John followed Sherlock out of the building in a cloud of joyous awkwardness. They were both so happy to see each other, but neither had the faintest idea of what to say. John's hand twitched, wanted to take Sherlock's, but he resisted, not knowing how well the gesture would be taken.
Despite being married for over three years, almost four, John felt rather like he was on a blind date.
Sherlock had the ability to conjure taxis from nowhere, which both amused and annoyed John. Cabs always passed him by.
John traced a hesitant fingertip along the outside of Sherlock's wrist, startling him. "Were you working on a case just now?"
Sherlock's throat worked for a second, and his hand twitched under John's touched. "Yes," he huffed out. "Lestrade called me on scene yesterday. You would have loved it, John," he grinned quickly, "it was at least an eight."
John let Sherlock ramble on about a fenced-in garden with a gate locked on the outside and how criminals who know about forensics made the Work fun, but he was more interested in Sherlock's hand under his. As Sherlock spoke, he slowly rotated his hand over, allowing John's fingers to slide into the spaces between his before squeezing gently.
"Impressive," John murmured as Sherlock explained his reasoning about small indents in the dirt near the fence and a handful of green paint flakes that led to the brother and his green ladder. Sherlock gave him another fleeting grin and looked away.
"We're here." He paid the cabbie and John hauled himself out of the car. Sherlock looked at him oddly as he adjusted his grip on the cane but said nothing as he led the way into the restaurant.
"Ah, Sherlock!" a big man with a ponytail and an apron greeted with a booming voice. "Welcome, welcome! Anything on the menu, free of charge, for you and your date." He turned to John, grinning broadly. "This man got me off a murder charge," he said, leading them to a table.
"This is Angelo. Four years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade that he was in a completely different part of town, housebreaking," Sherlock explained, tugging off his scarf in a smooth motion. He sat in the chair facing the window, leaving John to look over the restaurant.
"He cleared my name," Angelo continued proudly.
"I cleared it a bit," Sherlock countered, sounding amused.
Angelo ignored him, leaning toward John and dropping his voice conspiratorially. "Without him, I'd have gone to prison."
"You did go to prison," Sherlock pointed out.
Angelo seemed completely unconcerned by that fact. "I'll get you a candle for the table. It's more romantic."
"Actually," John spoke up, "could we sit somewhere else?"
-0-
Sherlock observed John carefully, noting his tight grip on the cane and the way his eyes flicked around the room and out the window, the way he angled himself toward the main part of the restaurant.
Oh.
"Yes," he agreed, standing. "Perhaps somewhere in a corner, Angelo?"
The proprietor looked at him slightly askance, but he had experienced enough of Sherlock's seemingly bizarre behaviour to know better than to question him. He just nodded, leading them to another table in the back near the kitchen.
"I'll send Tommy by in a few minutes," he said, handing them menus.
"You have PTSD," Sherlock said bluntly, but he kept his voice down. "You won't present your back to a room."
John hummed, but his neck was stiff and he kept his eyes on his menu, though they weren't moving. "I know that."
"You noted each exit as we came in, and you position yourself to provide the smallest possible target," Sherlock continued.
"Yeah, well, the last time I gave someone my back I got shot," John said harshly, and Sherlock flinched. John sighed, rubbing his eyes. "What are you pushing for, Sherlock? This isn't exactly dinner conversation."
"I-," Sherlock floundered, unsure of himself. "I can remember every word we ever said to each other. Every letter, every conversation. After…when you called last time…" This wasn't working, he didn't have the words! "You changed. You were…less bright. Unhappy." John wasn't looking at him, but Sherlock studied his husband intently. "Your limp's psychosomatic," he said in a rush. "It's bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair, like you've forgotten about it- "
"Sherlock," John warned.
Sherlock continued, leaning forward intently. "The wound is long healed, but the circumstances were traumatic. It was a psychiatric evaluation that almost got you dismissed last time, but the pain is a manifestation of stress, so it's safe to say the original injury occurred almost four years ago, which would make it approximately the same time you were nominated for the Victoria Cross- "
"Dammit, Sherlock!" John slammed a fist down on the table, making the silverware jump. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and visibly reigning his temper in. "Don't. Just- ," he broke off with a pained hum.
Sherlock shrank back, cowed.
"I never wanted that medal," John said quietly. His eyes weren't focused on anything in the present when they opened again, dark and desperate. "There were others. They should have gotten it."
"John," Sherlock pleaded helplessly, "I'm sorry…"
John sighed. "It's fine. I know we'll have to talk about it. Some day." He gave Sherlock a flat look. "But not today, yeah?"
-0-
They had managed to stumble their way into a pleasant dinner, with Sherlock talking about his cases and experiments and John telling his husband about his more daring surgeries and field rescues.
Then it came time to leave and it instantly got awkward again.
"Baker Street is just a few blocks from here," Sherlock ventured quietly. "It's…an easy walk."
John was finding it difficult to meet Sherlock's eyes. "Er, my things are still at the bedsit."
John's mobile buzzed in his pocket, signalling a text. "Right, of course," Sherlock mumbled as John opened the message.
Your belongings have been moved to Baker Street, courtesy of Mr M Holmes. –A
John grinned wryly. "Actually, it seems my omniscient brother-in-law has…checked me out of the bedsit already." He looked up at Sherlock, who was wound tighter than a spring. "I guess we're moving in together. Um, if that's alright?"
"Yes," Sherlock sighed, the corners of his mouth tilting up. "Yes, that's alright." He helped John into his jacket.
John noticed the way his expression shifted when he picked up the cane. "You hate it," he realised.
"Of course," Sherlock snapped. He took a deep breath through his nose. "You hate it too," he pointed out. "The pain isn't real, it's just in your head."
"That doesn't make it hurt any less," John replied flatly. "I'm dealing with it, ok?"
Sherlock looked away in defeat. "What if you took my arm?" he asked suddenly. "Would you need the crutch then?"
John thought about that. He despised the fact that he needed anything to support himself, unable to walk on his own, but if it was Sherlock…this was his husband. Surely it wasn't weak to accept help from one's spouse? "Let's try it," he decided.
Sherlock too his cane in one hand, looping John's through his elbow instead. It was slow going with John leaning on him every other step, but it worked. It was…kind of nice, actually. John wondered if it was having someone help him because they knew he didn't want to rely on the cane rather than just to be polite. The nurses in the base hospitals had always tried to help him, but it always came off as pitying or patronising, so he had snapped at them until they stopped. Sherlock just pretended there was nothing out of the ordinary, like healthy twenty-eight year old men needed help walking down the street every day.
"Mrs Hudson is the landlady," Sherlock said as they strolled sedately the four blocks to Baker Street.
"Right, you told me about her in your last letter," John murmured. "You told her about us, right?"
Sherlock nodded. "She's surprisingly unflappable. Perhaps it's the experience of being married to a serial killer with a drug cartel."
"The husband you got the death sentence for?" John asked, recalling what all Sherlock had written in his last letter. He couldn't refer to the letter itself anymore, since it had gained a bullet hole and a large blood stain recently.
"Exactly." John could feel the rumble of Sherlock's deep laugh when he leaned against the man. "One of the most interesting cases I've solved. He was very clever, only killed in Florida on his business trips. Mrs Hudson's giving me- us a reduced rate on the rent."
"Kind of her," John snorted. Sherlock laughed again, leaning into John himself that time.
"This is it," he said, steering John up a couple steps to 221B, next door to a café.
-0-
Mrs Hudson opened the door before Sherlock could, his hands tied up with supporting John and holding his crutch.
"Sherlock!" she cried, taking his face in her hands and kissing both cheeks. "You must be the doctor husband."
"Yes," John smiled warmly, letting her take his hand in both of hers. "John Holmes."
"Oh, you two are so sweet!" she tittered, ushering them inside. "It's lovely to meet you, Doctor Holmes. Sherlock was in such a state when he heard the bad news," she added in a stage whisper.
Sherlock felt John tense. "This way, John." He led John up the seventeen stairs to the B flat. "No doubt Mycroft's people left everything in boxes in the middle of the room, so we should probably get started sorting those out- ," he stopped, opening the door and catching sight of the three boxes that were the entirety of John's things.
John chuckled. "You were saying?" he smirked, taking back his cane and letting go of Sherlock's arm. He looked around the flat, nodding approvingly. "I like this, this is very nice." He poked his head into the kitchen and laughed at the glassware covering the table. "Of course. You."
Mrs Hudson bustled about, moving John's boxes out of the way. "You just sit down and rest your leg, Doctor Holmes, and I'll bring you a cup of tea."
"John, please." He dropped into the red armchair that had mysteriously appeared a few days prior, courtesy of Mycroft, with a relieved groan and straightened his leg. Sherlock sat opposite him in his usual chair. "Cup of tea would be lovely, thanks."
"Just this once," she admonished. "I'm not your housekeeper."
"That's a human skull," John said, pointing to the offending bone with his cane. "And…the Cross," he added, noticing the velvet box beside it.
It was very telling how John didn't refer to it as 'his Cross.'
"It is," Sherlock replied, deciding to ignore the whole business of the medal after the awkwardness at dinner. "A friend of mine. Well, I say friend…I think better when I speak aloud."
"It's an awful thing," Mrs Hudson added, coming back into the flat with a tea tray. "It isn't appropriate for a sitting room."
"Is there any place appropriate for a human skull?" John quipped. "Just milk, thanks."
"Milk, two sugars," Sherlock said when she looked at him expectantly. "Leave the boxes for tomorrow, John, you're clearly tired."
John gave him an unreadable look. "I've done sixty hours straight on duty before," he said mildly, but there was a hint of steel in his voice. Sherlock got the message.
Don't try to coddle me, Sherlock. I am still a soldier.
"But I am a bit knackered," he conceded, draining the last of his tea. "I think I'll turn in." He glanced at the boxes again. "Just as soon as I find the box with my clothes."
"The one in the middle," Sherlock said, and John flashed him a quick grin.
Mrs Hudson spoke up hesitantly. "There's another bedroom upstairs," she pointed unnecessarily, "if you'll be needing two. I don't know how you two are…"
Sherlock froze. Oh, this was something he hadn't thought about. Sharing a bed with John. Did John want to? Did he want to? He…liked John, certainly, but he didn't really want to share a bed with him. At least, not yet.
He looked up at John, who was watching him with a gentle, understanding expression. "Yes, I think I'll take the upstairs room." He stood, not without effort, and collected the box full of clothes. "Goodnight, Mrs Hudson," he added pointedly. She scurried out of the room with a faint blush.
"John, you don't have to-"
"Sherlock," he cut the detective off. "Yes, I did. I'm just as lost and nervous about this as you are." He stepped closer to Sherlock, right up to his chair. "And now I'm going to bed."
Sherlock looked up at John, confused and – dare he say it – pleased by the flash of heat in the man's eyes. John bent, leaning in further, closer…
And kissed Sherlock on the forehead.
"Goodnight, Sherlock."
