"I don't suppose I can persuade you to stay, John?" asked Mycroft, shooting an annoyed look at the cab where Sherlock sat imperviously. Imperiously even, Mycroft thought. Of course.
John dumped a duffel bag against the small pile of suitcases on the footpath outside 221B Baker Street and said, "No," in that tone of voice that Mycroft had heard so many times before.
Mycroft looked at a loss, and glanced at the cab for moral support, "John, he has been protecting you. I have been protecting you. Molly has…."
John's voice finally cracked, "Protecting me? What am I, a child? The only children around here are you and him, Mycroft," he glared up at Mycroft's face and hissed, "Did it ever occur to you two, that while you were playing your little game of cloak and dagger, I was suffering? Do you even know what that means?"
"John…."
"I re-enlisted! I got shot at! Those bloody rebels were going to slit my throat! And where were you and Sherlock then, eh? Eh? It was up to some Arab I had never met to protect me! Where the hell was Sherlock then? That Arab put his life on the line for me, even though he didn't know me from Adam, and all he asked for in return was the bit of silver in my dog tags. Some people don't ask for blood, Mycroft. Some people don't ask you to sell them your soul just to show you a little bit of human decency!" This last was yelled at the impassive figure in the cab.
Another cab pulled up in front of the one Sherlock sat in, and Mycroft glared at John. The man could be admirable in his stubbornness at times, but at the moment it was jangling Mycroft's nerves. Mycroft tried again, "He needs you here. Where is the logic in leaving now, after you have waited here for him for three years?"
John was still in a yelling mood, obviously, because he swung on the Holmes brothers, taking them in with his flashing dark blue eyes, "I wasn't here for three years, I was here for two months and then came back for one month. And how dare you cite logic to me! I am so sick of your bloody logic! Did either of you, ever, just once, stop to think how this would make me feel? Do you have any concept of what you have put me through? No? I didn't think so."
Mycroft winced again and looked to his brother for help, angry that he had been put in the position of being yelled at in the street. He could not reconcile the impassive figure sitting in the cab with the desperate, pleading Sherlock who had asked him to talk some sense into John Watson, to stop him from leaving 221B again before Sherlock had even had a chance to move back in. Apparently, it was not Mycroft's day for reconciling anything, because it seemed he could not even reconcile Sherlock and John, which really should have been a doddle. It was not his finest hour. He felt the situation slipping out of his control, and was becoming frustrated. Failure was not a familiar experience for Mycroft. Although, where Sherlock was concerned, perhaps it was a little more familiar than in other areas of Mycroft's life.
"John, you know that neither Sherlock nor I are good with emotional issues. Surely a little understanding on your part would go a long way…."
John picked up his duffel bag and one suitcase in his right hand and headed for the newly-arrived second cab, "No. I'm done with being the only grown-up in the room."
The window of the cab where Sherlock was sitting suddenly wound down, and something glittering and silver was held out the window on a chain, hanging down and contrasting brightly with the glossy black curve of the cab door.
It caught the periphery of John's vision, then stopped him dead in his tracks. He froze for too many seconds before walking over to the cab as though he were in a trance. He stared at the little silver rectangles dangling from the chain in the gloved hand. He could just see the name on them… his own name. His mind flashed back to when he had handed the dog-tags to the mysterious mute Arab. It had been the least he could give for the man who had inexplicably risked his life to save John from having his throat slit and being left to bleed out on the hot sand.
Inexplicably until now.
His voice was suddenly hushed, "That was you?"
A pair of battered sunglasses came out into the gloved hand. John took them and inspected them, recognizing the purple bottom edge and the little red flame at the side. They were a cheap American make, mass produced and plastic. At the time, he had been puzzled that his benefactor had refused to remove them, but now it suddenly made sense. The Arab turban which protected its wearer from the blazing sun left only the eyes showing, but Sherlock's eyes would have given him away instantly to John. With the sunglasses on, his rescuer could have been anybody. Even a ghost.
Sherlock nodded and looked coldly at John, "Yes."
John tried to talk, his voice failed him, disappeared, then he coughed and said, "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I could not. I was too busy protecting you, and Mycroft was too busy hunting down Moriarty. I helped where I could," Sherlock's voice was still deep, but it seemed rougher now, a little less controlled. But he still did not look at John, staring straight ahead. John hitched a slight frown.
John glanced over at Mycroft, who strolled over to him. Mycroft explained, "When you enlisted, Sherlock was beside himself. He could not be in two places at once, John. He could not track down Moriarty's thugs and leave you to be shot down by some random soldier. He came to me for help. And after all…." Mycroft had been going to say that the whole Moriarty thing was all his fault, that letting John's enlistment slip by his notice was also his fault, but suddenly he stopped, knowing that Sherlock would explain it to John later and Mycroft was getting just a little bit sick of trotting out his own faults in front of his brother and his erstwhile flatmate.
"So you knew, two months after Sherlock jumped. You knew, Mycroft," John's voice had even more of an accusing edge in it now, something Mycroft would not have thought possible a minute ago.
"It was not a good two months," it was as close at the Holmes boys ever got to admitting their feelings: 'good' or 'not good.'
"Well, imagine how thirty-six months would have felt," suggested John, his voice tight.
Mycroft winced and Sherlock stared straight ahead, and John watched him for about thirty seconds. Nothing. Sherlock somehow gave the impression of complete and utter indifference to anything John might say.
John lifted the tags, still held tightly, he noticed, in Sherlock's gloved hand, and said, "They're clean."
Sherlock shifted slightly in his seat and looked up into John's eyes, "How observant of you."
"When was the last time you had them cleaned?"
"I don't have them cleaned, I do it myself," said Sherlock, but he knew that John was referring to the jewellery that he had seen on the Lady in Pink. Her necklace, earrings, all sparkling clean. He had looked at her dirty wedding ring and said, 'State of her marriage, right there.'
John smiled a thin smile and sighed, fiddling with the sparkling dog tags. He remembered his sense of foreboding when he was first given them. His mates were pleased to get them, but John was not. Somehow they made him feel that he was now the property of the British government, that he would now be required to leave his country to defend it, even to kill people when it was required.
Then slowly, something rattled into place in John's mind, and he looked up from the dog tags into Sherlock's eyes. John could have kicked himself. "Those three men you shot when you asked me for these…."
"Three?" repeated Sherlock, as though the number were meaningless, as though he had forgotten how to count.
"Oh, fuck," breathed John, and set down the two suitcases he had been carrying. He walked up to the cabbie in the other cab and dismissed him with a tip. Sherlock watched John now and did not look away.
Mycroft was watching John, holding his breath as he witnessed the strange connection between the doctor and Mycroft's little brother slowly coming back to life again.
"Mycroft," said John softly.
Mycroft hadn't realised that he had been holding his breath until he tried to speak and had to inhale sharply, "Yes?"
"The bags? I'll bring Sherlock up."
Mycroft looked at the bags in some alarm, then spotted the cabbie in Sherlock's cab looking at him. A slight tip upwards of his head and a flick of his cold eyes, and the cabbie galvanised, saying, "I'll bring those up for you, if you like, Guv."
"Yes, and the one in the boot of this cab, too," said Mycroft, and, that minor problem resolved, turned his attention back to Doctor Watson and Sherlock.
John was leaning on the open window of the cab, speaking quietly to Sherlock.
"So… you've been looking after me."
Sherlock looked up at him, and John saw, finally, the haunted expression behind the new coldness in Sherlock's silver eyes. Just for a second, John caught a glimpse of the warm green-grey patina, the palette of hues that changed with Sherlock's every mood, behind the metallic colour. Then it was gone again, like a mirage.
John went on, very softly, "Say the number, Sherlock. I'll only ask you once."
There was a long silence, during which Sherlock looked up at John, wonder in his eyes. He looked away, and was silent for so long that the cabbie came back down the steps, empty handed, having taken John's bags back upstairs, and went to the boot of the cab for Sherlock's single small bag.
Eventually the deep voice whispered, so low that only John could hear, "Thirty-seven."
John winced, "You see, Sherlock, this is why you should have had me with you. That's too many for a civilian. The military prepares you for that, trains you to deal with it."
"I didn't have that option, John. I had no options."
John looked at him, "Only you could say that."
Sherlock hissed suddenly, "Well, I didn't." Then he looked shocked at his own outburst, and fell back into that bleak silence.
John looked at him, then reached into the cab and put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, "Come on, I'll make you a cup of tea, that's if Mrs Hudson's not got the kettle on already. We can compare notes about shooting bad guys. It'll be nice to have something in common, someone to talk to who's just as fucked-up as me…."
Sherlock stared at the hand on his shoulder, and up at John. He was shocked at the crude humour, then saw the quiet compassion in the dark blue eyes of the doctor, and frowned. Sherlock felt the machine that was his mind powering up as he looked at John. 'I can't just turn it on and off at will, John'… did John really understand that, Sherlock wondered, as his eyes drifted downward in at the start of a slow blink and his thoughts began to hum:
It dawned on Sherlock just how much he had missed John Watson's intellect. John, who was smart enough to figure out almost immediately (even when everyone else failed, even Mycroft) what was really bugging Sherlock. John, who now realised that Sherlock had been slowly falling to pieces for three years, and managed to offer to start putting him back together again and make it sound like it was just a cup of tea and not intensive therapy with the only doctor in Britain smart enough to help Sherlock. The only one from whom Sherlock would accept such help.
John knew Sherlock was a crack shot but couldn't even bring himself to fire straight at the Golem, an assassin who had just tried to strangle him with his bare hands. He had commented the second day he knew Sherlock, that the detective had been shot at so many times in the course of his investigations that he should carry a gun for protection. He had seen the revulsion in Sherlock's eyes at the idea of taking a human life, and understood immediately why Sherlock could not bring himself to carry a gun. Some people just weren't born to take lives, the army said they 'didn't have it in them.' John had shot the cabbie and became Sherlock's protection from the moment he understood that about Sherlock.
And then for three years Sherlock had to do without that protection, had to become John and Mrs Hudson's and Lestrade's invisible protector by overcoming his revulsion for taking human life, albeit detestable human life, again and again. And again. Until it seemed that all Sherlock existed for was to pull that trigger and watch another body fall. Without John by his side to protect him and tell him he was doing the right thing and make him eat when his stomach clenched against the revulsion for days on end.
John. Who else would have read more into Sherlock's action in holding out the dog tags than the obvious need to prove himself as John's saviour? Who else would have studied the dog tags, noticed their cleanliness, remembered Sherlock's comment from four years ago about the significance of that, and sent his bags back upstairs? Who else would let themselves yell at Mycroft, but never, ever lose control of their emotions when it really mattered, when lives were at stake and the situation desperate? And who else would have understood that now was one of those desperate times? Sherlock felt the breath leave his body in a soft sigh.
John was home, and sanity, and forgiveness, and gave meaning to what Sherlock had been doing for the last three years, and might even explain it back to Sherlock in a way that didn't make Sherlock feel like one of the serial killers he had so often tracked down and handed over to Lestrade. John was the one person for whom Sherlock might take that final bullet out of the chamber of his hated gun and not use it on himself to block out the ocean of guilt that was pressing in even now on the levies of his always-tenuous sanity.
John was the one person who would have said, 'just as fucked-up as me' and made it sound like admiration. The only person from whom Sherlock would have accepted such a comparison.
Sherlock's eyes completed the blink, flicking open again. He wanted to leap out of the cab and hug John, but he settled for a brief squeeze of the hand on his shoulder, a brief glance of gratitude, and two short words, "Alright, then."
Mycroft closed his eyes for a second, feeling the tension leach out of his body. He had been half expecting to have to deal with Sherlock in freefall, and his gratitude in that moment towards John Watson was profound. Mycroft felt, just for a second, a brief pang of regret that he did not have someone like John Watson. He could almost wish…. he dismissed the thought. Just then a sudden voice behind him interrupted his reverie and almost made him jump.
"All right, then?" asked the voice quietly. Mycroft turned around and saw Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade of Scotland Yard standing at his shoulder, looking at him curiously.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade. Yes, I believe they will be, now."
"I didn't mean them. Sherlock and John were always going to be alright. I meant you. John can be pretty intimidating when he yells."
"Oh," Mycroft huffed a laugh, "I am fine. I had worse things happen to me than being yelled at, I assure you, Mr Lestrade."
"Good. I mean good that you're fine, not about worse things happening to you."
Mycroft smiled at the other man's ineptitude, "Quite, Mr Lestrade."
"Greg."
Mycroft hesitated. Greg Lestrade was well below Mycroft's social standing. But… he was a respectable man, honest, of high moral character, and importantly, one of the three friends of his brother that Moriarty had seen fit to threaten. Moriarty had been a devil, but he was also devilishly clever. If he considered Lestrade important to Sherlock, Mycroft should perhaps get to know the man better.
All this went through Mycroft's mind in a millisecond, registering with Greg only as a brief moment of reserve before Mycroft smiled.
"Huh," said Greg.
"Yes?"
"I've never seen you smile before…." Greg trailed off, embarrassed.
"I'm sure you have."
"Not like you meant it."
Mycroft hefted an eyebrow at him and said, "It is late. I must be tired."
"I think we can trust the kiddies to play nice, now. You look like you could use a pint," suggested Greg, and Mycroft stared at him. No-one had ever suggested to Mycroft Holmes that he could 'use a pint.'
People just didn't.
Mycroft was amazed to realise that he could. He really could use a pint. He stared at Greg, who said, "I know a pub near here that's so crammed full of London's finest that the criminals can't breathe the air within a mile of it. Think your security people could cope with that?"
Greg impulsively reached out and took Mycroft by the arm, and was shocked to feel Mycroft tense up suddenly at the contact. He removed his hand, "Sorry."
"It is not the contact that worries me, Greg. It is the very real probability that you may start a gun battle," smiled Mycroft, and Greg glanced over at John Watson, who had instinctively reached behind him and whose eyes were scanning the rooftops. Sherlock had emerged from the cab, and John had stepped almost unconsciously in front of Sherlock, placing the detective in the relatively safe space between his own body and the brick wall.
"Where?" John asked Greg tensely.
"No, John, it's alright, I was just going to take Mycroft here off for a pint," said Greg.
John holstered his gun, breathing a sigh of relief, "I thought you were pulling him away from something…."
"Shit, sorry," said Greg, but then he glanced at Sherlock and smiled. Mycroft looked at his brother and smiled too. Confused, John looked at Sherlock… straight into grey eyes full of adoration. John blushed, and said, "Alright then, Sherlock?"
"Yes," and just for a second Sherlock was his old sparkling self again.
"Come on Mycroft, we can't stand here all day. John, Sherlock, we're going down to the White Hart. Catch you tomorrow," said Greg.
"Sure," said John absently, as he and Sherlock turned to go into 221B.
Mycroft looked at his car, and sighed, then asked, "Do you mind if we go in my car? You should send your man home, I can have my driver take you home afterwards."
"No, not at all," said Greg, and went over to let his driver know. The man looked relieved to be given an early night, and the police car pulled away silently and Greg walked back to Mycroft.
"That was thoughtful of you," he commented.
"One should always make sure one's driver is taken care of," commented Mycroft absently.
"What about yours?" asked Greg.
"He only started his shift two hours ago," said Mycroft, and led the way to the black Jaguar.
Greg followed Mycroft into the back seat, and Mycroft sat staring out the window.
"Something on your mind?"
"Always," murmured Mycroft, then said, "Did you see that look?"
"The one Sherlock gave John when John pulled his gun?"
"Yes."
"He was probably grateful not to have to be the one pulling the trigger for once," suggested Greg quietly.
"There was more to it than that," said Mycroft.
"I know that, Mycroft, but it's not really polite to discuss their…." Greg trailed off.
Silence fell between the two men, then Mycroft was startled to hear Greg add quietly, "Although, I will admit, I'd sell my soul to have someone look at me like that… just once in my life."
Mycroft met Greg's eyes and stared, because that was exactly what Mycroft had been thinking. And that sort of thing never happened to Mycroft. Except of course with Sherlock. Mycroft looked thoughtful, and let his mind drift across to the man next to him in that way he did when he wanted to know something.
"You must be mad," smiled Mycroft, "Because you have a Holmes in a cab and you're taking him for a pint."
"Fuck," breathed Greg, "How did you know I was thinking that?"
"It's a skill," smiled Mycroft.
"You know, you smile a lot," noted Greg.
"I do?"
Back at 221B, Sherlock smiled at John and followed him around the room with his eyes. Sherlock had stared at the familiar room and sunk cautiously into his chair, tolerating Mrs Hudson's delighted and slightly bemused fussing as she brought them tea and cake. She had hugged him three more times already. Time passed, and then he was hugging Mrs Hudson yet again because she was leaving for the night and she was the one person he hugged easily, and she was gone for the night.
The world came alive around Sherlock again, and he eyed John.
"Why would you be mind-palacing now?" asked John gently, walking over to sit on the sofa.
"I have a lot to process," answered Sherlock.
"Let me know when you're done."
"I'm done."
"So," said John, looking at Sherlock. Sherlock stood up and walked over to the sofa, and as he sat down next to John, John realised how lean and hard looking Sherlock had become. Before St Bart's, he had been tall and elegant. Now, he was tall and powerful and dangerous looking, "When the hell, did you start eating well?"
"I needed to be strong to… do what I had to do," said Sherlock, "It was logical to eat." He reached over for his tea and John noticed the muscles in his wrist.
"So your…. transport had to adjust to the terrain," John smiled, images of tank-Sherlock filling his mind.
Sherlock looked at him and saw the smile, "I can only imagine what your mind is conjuring up to go with that comment, John."
A faint laugh, "No you can't."
"Tank?"
"Damn. Got it in one."
"Hardly a stretch, given your years of military service. You've forgotten."
"How brilliant you are? Yes. I thought I remembered, but you really need to stay around to keep reminding me, you really, really do…." John looked down suddenly, and Sherlock was shocked to see his shoulders start to shake. But John said nothing, and Sherlock did not know what he should do.
"Hug me, you idiot," came a muffled gulp from John, and Sherlock complied, a little hesitantly.
John leaned into the body beside him, and Sherlock whispered, "I'd forgotten how brilliant you are."
John managed to smile, but his body was still giving little hitches against Sherlock's and Sherlock remembered something from when he had broken his leg as a child, and Mycroft had held him, calling for Mummy. Mycroft had tightened his arms around Sherlock and Sherlock had felt better. He tightened his arms around John, and to his relief John seemed to relax and lean more into the embrace.
"That's it, you're getting it," came the muffled voice.
"Not good at this," murmured Sherlock, managing to sound almost apologetic.
"You're doing fine. Just fine."
Sherlock felt the tension begin to seep out of him, and managed to relax into John's body a little. John heaved a shuddering sigh, and said, "Sorry."
"No," whispered Sherlock, "I don't think you should be."
"You know, we really should stop hugging each other at this point if I am ever going to keep up the illusion in my own mind that I am not gay, Sherlock."
A strange noise came from Sherlock, and John realised it was a deep chuckle. John began to lose it too, and started to laugh along with his friend. They held each other and laughed until they were breathless, and John pulled away a little and said, "Drink your tea before it goes cold."
He leaned forward to reach for Sherlock's cup off the coffee table, but Sherlock stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
"John, seriously, you don't have to… I don't expect…." Sherlock floundered to a halt.
John smiled, "You really do have the I.Q. of a peanut when it comes to emotional issues, don't you?"
Sherlock frowned at him and narrowed his eyes, "Your point being?"
"The fact that you even have to ask that just confirms my statement," grinned John, then looked thoughtful , "But you did ask… and I guess it's high time I gave you an answer to that question." He fell silent, but after a minute looked lost in reverie.
Sherlock nudged him impatiently and John began, "My therapist, she said…. I couldn't tell her some things, no matter how I tried. She said I had to say them, but I knew I should only say them to you, and I couldn't say them to you because you were dead. At least I thought you were."
Sherlock nodded.
"But that didn't stop me from thinking about them," continued John.
Sherlock's eyes widened as John turned to him and took both his hands, looking down at them and rubbing them gently, "I'm not gay. I have never looked at another man. Not in the slightest interested. But you? I just…" he gazed up into Sherlock's eyes, silver now not with coldness but with burning interest. John continued, "I could feel myself falling, that first minute in St Bart's with Stamford. Like the ground had gone from under me and I was in freefall. You were just so fucking amazing….."
Sherlock's eyes were huge circles, as John looked up at him, then released his hands slowly and took the taller man's face in both hands, pulling him down into a kiss.
Sherlock allowed it, bemused, then pulled back gently from John. John whispered, "Sherlock, I think… I think I might be in love with you."
Sherlock blinked, and said in a completely puzzled tone of voice, "But John…."
"What?"
"I'm not gay either," whispered Sherlock, and leaned in to capture John's lips in a passionate kiss.
John kissed him back, for ages. Then he pulled back gently, and said, "Well, this is bloody confusing then, isn't it?"
Sherlock nodded.
They kept kissing.