decided to go up St. Bart's rooftop.
Sherlock had disappeared after talking to Molly, while he had been on the phone with Mary who, apparently, had decided to start playing the part of the wilting flower. Sherlock had disappeared and John's mouth had gone dry, painfully so, when Molly had mentioned he had gone up the roof.
Molly – might be in love with Sherlock, but she didn't know, she couldn't know what those words did to him. Molly had known Sherlock's plan. Molly had known that the casket they had buried was empty, he, however, had not. He had grieved Sherlock and he still had nightmares, and counted his blessings that the fall hadn't actually killed him, that they were still granted miracles and he would strangle that bloody idiot himself one of those days!
Even later he would not remember what he told Sherlock on the roof. He would not remember the words he had said. He would remember other things, though. He would remember the rain, cold and merciless, which had started pouring down over them, he would remember that it was the moment, the exact moment where he realized that Sherlock Holmes was in love with him – and he would remember how they hugged, later.
Right. There were rules, rational, logical, made up for their safety.
There were the rules, and there was Sherlock, who could break his heart and put it back together within seconds, who had saved him, cured him and broken him beyond belief on another rainy day.
There were rules and there was a dark corner between floors, without cameras, with no lights (lights off was paramount, or he would fall apart and Mary would see each and every lie on his face and count them on his body) and his face hidden in Sherlock's chest and the man he loved so much, beyond reason, breathing quietly, smelling of rain and home and blood and them, together. And John who had spent two years (and he could tell the hours, the minutes he had spent in a Sherlockless world) wondering how things would have gone if he had followed Sherlock up that roof, if he hadn't seen red and believed a feeble lie, knew that Sherlock had fallen because he loved him.
And when he was the one to fall, that time, Sherlock was there, breathing soft puffs of air against his temple, not talking, just – catching him, saving him.
Again.
Sometimes he thought about not going back to Sherlock. Sometimes it was just too much: too many lies, too much spent in the dark, too many silences because Sherlock and he could not talk on their best days, and those were not, those were the days were one hour together felt like seconds and it felt like drowning and coming up for oxygen at the same time.
Sometimes he could not stop thinking about Sherlock for hours, he replayed moments in his mind over and over, and stacks of files ended up on the floor and he drank too much and he frankly loathed himself.
Sometimes he held his mobile phone in his hand and wanted to call Sherlock, ask him to just go and see London, see how bright it could still be when they were together. He never did, though – and Sherlock, he never, ever called or texted unless it was absolutely necessary.
Sometimes he wanted to just give up, he wanted to just – recognize the ghost he saw in the mirror.
Sometimes he held grudges for days, for no reason.
Sometimes when a case ended, he wanted to just go home – and pretend Sherlock was just a friend, his closest, dearest friend.
And sometimes – they still giggled on crime scenes, Sherlock turned, looked at him, and he knew that he wasn't asking him for anything – he never did, not where it was about them, he took the morsels of time he could give – and let him go, after. And sometimes that was the thing that hurt the most.
And then – and then Sherlock, sometimes, didn't let him go; he kept his legs wrapped around his hips, his arms around his shoulders and even though he never left physical signs, he felt marked all over.
Sometimes moving was an herculean task, because it meant not breathing properly, because that's how he was starting to feel – and he could smell rain and blood and Sherlock on him for hours and it was driving him crazy
And then – and then Sherlock whispered three words, while his heart beat so fast in his chest that he could feel it against his, and he stayed.
"I love you." Sherlock said. And he sounded surprised, like he hadn't even meant to say those words out loud.
It went against the rules. It was dangerous. And there he was, with Sherlock, as always.
John smiled, for the first time in what it felt like forever.
When Sherlock collapsed at Baker Street John Watson realized a few things. He realized that it was true: Mary had indeed shot Sherlock, she had fucking killed him. His wife, the mother of his unborn child was a killer and she had shot Sherlock.
The second thing he realized was that they were lucky. Sherlock had survived a fall that might have killed him. He had survived two years spent dismantling Jim Moriarty's net, he had survived being shot in the chest – and had (barely) survived from a massive internal bleeding.
The third thing he realized was that he had collapsed in his sitting room for him. Sherlock had wanted him to know and hear the truth and he had chosen the most painful way to do so, for both of them.
Sherlock had asked him, probably for the first time since they had met, to trust him. And of course he had, because what choice did he have, truly? He had trusted Sherlock, even though the man had played coy at first, because Sherlock Holmes could be a cruel man, but he wouldn't have lasted a day with him if he hadn't loved that part of him as well.
The fourth thing he realized – well, more like he finally admitted it to himself – was that he was in love with his best friend. He had known, deep down. He had always known, probably since it happened, during those first mad hours together, running through London, feeling alive, young and invincible again.
He was in love with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, who had probably shagged Magnussen's p.a. to get a badge and retrieve Lady Smallwood's items of interest. Sherlock who had bought a diamond ring and had looked like a man smitten and, a second later, a calm blankness had descended upon his face.
Sherlock, who had took a bullet to the heart and was protecting Mary, even though his explanation didn't make sense, even though he bloody well knew that he was a medical doctor and he had seen plenty of gunshot wounds and he knew that the bullet Mary had fired was meant to kill.
Sherlock, the smartest, wisest, most impossible man he had ever met, truly and honestly believed he had chosen Mary.
"I did not choose her, her Sherlock." John said. And he hated, hated that he was talking to Sherlock like that, while he was unconscious. It felt like talking to a bloody headstone, and he had almost gone crazy the last time he had done so.
Except that the words were flowing out of his mouth, now – and even while in front of that black headstone they had never flown so easily. He told Sherlock the truth, for a change; even if there were things that he could never, would never say: how Sherlock's death had turned his world into a monochrome wasteland, how he had gone through the motions, feeling numb way past the expected time after a loss; how the numbness had disappeared, evaporated from one moment to another and he had been left crippled inside, and the only thing he had been able to do, rationally, was counting the hours, minutes, seconds, days, weeks without Sherlock.
He didn't tell him how he had gone to Sherlock's graveside on January 29th and had eaten take away Chinese there, taken from Sherlock's favorite restaurant – and how he had not chosen Angelo's because it hurt too fucking much.
He didn't tell him that it had taken him two years to even fathom the idea of going back to Baker Street, to look again at the flat and how he had wished ghost existed and how he had wondered why, Sherlock wasn't haunting him? Had he been so unimportant?
No. And Sherlock, of course, wasn't even really unconscious, he was just high as a kite, pale as a corpse and alive.
Sherlock was alive. Sherlock had stopped being dead, again, and had come back. And he did never tell Sherlock, even later, much later, how he had spent hours, after Sherlock had told him that what he had said in his (their) flat was a load of bullshit and had fallen asleep, watching him – amazed and in love with that man.
He didn't even tell him that kissing him, bad breath and bloody IV notwithstanding had been the best thing that had ever happened to him.
No. He watched over Sherlock, because they had been granted another miracle, and he would die before he let it go to waste.
And when they talked, when they started to plan, he said yes, to everything: to the lies and the deceits and the strategies and the rules.
He said yes, because Sherlock had made a vow, once, at his wedding, and it had felt like a blood oath, it had felt more real than his own wedding vows – so he had made one as well. He would always, always stand by Sherlock. He would always, always love him.
"I could perhaps believe you if two nights ago you hadn't left while I was still on my knees."
Good Lord. He truly had done that. What had he become? What had he turned into? He could see the scene, clear as day, even if it had happened in the dark: it had been a tough case, they had been snappish, they were cold, tired – and he, God, he had basically ordered Sherlock to his knees and unzipped his trousers and Sherlock had – let him.
And he had left immediately after, without saying a word, without touching Sherlock, without caring.
He tried to speak, to say words, but he could only taste bile in his throat. What had happened? When had he turned into a bastard?
Sherlock was angry, he didn't remember ever seeing or hearing him so angry and John wished Sherlock would hit him, he wanted Sherlock to hit him, but Sherlock was keeping away from him, his voice dripping ice and venom and disgust.
He could have gutted him and John wondered whether it would have hurt less than what he was feeling – and he deserved it. All of it. He loved Sherlock, he would die for him in a heartbeat – and he had fucked his face in Baker Street's sitting room and then had left, without saying a word. Had he even taken off his coat? Had Sherlock? He couldn't even remember.
He didn't look at Sherlock while he left the alley, and for the first time in months the younger man truly looked like himself: bigger than life, his coat billowing around him, his steps fluid and elegant and – what had he done to that man?
He had asked for darkness and Sherlock had complied, he had offered morsels of time and he had taken them, he had turned making love into fucking and getting off because he was coming undone at the seams.
He could not lose Sherlock. Not after everything. He could not lose Sherlock because somewhere down the road he had started to drown and Sherlock had been his only oxygen, his only lifeline. He couldn't lose Sherlock, even if he deserved more than that – he deserved more than some man who fucked his face in a dark room and left him, as if he was a whore and not the most important person of his life.
"Wow." Sally said, breaking his train of thoughts. She had entered the alley and John was simply too raw to deal with the woman.
He shot her a look, but she didn't look impressed. And of course after months of being careful to the point of paranoia, Sally Donovan was the person who had to listen to their fight!
"Sally…" John said, in a warning tone. He had never hit a woman in his life, he didn't want to start that night. He wanted to run after Sherlock, take whatever word, insult, venom Sherlock would throw at him and hope that he hadn't fucked up things for good.
"You know? All this time I got it all wrong." Sally said. She didn't get close to him, she was leaning against a wall, her arms crossed over her chest and John knew that despite what he wanted to do, despite his wishes, he had to stay there, he had to listen to what that woman, who had once believed that Sherlock had kidnapped and poisoned two children, had to say.
"I had really got it the other way around." Sally said, and she sounded genuinely surprised, "I didn't imagine Sherlock was the one I had to warn."
Sherlock. Not freak, not Holmes.
"You don't know what are you talking about!" John said. But did she?
"Of course." Sally said. "I've never been with a married man who used me and then went back to his wife. Oh, wait…"
He saw that Sally was angry and that she wanted to say more; did she want to tell him that not even Anderson had stooped so low? Did she want to tell him that he was a bastard? Would she look at Sherlock with sympathy from then on?
Sally shook her head and didn't say anything. She didn't tell him to stay away from Sherlock, possibly because it was too late: they had already damaged each other too much.
Sherlock had turned off his mobile phone. He wasn't home when, hours later, he went to Baker Street to talk to him. They needed to talk. They needed to - well, no; Sherlock didn't need to do anything, he needed to apologise, he needed to tell him all those things he had not said until that moment because of the rules, because it was easier to hide behind them and keep his eyes open in the dark.
Sherlock didn't come home that night. He knew, because he waited for him, finding excuses with Mary, not caring about the rules, because he had lived in a world without Sherlock and it had almost killed him, the idea of having to go through it again, because he had been an arsehole was too much for him.
Eventually he received a text from Mycroft suggesting him to go home. And it didn't matter that Baker Street was still empty, it didn't matter that he had spent possibly 10 minutes looking at the notes Sherlock had written down (had he played? When?) and he had felt short of breath. It didn't even matter that there was a clean flannel on his nightstand (it wasn't his nightstand, but it was his side of the bed), and an old music box in a bag in the kitchenette with delicate drawings of bees and daisies, something that it was clearly meant for a baby, for Mina.
He went home, without bothering to answer to Mycroft, he knew that a black car followed him to his house in the suburbs, to his fake life – it was then that he started to text Sherlock.
I'm sorry
Sherlock, I went home, to Bak. St. earlier, I wanted to apologise.
We need to talk.
Ok, I need to talk and you – if you could listen to me?
Your mobile is still turned off.
Are you ok?
I was a bastard. I'm so, so sorry.
I just passed by Baker Street, the lights were off. I don't even know if you are home. Your mobile is still turned off.
Ok. I get it, I do. But please, let me know that you are ok.
Do not do drugs. Please.
Are you eating? I used to ask all the time, I stopped because – well, you know why.
Sod the rules, Sherlock…all of them. If Mary reads what I am about to write then so be it! I thought we could do it, I thought I could do it – but the truth is that I couldn't. I can't lead a double life. At first it was difficult, I had to remind myself that it would not be forever, that it was for you, for Mina …but it has got harder and harder to pretend. Leaving you has become a hardship.
(continued) this does not excuse what I did to you. I have no excuses for that. I was a bastard, I treated you horribly and I just want you to know that, if you give me a chance, when this is over, that I will do whatever it takes to deserve your forgiveness. Just answer, please? Let me know that you are alright.
I love you, you know? I'm pants at showing it, especially lately – but I truly do love you.
To be clear: I am in love with you.
The black car was not a surprise. John had sort of expected it – he had started to hope for a black car to slow down and some woman (Anthea, most assuredly) coming out of it and inviting him in.
He did not expect Mycroft himself to get out of the car and silently inviting him inside. He did expect Mycroft's lips to be turned in that half scowl of disgust (after all he had fucked his brother and left him and, apparently, used him as if he was a whore), he had not expected the weariness in Mycroft's eyes or something resembling sympathy in his eyes.
"How's Sherlock?" John asked the minute he got into the car.
"He is fine, John." Mycroft said, a hint of annoyance in his voice. How much did Mycroft know? How much had he seen or heard?
"Where the hell is he?" John asked, and he hadn't realized just how angry he was; he was angry at himself, mostly, but also at Sherlock, Mycroft and their cold logic, at Mary for being a pathological liar and at the world, in general, for just being itself: fucked up and unfair.
"You are under the mistaken impression, John, that you have the right to know and to be privy of my brother's whereabouts." Mycroft said. And that was it: big brother had stepped in, because he worried constantly about his genius little brother who let damaged ex army doctors use him.
"I am worried." John said. And it was the truth – mostly. But Mycroft was right: he felt like he had the right to know, because he loved Sherlock and he was his – and sometimes he wished he could still pretend and live in denial.
"So am I, John." Mycroft said. He turned his head to his side, looking outside for a moment and said, "AGRA will be a go by the end of the month. My question is: what happens then? What happens when you can't hide behind your marriage?"
AGRA, the codename for the operation for Mary, was almost a go. That meant freedom, that meant that Mina would be safe (even if Mary doted on her daughter, she would be devastated and part of him, a small part, hated the idea of taking a child away from her mother.) and Sherlock would not risk being shot again; it was the last missing piece of a large puzzle started in a swimming pool, six years before.
"Do I have to repeat my question, John?" Mycroft said, and again there was loathing and weariness in his voice. "My brother asked me to pass along a message: the texts are against the rules."
John blinked. So Sherlock had got the texts. Had he read them?
"I told him that we are not in a playground, that we are not children, but needs must - so I'm passing along the message."
"I made a horrible mistake." John said, and it was hard to admit it. It was hard to talk, to let the words out, especially with Mycroft, because he had always felt like he sort of was on a higher ground – because he had always protected and been loyal to a fault to Sherlock. He had always thought he had never hurt the younger man.
How wrong he had been.
"You did. And my brother allowed you to make those mistakes. You see, John? Sherlock cannot do things halfway, therefore his devotion is absolute, unwavering to the point where –"
"Where people can hurt him. I hurt him." John finished for Mycroft. The older man nodded once. "And this cannot happen again, hence my question: what happens after we deal with the current problem?"
In a perfect world, one without stupid rules that had almost destroyed what they had, one without dark rooms and no words uttered, Mina, Sherlock and he would be together, solving crimes, blogging about them, taking care of a baby girl who looked like her mother, but had his mother's hands and a weird fascination with stuffed bees (a gift from Mrs. Hudson, officially) and bright colors.
Their world was not perfect, and John honestly had no idea what would happen.
"I don't know." He said and it hurt to speak, he felt his heart drumming in his chest because he was afraid. Because Mycroft had not seen Sherlock's face in that alleyway. He had not seen how frankly exhausted and outraged and sick with him he had been.
"Find it out. When times comes, find out – and just to make things very clear this is the first and only time we shall talk about it. I will not talk next time."
"There won't be a next time." John said. And it truly wouldn't, because if Sherlock didn't forgive him – he didn't want to think about it. He couldn't.
"That is precisely my point." Mycroft said. And John wondered, how on Earth he had ever believed that Mycroft could betray his brother.
Extreme devotion was a trait both Holmes brothers shared. He wondered whether they knew.
It happened in a moment. One moment he was kipping on the couch, with Mina asleep on his chest. Sleep had come as a surprise, actually – it had become sort of a luxury for him since that night in the alley. He had spent sleepless nights or, worse, plagued by dreams. There had been the images he was used to, even if that didn't mean they hurt any less, there had been Sherlock's dark silhouette against a grey sky, a hand reaching toward him, a voice on the phone, words echoing over and over around him, inside of him.
There had been blood – on the pavement, on Sherlock's skin, in his hair, on his own hands, smudges of crimson red, bright and stark against his pale skin.
There had been the sound of Sherlock's heart failing, a long, ominous sound paving the way to a moment of deafening silence.
And then.
Sherlock – hating him. Sherlock looking at him with indifference, with disgust. Sherlock moving on with his life, with Irene, with Jim Moriarty, with Stephen York (whom he had never met, but in his dream looked remarkably like Richard Armitage), with faceless people.
Sherlock happy – without him; free and bigger than life, amazingly brilliant, a Byronic hero, a selfish man-child, but out of his grasp, forever.
And then…
A text, a code decided months before, a couple of minutes to get ready, Mina crying and his heart had been in his throat because – because it was happening, it was really happening!
AGRA was a go – and Sherlock had left him out of it.
He was escorted to a safe house, away from London, with MI5 operatives who looked like they could effortlessly break bones and necks and were assigned to protect him. And they did – they didn't answer to his questions, they confiscated his mobile phone and John could only pace the room (later he couldn't even say what it looked like, he wouldn't remember it.) and wait.
Sherlock had faced Mary alone; months of planning, of strategies and scenarios carefully set up and checked by both Holmes brothers and in the end, Sherlock had acted on his own, without involving him.
Because Sherlock had cared about Mary, had let her in and she had betrayed his trust. Mary had deceived both of them – but Sherlock was the one who had died, he had been the one on his knees in a dark room because of choices he, John Watson, had made.
He didn't count the hours, not that time. He just – paced the room he was in and waited and held his daughter and told her, finally, about Sherlock. He told Mina about a tall, lean man, with a mop of dark hair and piercing eyes who had asked for his mobile phone, in a lab, and had stolen his heart.
He told Mina that if they were lucky she would grow up with a genius, who didn't know a thing about the solar system, but knew every corner, every alley in London, who had shown him how dangerous and breathtakingly beautiful London could be.
He told Mina that Sherlock Holmes had once stolen an ashtray from Buckingam Palace for him, that they used to laugh all the time together, that he was a slob, but his clothes were indexed, that he tortured his violin whenever Mycroft was nearby but he also played beautifully and that if one listened, really listened to his compositions, could never, ever think that he was a sociopath.
He told Mina that he was an idiot, that he had hurt Sherlock and that he regretted being so blind and selfish.
Mina fell asleep in his arms right when the text from Mycroft arrived.
Do find out
-Mycroft Holmes.
Sherlock had grown too thin since he had last seen him. There were bruises on his face and he was sleeping so soundly when he got inside his bedroom that he didn't even wake up.
He didn't hear him.
The first thing John did was turning on all the lights in the flat – all of them, even the ones that they had never used. He opened the binds, half listening to the soft snores coming from Sherlock's bedroom.
He cleaned up the kitchen, then. It was just a few mugs (and he had to blink back tears when he noticed that Sherlock was using one of his mugs, one he had forgot to pack when he had left Baker Street and somehow had become the one he always used when he visited.), a couple of plates. He noticed that there weren't experiments laying around, there weren't newspaper clippings on the walls.
AGRA had been the only thing Sherlock had thought about – and he had kept it inside his head. Sherlock had followed the rules.
He wanted to wake Sherlock up. He wanted to lie on the bed and spoon behind Sherlock and lose himself in him. He wanted to delete the last couple of years and do it all over again: he would grieve again for Sherlock's death, count the days and hours and minute but he would wait for him. He would look the other way when Mary smiled at him from her desk and would tell her that no, he was a taken man. He was in love with a ghost, but he would be back.
He would hate Sherlock for making him grieve, for hurting him – and he would forgive him, again and again, because he was Sherlock and he couldn't live without him.
He would love Sherlock – openly, fearlessly, proudly – and he would learn again how to waltz, because being in Sherlock's arms was right, it was the natural order of things for them.
He would not hurt Sherlock that time around. He would not use him.
God, he had missed him so bloody much!
"Our first proper date, how romantic!" Sherlock spat before disappearing in his bathroom.
Sometimes he forgot how much of a bastard Sherlock could be. It hit him that Sherlock had rarely been verbally cruel to him. Sure, he had called him an idiot a number of times, he had done unspeakable things to him, but the cruelest thing he had ever said to him was "Goodbye John." before faking his suicide.
Sherlock was still angry at him, but he had not asked him to leave, like he had feared he would do; there was still hope. And coffee, black, two sugars, possibly scalding hot, to make.
He did count the seconds, that time, thinking that he had seen Sherlock naked, finally. He did count the minutes, thinking about how thin he was, and how ugly the bruises on his sides were (had Mary kicked him?) and how jagged the lines of his scars were (and sod the rules, he wanted to know who had hurt Sherlock and when!).
The coffee was still steaming hot when Sherlock entered the kitchenette, he was dressed: crisp white shirt, a black suit, like he was about to go out and be Sherlock Holmes the Reichenbach hero, the mysterious detective who solved impossible crimes within minutes, who deduced whole lives in seconds and had no idea about who Madonna was.
Sherlock was still tired, Sherlock was not going to make things easy for him, not that time. And he was right; he deserved words and actions and to be loved like he should have done since the beginning. Nevertheless he was surprised when he threw his mobile phone against a wall. Sherlock was mercurial, he shot holes in the walls, but he was not prone to violent outbursts.
Sherlock deserved the truth – and John said it, he was absolutely rubbish at voicing his feelings, he had always been, but he tried – and he tried to convey how sorry he was, how much he had missed Sherlock, how much he loved him.
And he wanted to laugh when Sherlock told him that Mary had always known. Because of course he hadn't fooled her! She was too smart, too clever, too good a deceiver to be fooled.
Sherlock didn't seem mad about it, though. Mary was out of their lives, for good. They were safe – and she might have stopped Sherlock's heart and broken his, but she had not won. He couldn't allow it happen.
"She has always known that I was in love with you." John said, and God, it was so easy, so fantastic to say those words aloud! How had he done without all that time? There wasn't any fear, any risk, any danger: it was Sherlock and he, in their kitchen, and he was in love with him, he wanted to spend the rest of his days with him and those words made it seem possible.
Sherlock's chin trembled and John was confused for a moment. Surely that wasn't the first time he had said those words, was it? He had spent hours in Sherlock's arms for the past months and before that, in the hospital they had kissed, held hands, they had said things.
Sherlock had told him he loved him – he remembered that, and he felt like all those words in languages he didn't recognize were variations on a theme. He felt it, like he felt that he had not said the words outloud, and that Sherlock would try and downplay the moment, because they were not wired that way.
Except that they were, because when Sherlock touched him, minutes later, to lead him in his (their) bedroom, to finally have some sleep, he felt alive, truly alive for the first time in he didn't even remember how long. He ceased to be half person and half ghost – and he felt whole.
They still had not talked. There were still things to say, they still had to talk about Mina and their future and how much of an asshole he had been, but he slept in Sherlock's bed, bathed in the light and it felt wonderful.
And he smiled, because he knew that Sherlock was watching over him or, more simply, was just – watching him, because he could.
Hours later, when he woke up, he was welcolmed by the sound of Sherlock's violin. He was playing in the sitting room, their sitting room, the fire in the fireplace crackling, two cups of hot tea on the table.
"What are you playing?" John asked with a yawn.
Sherlock cast him a glance, he didn't smile, he didn't need to, he turned and without looking at him said, "A lullaby." A pause and then he added, "for our - Mina."
The end