Doctor John Watson turned over in bed, pulling the blankets tighter around himself. He threw an arm out wildly, his fingers snatching at thin air, desperately trying to hold on to something unseen. He began to mutter softly,
"Sherlock."
A pair of thin, soft hands cupped his face and a soft voice called out his name.
"John, John, wake up. It's just a nightmare. I'm here John." John bolted upright, panting, cold sweat dripping down his neck. He looked into the deep green eyes that were staring into his, concern lacing the delicate features of his wife's face. He felt himself calming down in her arms, leaning his face into her shoulder.
"I don't want to talk about it." He told her, pulling away from her touch and getting out of bed. She sighed, pushing herself out of bed as well.
"Do you at least want to know what you were saying this time?" It had been established when they were first married that she was to tell John what he'd been muttering in his sleep. It helped him, helped him to never forget, cause the nightmare was always the same.
"I already know." He turned away from her and pulled on his blue robe, stepping out of their bedroom and into the small kitchen of their apartment. Three years, it had been three years since that day. He couldn't bring himself to think about it as he shuffled about the kitchen making tea. He heard quiet footsteps behind him as his wife entered the kitchen. She sat down at their little table, built for two.
"It's today John. Are you going to-?"
"Yes. Every year Charlie." He replied sullenly, handing her a mug of tea. She took a tentative sip.
"I'll wait up for you."
"No. This year," John paused in the action of sitting down in his own chair. Doubt flickered in his eyes, something that Charlie did not miss. "This year, will you come with me?" He asked quietly, as if ashamed to admit that he needed her to help him to cope.
"Of course." Charlie carefully folded one of John's hands in both of hers. His skin was calloused and scarred, hers soft and unblemished. He placed his other hand over hers and raised the tangle of their fingers to his lips, gently kissing their intertwined fingers.
"Thank you."
O.O
He had seen the woman before, he knew who she was, and who she was to John, but he had never seen her here. John Watson stood before the dark headstone of Sherlock Holmes holding the hand of a short woman with short, unruly brown hair. She was pale, a smattering of freckles across her cheekbones. John was wearing tan pants and a black sweater, wrapped up in a grey pea coat. The woman was wearing a black skirt and a grey sweater. She shivered slightly against the cold, Sherlock smiled to himself at her attempts to hide it from John. He watched as the couple stood silently before his gravestone. He watched in silence as John sunk to his knees before the threatening black stone. His own vision wavered with tears as the woman knelt down next to him and wrapped John in her arms. Sherlock took a step back, wiping the traitorous tears from his own eyes as John cried into the woman's shoulder. After a moment he pushed her away, standing up and composing himself, before kissing the tips of his fingers and laying them on the top of the gravestone.
He turned away, squaring his shoulders and slipping his mask back into place. He took his wife's hand and together they walked slowly from the graveyard. His only friend in the world walking away from him, unaware of his presence, unaware of his continued existence; it cut into Sherlock and he wanted nothing more than to run to him and hold him and tell him that he was there and would never leave again. Sherlock resisted though, turning away from the couple and silently stealing away. He knew that Charlie would take John to get tea before heading back to their flat. Sherlock hailed a cab and quickly set off to John's flat.
O.O
"I don't want tea Charlie. I want to go home. Let's go." John pulled his hand from Charlie's as she tried to lead him into the tea house.
"John, I'm freezing, so are you, we just need a cup of tea to warm us up. I promise we'll go home. Just one cup John." Charlie told him, saying whatever she needed to in order to get him inside the tea house before he broke down of exhaustion and heart break. John relented, taking her hand again and leading the way into the small, warm tea house. They sat at a table by the front window, John staring unseeingly out at the street as Charlie ordered their tea.
"I'm sorry Charlie."
"For what?" Charlie asked, looking at her husband curiously.
"You didn't know what you were marrying into. You deserve so much better than me. I'm broken, and you're still whole. You deserve someone whole."
"Don't." Charlie stopped him, placing her left arm on the table and turning the palm up, pulling the sleeve of her sweater up, exposing the pale skin of her forearm. John traced her scars carefully with the tips of his fingers. Thin white scars wove from her wrist to her elbow, a solid line of scar tissue running across her wrist. He could still see where her wrist had been stitched closed, the delicate porcelain skin mangled and marked with the scars from her cuts and burns.
"I'm just as broken as you John." She pulled her sleeve over her scars as their waitress brought them their tea. John sat staring at her with an unusual intensity in his eyes.
"I remember that."
"Of course you do John. I remember it too." Charlie took a sip of her mint tea, refusing to meet John's eyes.
"Why did you do it Charlie? You've never told me. I want to understand why you would try to remove yourself from this world." John asked, his voice carrying an undercurrent of anger.
"I don't want to talk about it. I know you're only bringing this up because it's that day. But I don't want to talk about it, ever." She stole a quick glance at his eyes and was surprised they held concern rather than anger.
"I need to know Charlie. I need to know why you cut yourself open and landed in my hospital. I want to know why I had to stitch you back together again and pray that you pull through. I need to know why you wanted to disappear, to make sure it never happens again."
"I was alone." Charlie whispered, barely audible above the cars in the street and the people chatting happily in the café. "You saved me, not just physically, but emotionally as well. You know, after you stitched up my wrist, you stitched up my heart John. You made me whole again." John leaned across the table and pressed his lips against Charlie's.
"Let's go home."
O.O
Sherlock heard the taxi stop outside the flat. He cursed to himself, having not anticipated that they would be home so quickly. He realized that he hated not knowing this Charlie woman better, being able to predict John's actions but not hers. He quickly stepped into the stairwell, tiptoeing to the front door of the flat above. He waited in silence as he listened to them walking up the stairs. John's steps accompanied by the sharp click of his cane, Sherlock had known that the limp would come back after his "suicide". Charlie's steps were lighter, quicker, following John's heavy, uneven ones. He heard John fumbling to open the door, the resounding click of the lock as the bolt opened. Then the door was closed, and Sherlock was left crouching in an empty stairwell, listening to the inaudible voices of his best friend and his wife.
I can't go in there. He told himself, he recognized his own desire to let John know he was still there. I can't do it. He would never trust again.
Sherlock, abandoning his care for John for a moment in favor of his own needs and wants, crept down to stand in front of John's door. Without a moment of hesitation he knocked twice sharply on the door. Footsteps, not the footsteps that he wanted to hear, approached the door. It opened to reveal Charlie, her face a mixed expression of confusion and anger.
"Hello Charlie dear, spare me the introductions and take me to John will you?" Sherlock smiled down at her, his pale skin crinkling around his eyes as he did so. Charlie took a step back, oddly intimidated by this tall, incredibly attractive man.
"John!" She shouted into the flat, taking another step away from the door as Sherlock let himself in.
"You know I used to live here with John, I was a bit shocked that he didn't find a new place once you got married." Sherlock provided, absently making conversation as he felt something stirring inside of him. He believed he was actually nervous, a tiny bit nervous for the first time in his life. It was a strange sensation this, doubt, this tiny doubt that was plaguing his mind. Of course John would be happy to see him, there was no doubt about that.
"What is it Char-?" John stopped midsentence, staring at Sherlock in disbelief. He dropped the basket of laundry that he had evidently been taking to the wash.
"What the HELL?!" John lunged at Sherlock, covering the distance between them quickly and throwing the younger man onto the floor. He pulled back a fist and swung at Sherlock, striking him across the face.
"John! It's me! Stop!" Sherlock pushed John away, holding a hand to his bloodied nose. Charlie was pulling John away from Sherlock. John was crying, hot, angry tears streaming down his face and he shouted obscenities at Sherlock.
"How? HOW?!"
Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, tilting his head back and ignoring John. "I suppose you don't love me enough to avoid my nose anymore." He retorted sharply. John stopped struggling to get away from Charlie.
"Why?"
"It was necessary for your survival John. And that of Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade."
"Why didn't you come back the moment it was safe YOU BASTARD?!" John shouted, managing to pull himself free of Charlie's arms. He jumped at Sherlock, wrapping his arms around the taller man's waist and knocking him to the ground. He found his face centimeters from Sherlocks', their eyes locked, a challenge darting between them. John felt dizzy and disoriented, this had to be a dream. It was impossible that Sherlock was here. It just wasn't logical. John made up his mind, considering it was just a dream, he knew what he had to do. Without another moment's hesitation, he pressed his lips to Sherlocks'. Sherlock froze beneath him, taken aback by John's sudden advances. After a moment Sherlock found himself rather enjoying the kiss, pushing back against John's lips. This simple, closed lip kiss was perfect, John felt the happiness flowing through him, finally a dream that ended with something other than Sherlock falling off the roof of Saint Bard's.
"John would you care to explain why you're kissing some man on the floor of our flat?" Charlie's concerned voice pierced his thoughts, and John momentarily panicked, perhaps it wasn't a dream after all. He pulled away from Sherlock, moving off of him and standing up. Sherlock stood up next to him, struggling to replace his mask of cool indifference, the kiss had unnerved him.
"Don't worry dear it's all a dream." John replied, giving Charlie a quick peck on the cheek.
"John, you're not dreaming. We've just got home after visiting your best friend's grave. He died three years ago today. Do you not remember?"
John froze, turning slowly to look at Sherlock.
"So you're real, and we've just kissed?"
"Yes." The calm, familiar baritone replied.
"You have a lot of explaining to do."
"As do you, you've got an American wife who's pregnant and you're living in our flat." Sherlock retorted. John's face fell, he turned to Charlie.
"Pregnant?" He asked quietly, his voice hitching.
"How did he know?" Charlie glanced at Sherlock, her voice coming out in a barely audible whisper.
"I see that dear John is in for a long day of explanations then." Sherlock smirked, sitting down in his old armchair. "Shall I begin?"