A quick note: dark themes here...anti-Semetism, post-war issues, unresolved PTSD and survivorship. All dealt with in a researched, respectful and PG-13 manner but there nonetheless. You have been warned.
Berlin 1946
There is scarcely any room to stand. Not a millimeter separates flesh from flesh. Dirty bodies are pressed viciously against one another in the tight space. John Watson has been suppressing a panic attack for the past two hours. Crowds like this terrify him, make him seize up with the terror of war and death and all that has happened. He has no choice, though. He has to get back to Berlin and this is the only way.
The familiar skyline, once dotted with faint shapes of houses and glorious towers, is now barren. John frowns to himself with the thought of what awaits him in the ruins of Berlin. He wonders if his apartment still exists, is his street still exists, if any of the people he knows are still alive. It hasn't been possible to send letters or ask after anyone with the post-war chaos. With one hand he wipes his face, trying to smooth the grimace from his brows but he is hot and cramped on the train. It is so crowded that he is almost being pushed out of the train car.
It is difficult to find his old street once he is in Berlin. The city has been evened out and the streets and buildings are scarcely recognizable.
John wanders in the dusk air, clutching his case tights and willing his left hand to stop shaking. God damn it. And his leg. His damned leg, is not even injured. It is all in his mind. He's a damned doctor and he can't even stop his brain from imagining an injury. Perfect.
He finds the street, at last, and hobbles up to 221B. It, along with the rest of the street, survives, unscathed. John huffs out a breath of relief mingled with incredulous laughter and digs inside his pocket to find the key but his hands trembles and trembles. He stands there palming the insides of his pocket, thinking about how ridiculous it is that after three year of hiding all over Europe and being shot at, he still has a key to his apartment and that his apartment is still standing.
Finally, he lifts a hand to knock and discovers that the door is unlocked. He pushes and follows the soft voices down the hall and into the kitchen.
"Now dear, I know you haven't much to give. So you just take these biscuits for now and you can repay me when you can," Mrs. Hudson is saying to a young woman who is sitting at her kitchen table.
John lingers in the doorway, warm affection spreading in his chest. Mrs. Hudson catches his eyes over the girl's head and she looks like the breath has been knocked out of her.
"Thank you so much. Thank you. Thank you," the girl is cooing. "You have no idea—"
"Not a problem, dear. Tell your mother I say hello," Mrs. Hudson says distractedly, staring at John with a teary smile. "Go on. Give her my best."
The girl follows Mrs. Hudson's gaze to John and seems to understand the gravity of the situation. She scrambles out of the kitchen wordlessly.
Mrs. Hudson just keeps staring at him as if she is torn between laughing and crying.
"John Watson," she says lovingly. "As I live and breathe."
It turns out Mrs. Hudson has continued her café business but now she gives out food for free. What she has anyway. No one has much food these days. But the farm she used to buy produce from makes a small delivery to her every week, despite everything.
"Mary's been asking after you. The poor dear," Mrs. Hudson says as John sips on hot, milky tea at her kitchen tale. "She lost both of her parents early on, John."
"Yes, I know. We sent each other letters in the beginning. Before we…" John stumbles here. "Before we broke off the engagement."
"Oh, John," Mrs. Hudson says kindly. "She never held a grudge. She was worried you were…dead. We were all worried. All the other soldiers have been back for months! And you, you were off getting shot at and never came back. What happened?"
John wants to yell. He wants to say that he doesn't want to see Mary or anyone else he knows because he is a shell of the man he used to be, because he is haunted by demons, because he is always in pain.
"I got shot," John says with a blank smile. "I need to rest, Mrs. Hudson. The train was...tiring. I'll go upstairs and speak to you later."
"Before you go upstairs, John. I've got to tell you…there is someone living in 221B," Mrs. Hudson says apologetically.
"Well, yes," John says patiently. "I'm living in 221B."
"No, dear. I meant there is a young man living there. Has been for the past couple of months. He's a good boy and…well, it was empty ...but I made it clear he would leave when you got back."
John sighs. It's nearing evening and John was looking forward to sleeping for the first time in quite a few days. Now he has to deal with some squatter.
He knocks on the door to his own apartment, feeling absurd for knocking on his own door.
The door opens a sliver and one bright, grey eye peers out at him, the brows above it wrinkled thoughtfully.
"Yes?" says a deep, grumbly voice.
"Yes," John says, momentarily thrown off by this young man. "Um…yes. I live here. I, um, live here."
"Um, no. You don't," says the voice again and the brilliantly grey eye disappears and the door closes. John hears the chain lock being undone and the door opens again, all the way this time.
Before him is a wiry, tall man with tangled dark hair and an oddly boyish face that contrasts with both his deep voice and the serious scowl he is wearing.
"No, I live here," the man says, still scowling.
"I have a lease," John says childishly, flabbergasted.
The man laughs. "You have a lease? Oh, well. That makes everything different. I'm sure the thousands of people in this city whose homes no longer exist are all sad now because they didn't have leases. Everyone, gather round. This man has a lease! In a city of rubble, this man has a lease."
John opens and closes his mouth, speechless. "This is my apartment."
"I've been living here for months," the man counters.
John simply looks at the madman living in his apartment. He looks down at his own ratty clothes and then at the odd looking man, dressed in cotton pajamas and a silk robe. Jesus Christ, who is this man and why is he dressed like an American movie star instead of a German civilian?
The man stares back at him searchingly and after a few seconds seems to decide that John isn't entire despicable because he sighs and moves aside to let him in. "Come in."
John allows himself to be invited into his own apartment. There is rubble on the floor and the entire room has clearly been untouched since the bombings. John takes in the room hungrily, leaning heavily on his cane.
The man is still staring at him, a little bit more softly now for some unknown reason. It's as if the man has been reading him and whatever he has read has taken off the hard edge of their exchange.
"There is a second bedroom," he says, not unkindly.
"There's a second…" John echoes angrily. "I bloody know there's a second bedroom! This is my apartment. I know how many rooms there are."
"Good god. Calm down, my dear fellow," the man says, as if John is the one being completely unreasonable. John stomps off to his old room, his case in hand, and the odd man follows him. "We can share the apartment. I can share!"
And finally, John breaks. Years of war and months of working in bloody hospitals and days of travel and sleeplessness finally catch up with him.
He throws his briefcase across the room with a cry and turns on the absurd skinny man, living in his apartment. "Well, I cannot share," he bellows, faces scrunched in rage. "I cannot. I simply will not. Get out. Get the fucking hell out," he screams throwing his cane to the ground as well. That turns out to be an ill-advised move because his leg gives out and he's falling.
And then he's not. The wiry man has him by the arms and is guiding him gently onto the bed, those grey eyes wide with understanding.
John is faintly aware that he is breathing too heavily. That he has just behaved abominably. Anger quickly gives way to shame.
"Thank you," John says, as the man lets go of him and sits right next to him on the bed. "I'm sorry for my behavior. You shouldn't have to leave. I will find a place to stay for tonight—"
"You don't mind sharing," the man says sharply, getting to his feet and facing John. His face is suddenly sharper and there is a glow to him. And suddenly, the nagging suspicion that John had earlier, that the man was reading him returns with full force.
"No, you're not stingy and you don't want to turn me out onto the streets. No. You don't want to share because you're afraid of what you may do. That's clear. You didn't start getting angry until I mentioned the sleeping arrangement. In fact, you simply seemed amused before you had to think of sleeping. So it has something to do with how you behave when you're asleep. You've been away at war. But who hasn't? And you were injured but…not your leg. Your leg is psychological because you forgot about it when you were angry and you threw your cane, forgetting you couldn't stand without it. Again, war injuries are not unique. But there is something unique about yours. You were discharged before the war…no, people weren't discharged from the Heer. You were shot and left for dead after refusing orders. Hmmm. But what orders? Some humanitarian motive, no doubt. You were an army doctor. Doctors like ethics, don't they? Yes. The hands are a give away. Definitely a surgeon," the man says rapidly, barely breathing.
John looks at him with wide eyes.
"You went into hiding after surviving the gunshot, obvious from your clothes, and…you worked in hospitals for a few months after the end of the war. But you're back now because you couldn't do it. You couldn't work in the hospital. You have nightmares. You can't sleep. You tried to shoot someone in your sleep. You're afraid you're going to kill me," the man says, taking a breath finally. "And you're afraid…afraid of sleeping. You haven't slept in days because you haven't been alone in days, while traveling.
"That was…entirely accurate. All of it," John breathes staring at the man who has just summarized his entire story. "Yes, amazing. Amazing. Absolutely incredible."
"Was it? That's not what people usually say."
John doesn't breathe. He doesn't look away from the man with the tangled hair and the impossibly grey eyes. "What do they normally say?"
"Piss off."
John laughs for the first time in years. The stranger smiles at him.
The stranger makes him tea and John leans back on the old couch in the sitting room. The tea is weak and the water isn't exactly hot but John is grateful all the same. He is still shaking.
"This is what is going to happen," the stranger says, "I am going to sit here and sit guard. You can't sleep without having your gun and even then you don't sleep deeply due to the imminent danger of attack. This way, you'll sleep better because you know someone has an eye out for potential intruders. You can sleep with your door locked and your gun on your nightstand. I'll lock the door from the outside so you won't have to worry about shooting me. You'll wake up if you try to smash a locked door. And I'll come knock on your door to wake you up if I hear a nightmare."
John is grateful but has no words to say that.
"I'll find somewhere to go by the end of the week," the man assures him. "Will this be an acceptable arrangement until then?"
John nods dumbly at first. "Won't you need to sleep?"
The man looks at him as if he's said something incredibly foolish. "I don't sleep much."
John sleeps better than he has in years. He dreams of cities burning and people screaming, yes, but each time, the pale man with strange eyes appears in his dreams and shakes him awake. And then John is in his room and magically safe.
There is the faint sound of violin coming from the sitting room.
The next morning he goes out into the sitting room to find his newfound roommate in a smart suit, sitting in the same spot he'd left him in the previous night.
"Ah, good. You're awake," he says. "I was waiting for you to wake up before I left."
John blinks at him, confused. "You're leaving?"
"Yes, I have matters to attend to. I'll see you in the evening," he says, jumping to his feet and dashing about, grabbing a coat and scarf from the stand.
"Wait," John says softly. "Thank you."
The man looks at him soberly and nods, once. "You're welcome."
And then the man makes to run out of the room.
"Wait," John says again. "I don't even know your name."
"It's Holmes. Sherlock Holmes."
"John!"
"What?"
"Please stop cleaning. It's absolutely maddening."
"There is actual rubble and ruins in the living room."
"I know. And if I wanted it cleaned, I would have done it sometime in the past few months."
"So, what exactly is it that you do?" John asks a few days later.
The routine has been pretty stable. Sherlock stays up all night, John sleeps. Sherlock takes small naps during the day and then disappears for hours.
Sherlock grins as if he's been waiting for this question all along. "I catch criminals."
"Thieves?"
"Murderers," Sherlock says, jumping to his feet and staring out of the window. "War criminals."
"Oh," John breathes.
"I'm helping the Americans catch big-time war commanders," Sherlock says coldly. "Oh, John. It's laughable. Everyone is denying ever having been involved in any of it. If you go around Germany today, John, you'd be under the impression that Hitler was the only Nazi who ever lived."
There is nothing John can say to that.
"There will be trials and people will know, they will know what these men are guilty of," Sherlock says quietly, hands tucked under his chin.
John simply watches him, the Berlin sunset playing across his cool features. He wants to ask more, wants to know about the work that Sherlock does. And he longs for that sense of purpose, for a way to atone for ever having been in the war. But he's only known the man for a few days and it may not be the best idea to question him about classified information.
Sherlock turns to look at him with a smile. "I'm going on a case tonight."
"Okay."
Sherlock is beaming at him. "Would you like to come?"
John feels overwhelming warmth. "Yes. Yes. I would like that very much."
"That was insane," John says, leaning back against the wall of their flat. "I just shot a Nazi officer. Would get executed for that back in the day."
"You might as well be in one of those war-time Hollywood picture," Sherlock laughs back at him.
"I can imagine," John says in a good-natured tone. "But as a German soldier I never got a chance to watch American films during the war. Not all of us are posh brats like you."
Sherlock is watching him with a strange expression on his face.
"What were you doing during the war anyway?" John wonders, still breathless from the chase. "Were you in Switzerland or something? Were you in a safe house?"
"Yes, something like that," Sherlock says distractedly with a peculiar smile plastered on his face.
"What?"
Sherlock hesitates a moment, still smiling at him, smiling at him so earnestly that John wonders whether it is hurting his face.
"Your leg," Sherlock says happily.
And John realizes that he forgot his cane before the chase. His leg doesn't hurt.
"My leg," John agrees , grinning at Sherlock until it hurts him too.
"Would you perhaps…consider staying?" John says awkwardly as he brings some bread and cheese to the table for dinner. "It's not like it will be easy to find a place to stay and you might as well stay here until things even out and you can find your own apartment."
Sherlock stares at him from across the table, bewildered. He looks as if John has knocked the breath out of him. His expression tightens and then something gives. He looks young and vulnerable.
"Yes…I, um…." Sherlock stumbles for the first time in the two weeks John has known him. "That would be nice. If I could stay."
John lies in bed that night, smiling to himself. The strange knowledge that for the first time in years he does not feel lonely, for the first time he has hope and he does not hate himself.
Weeks turn into months and John does not remember when his entire life wasn't structured around running around Berlin behind Sherlock Holmes. And he never ever wants it to end. Ever.
He is shot in the shoulder. He can smell the blood, feel the torn and burnt tissue...he clutches his gun, ready to put himself out of misery and then warm hands are restoring him to life.
"John! Please. John."
He opens him eyes to find himself looking into bright grey eyes. The gun is clutched between him and Sherlock. He is drenched in sweat and Sherlock is flushed from the struggle. Someone is panting. John realizes that it's both of them.
"You were...having a nightmare. I tried knocking but..." Sherlock says shakily. "You almost...oh, god..."
And John realizes: he had been about to shoot himself. Well, that was a step up from shooting others.
"You could have gotten hurt," John says because it is the only thing he can say but Sherlock is not answering, simply staring at the offending gun in his hand like he is about to be sick.
"You saved my life. Calm down, you just saved me," John says softly.
"It was time to repay the favor," Sherlock says in an attempt at lightness.
Something has changed for John. Because suddenly, he doesn't need the gun anymore.
"I don't need it anymore," John says warmly. "I'll put it away unless we're on a case. I don't need it."
They stare at each other for a long minute before Sherlock nods, reassured.
"Good night, John."
The thing is...when John finally made it back to Berlin he was tired and broken and looking forward to disappearing in anonymity in his apartment and just having some peace and quiet.
The thing is...when John made it back to Berlin, he never expected anything or anyone like Sherlock Holmes. He never expected anyone like Sherlock Holmes at any point in his life.
The thing is that he replays the moment Sherlock gave him a crinkled smile and said "your leg" over and over in his head and finally has to admit to himself that perhaps he is a little in love with his flatmate. Even though, that cannot mean anything beyond cherishing his friendship.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock asks disapprovingly, looking up from one of John's medical books. John suddenly feels awkward in his best suit, a grey one with pinstripes, and his red silk tie. He fidgets awkwardly.
"Well. I was just going to ask you if you want to...go out?" John asks sheepishly.
Since being back in Berlin John has ventured out a few times, drinking with Mike Stamford at a few pubs and even going to one of those famous clubs with champagne at the tables and dance shows with young ladies in American dresses, the clubs that still exist even though most of the city is in rubbles. In the beginning, John tried to rebuild a social life with some old acquaintances and some colleagues at the children's clinic he worked at, now that his surgeon days were behind him. Soon, though, he realized that solving crimes with Sherlock was more fun than spending time with anyone else he knew or drinking ghastly beer at a pub alone. If it were up to him, he would spend every moment with Sherlock. Still, though, he has been burning with this inexplicable need to spend time with Sherlock somewhere that was not their apartment or a crime scene. He just wants himself in a social setting with Sherlock, as if to prove to himself that they are more than colleagues and flatmates: they are friends. And friends spend evenings in pubs together, don't they? It doesn't have to be a date. As much as John knows his own feelings towards his impossible flatmate, he scolds himself for even thinking about his invitation to Sherlock in romantic terms. That is highly illegal and you will make him move out if you so much as hint at any improper feelings towards him. Shut up. Shut up. Just, enjoy what you can have of him. Shut up.
"Go out? What for?" Sherlock asks with less enthusiasm than if John had asked him to come along and strangle someone to death. Much less enthusiasm.
"I'm going to one of those clubs, you know, music, dancing, drinking and I thought you might enjoy it. Or well, er, I asked Mike earlier today and he can't make it. It's not much fun going alone. You can join me, if you'd like."
He had asked Mike Stamford no such thing but he feels the lie makes the invitation much more casual and masks the fact that all John really wants to do is spend time with Sherlock. What he really wants is to ask him to go out to the newly opened cafe right down the street and have a coffee and talk. Going to a club is much safer and far less intimate than asking someone to dinner. Dinner, furthermore, is for good friends you haven't seen in weeks, not for the flatmate you eat with every evening.
Sherlock looks at him, bewildered. "You want me to join you for fun?"
"Look, it was silly-"
"No. Yes. Give me a moment to change into something appropriate," Sherlock says easily and disappears into his bedroom, leaving John baffled in the sitting room.
Any worry on John's part that the outing could be awkward melts away on their walk to the club. It is a twenty minute walk but Sherlock is in one of his finer moods and spends the entire time deducing things about the old inhabitants of the now-ruined or abandoned buildings and John makes it a game by calling his bluff on some of the more far-fetched ones.
"There is no way that you can know about the girl's love triangle just by looking at the remains of her bedpost, Sherlock," John giggles. "Now you're just making things up."
Sherlock gives him a genuine smile. "Okay. Yes. That one was fake but the butcher who owned that store really was selling drugs, that one I'm sure of."
John now thinks the outing is a bad idea but not because it is stilted and awkward. In fact, he's having a little too good of a time with Sherlock, laughing the entire way and Sherlock is dressed, as always, in clothes that John is sure is two weeks of his salary from the clinic: a sleek black suit, a crisp white shirt and silk black tie. And he looks entirely too handsome and cheerful for John to feel happy about the decision to ask him out. Every time he looks over at Sherlock, he is dazzled that the usually sharp features have given away to such warmth and excitement.
They quip the entire way to the club. John has selected the most upscale one he can afford, having decided that impressing Sherlock and ensuring that he has a good time is worth a week of his wages, and he scolds himself again for acting like he is fucking courting his flatmate.
Once inside, John leads them through the crowd and smoke. Space is tight and everyone is loud and drunk. The men are dressed in their finest suits and the ladies are all dressed in varying degrees of colorful, though it is very clear that most of the guests are wearing pre-war fashions and the ones who are not stick out like a sore thumb and attract the largest crowds. John looks over his shoulder to make sure Sherlock is following and is startled, and a little sad, to notice that Sherlock's mask of polite disinterest has once again covered the warmth he saw before. He gets them a small table near the stage where a red-haired woman is singing an American song and orders them both a round of whisky.
"Whisky?" Sherlock asks, eyebrows raised.
John shrugs, praying he is not blushing. "We can afford to splurge once in a while."
Then he curses himself silently for speaking about their finances in a joint sense and pretends to be enjoying the song until their drinks arrive. Suddenly he and Sherlock have nothing to say to each other even as the entire room around them buzzes with conversation. They simply sit quietly and drink their whisky quickly.
"Another round?" John asks quickly as the song ends.
"Please."
John makes his way to the bar, cursing himself all the way. What was he doing? What did he normally do when he went out with friends? Get drunk. Laugh. Speak to women. Not be so nervous and worried about whether or not his friends were having a good time.
Women. Yes, maybe the solution is to find some pretty girls and invite them over to the table. The idea of Sherlock flirting with anyone that wasn't him made him a little nauseous but, well, that is certainly Sherlock had expected dancing and drinking and girls when he had been invited to go out. They are both young. John himself in his mid-twenties, Sherlock younger still. There is plenty of time to settle down and get married, John thinks worriedly even as he realizes that he is getting far ahead of himself. In the meantime, he's promised himself to show Sherlock a good time. So, more whisky, yes, and then girls. Yes. Alright.
Once he makes his way back to the table with the drinks, however, he discovers his worries about finding pretty women to be entirely needless. A group of three have flagged Sherlock in his short absence and seem to be admiring him collectively.
"Ah, John," Sherlock says warmly when he arrives, still looking more reserved than before but entirely relaxed. "Sarah, Hilda and Gretchen. Ladies, this is my friend, John. Ah, yes waiter, champagne for the ladies please. What was I saying? Yes, John. He's a doctor, did I say already?"
John hands Sherlock his drink, feeling suddenly shy. "Well not since-"
"A doctor, really?" Sarah says, turning towards him with a smile. She has soft brown hair and there is something sharp and intelligent about the way her eyes crinkle.
"The best," Sherlock says insistently, tapping his fingers to the rhythm of the jazzy song and giving John a small, inconspicuous wink. "Very brave. Saved a man's life just last week."
"Is that true?" Hilda asks interestedly.
"I suppose. Yes but-"
"That's marvelous!" Sarah agrees, leaning further towards John's side of the table. "Won't you tell me the story?"
"I think I will go the bar and see where your drinks have gone to, actually," John says politely.
"I'll come with you," Sarah says enthusiastically. "Don't think you can escape that easily, doctor. I simply won't allow your modesty to rob me of a good story."
John looks to the other side of the table to see Sherlock in deep conversation with Hilda and Gretchen, both of whom look half in love with him already and feels a cold anxiety trickle down his spine at the thought. Sherlock looks relaxed and pleasant, a coy smile plastered on his face as the two ladies giggle at whatever it is he is saying.
"Of course," John agrees warmly, extending his arm to Sarah. On the way, he finds that he enjoys telling her the story of his last case with Sherlock, albeit a brief and censored version of it. She seems thrilled by the excitement and when they get to the bar, Sarah is a thousand time better at getting the bartenders attention than he is. They laugh about this as they make their way back with the drinks only to find Gretchen and Hilda looking very sour and Sherlock very gone.
"What happened?" Sarah asks.
"He just took off, that friend of yours," Hilda says moodily.
"He was being so nice and then he just said he had to be somewhere and left."
John groans. "Yes, he does that sometimes," he says apologetically and lays a few bills on the table, more than enough to cover what they owed already and buy another round. "Please enjoy another round of champagne on us, ladies. I'll see where he's gotten to."
Sarah touches his arm flirtatiously. "Here I was, thinking I'd managed to make you laugh and everything," she says.
"You did. I'll be right back," he says, already dashing away from the table and making his way through the crowd.
He sees Sherlock's moonlit silhouette walking away just as he throws the door open and thanks God for the fresh air after the heat and smoke of the crowded room.
"Sherlock," he calls.
"Oh, John," Sherlock says indifferently, half turning around to speak to him. "You needn't make Sarah wait on my account."
"Why are you leaving?" John says, shutting the door behind him and following Sherlock into the street.
Sherlock shrugs and looks at him apologetically. "Sorry. Girls and dancing: not really my area."
"It seemed to be your area two minutes ago," John says, trying not to sound bitter and failing miserably.
"Ah, that. Yes, I was acting. I didn't want to be an ungracious guest but really, I can only keep it up for so long. Really not my area," Sherlock repeats.
"Then why did you come?" John asks a little curtly, feeling awful for having dragged Sherlock somewhere he didn't even enjoy, all in a misled attempt to impress him. Of course Sherlock Holmes didn't frequent clubs. Silly. Silly. It must be so far beneath him.
Sherlock avoids his gaze for a second or two before looking at him again. "I was flattered you asked me," he says earnestly.
John looks at for a moment, blinking in disbelief and then, he can't help himself, he snorts a little laugh. Sherlock had been flattered that John asked him? Sherlock was the one who was flattered?
"I know you only asked me because Mike Stamford was unavailable," Sherlock says quickly, clearly mistaking John's response for ridicule. "I only meant, I didn't really have friends even before...all of this. And I was flattered that you would consider my company, that you would treat me as a friend. And I seemed to have done well in finding Sarah. She's very bright, I thought you might hit it off...so I supposed it wouldn't be rude if I left after ensuring you had company for the evening. I am sorry if I was rude in departing without taking my leave. I never know what to do in these situations. Social graces are also not my area," Sherlock explains quickly, defensively, suddenly looking angry with himself for his earlier vulnerability. He looks at John for a response but as John still stands speechless, he sighs. "Forgive me for keeping you," Sherlock says coldly and walks away.
"Wait," John says and Sherlock does. He waits. He turns around and waits and looks at John.
Everything is quiet for a few painful moments. John simply regards Sherlock and curses himself silently for not having seen how badly Sherlock has needed a friend.
"I'm sorry. I didn't make myself clear earlier, Sherlock," he says slowly desperate to get it right this time. "I was treating you as a friend because you are my friend...my best and dearest friend. And I was not considering your company. I wanted it very much. In fact, I was not keen on any particular destination at all this evening. I was only rather keen on spending a evening with my friend."
"Oh," Sherlock exclaims softly, his cheeks tinged a marvelous shade of pink even as the moonlight makes the rest of his skin paler than ever. He looks...happy all of a sudden. And John thinks he can live with this, he can live with being Sherlock's friend, knowing how pleased it makes Sherlock. He thinks about Sherlock lonely, unappreciated and finds it unacceptable and finds he can live with being nothing more than friends, knowing that being friends means so much to Sherlock.
"Yes, well. There is a cafe that just opened in the American sector. Would you...like to get some coffee? Something to eat, perhaps?" John ventures with his original secret plan of simply having coffee with Sherlock. "You haven't eaten since yesterday."
"I'd like that. Very much. Yes," Sherlock agrees.
"You know...if you'd told me you didn't want to go out drinking earlier, I would be a much richer man right now."
Sherlock laughs and proceeds to deduce more things about the abandoned buildings on the way to the cafe and John calls three of his bluffs and they both laugh until there are tears in their eyes.
"Dull. Dull. Entirely dull," Sherlock whines and flops down on the sofa in a cloud of silk as John enters the room with their rations.
"Thank you for standing in line for five hours for our meager rations, John. You're a wonder, John. I would starve without you, John," he says sarcastically as he unloads the milk, lard, bread and tuna from the brown paper bag.
Sherlock smiles involuntarily and then flings one hand over his eyes dramatically. "You may as well let me parish without food or drink, John. My mind is atrophying. My body is slowly surrendering to the ennui. Sweet death's grip shall claim me soon enough."
"You literally just caught a looter."
"That was yesterday. I need more. My mind cannot stand the stagnation."
John looks at him affectionately. "Why don't we go for a walk?"
"A walk?" Sherlock repeats, in a manner one would say "the plague." It's as if John has suggested that they blow up the city all over again.
"Don't be a baby. Up now. Put on one of your ridiculously attractive suits and let's go," John commands, swatting him with an old newspaper until he has no choice but to get up.
"You find my suits attractive?" Sherlock teases as he emerges from his room a few minutes later, buttoning up one of said attractive suits. Sherlock's clothes are all a bit out of fashion, but then everything in Germany is a few years out of fashion, but they are all well-kept, incredibly well-made and make him look like a millionaire.
John blushes furiously. "It's not that I find them attractive, personally…they just are…very nice…um…"
Sherlock laughs sincerely and rolls his eyes. "I was only joking, John."
With that, he's out the door, leaving John to follow him.
John follows, as he always does, but the pit of his stomach is as heavy. The joke lands too close to home.
They walk through the ruins in the most companionable silence John has ever known. He watches the color of the pale dusk across Sherlock's face and when Sherlock turns to catch his eye, they both smile at each other warmly.
This is it, John can't help but think. This is what he didn't realize he's been missing. He is simply happy to be in Sherlock's presence, even when they are just walking through a destroyed city and Sherlock….well, Sherlock actually seems like he's cheered up even though they aren't doing anything remotely exciting. He is smiling and humming Wagner under his breath.
The city is littered with hasty, makeshift graves and John doesn't realize he's been staring at them, at every one of them, until he feels a gentle hand on his elbow.
"John," says the rumbling voice.
John squares his shoulders. "It's fine," he says quickly, hoping to erase the sudden tension in the air and go back to the good mood of a few minutes ago.
"It's not fine. It's—"
"Just. Don't," John snaps, shrugging off Sherlock's hand. He doesn't know why he does that, not when the last thing he wants in the world is for Sherlock to leave him alone. Sherlock has retreated a few steps back, giving him space, space that John does not want from Sherlock.
"I'm sorry," he says quickly, taking Sherlock's arm with a smile. "You've been nothing short of a miracle and I keep yelling at you for things that aren't your fault, don't I?"
Sherlock is smiling at him in relief. "You've also been yelling at me for a good deal of things that are my fault."
John laughs. "Yes. I could have done without that mold experiment in the kitchen."
They walk arm in arm, bickering about Sherlock's latest hemoglobin experiment.
As they walk, John stares at Sherlock going on about acid and red blood cells and thinks it's a shame that he's sinned enough in this lifetime already.
But if he had room for one more, just one more, he would kiss Sherlock Holmes.
"John, I really am sorry about whatever it is that happened during the war," Sherlock says quietly, so quietly, when they are climbing the dark stairway to their apartment. As if whispering it so it is barely heard will keep John from getting angry again.
"The great Sherlock Holmes can't deduce it?" John says, trying for a joke. It doesn't sound like funny when it comes out of his mouth.
Sherlock doesn't laugh or move or reply. He simply stands on the stair below him and stares, genuine sympathy etched across his face.
It's so dark; John can barely make out his features. A stray dog barks outside in the street. John feels this last bit of self-control slip through his fingers. Sherlock is staring at him with an unguarded expression: young and full of trust.
John really cannot be blamed if he pushes the too-thin frame against the wall in a soft embrace. His arms circle Sherlock's torso and he feels hands cling desperately to the back of his jacket.
"John," Sherlock breathes against his neck.
"Yes," he says, one hand around Sherlock's torso, the other smoothing the curls away from his face.
"John," Sherlock says again, this time with urgency.
John runs a hand across Sherlock's brow, as softly as possible and feels his friend lean into the touch.
"Yes, Sherlock," he whispers, planting an almost-kiss against Sherlock's brows, smoothing them out. "Tell me…if you want me to…do you want me to?" John asks, hovering above Sherlock's lips, waiting for permission.
There is a pause that takes an eternity.
"I can't," Sherlock breathes, tensing away. "I'm so sorry…no, I can't."
John distances himself hastily, almost backing into the railing, off the stairs. "No. Yes. Of course. Please, forgive me."
"It's not that—"
"You don't need to explain," John says, hoping his voice is steady and friendly. "Of course not. Thank you for the walk, Sherlock. Good night."
"Yes. Good night."
He doesn't sleep that night. He listens to the sound of Sherlock simply existing in the living room. Sherlock "keeps guard" every night as per their original agreement, even though John no longer needs him to.
He has propositioned his best friend. Great.
Regret coils around his stomach, tugs at his ribs. He can live without ever acting on his feelings for Sherlock. He can't live without Sherlock.
He schemes of ways to make it right again.
John waits for Sherlock to leave in the morning before leaving his room. He sets to work immediately.
As he's cleaning the apartment he finds a letter of Sherlock's. And everything makes a bit more sense, he thinks.
Sherlock struts into the apartment in the evening, clearly annoyed with whichever American or British idiot he's been helping that day but the snide comment dies on his lips as he enters the room.
The table is set with real china. There is wine on the table, the smell of hot bread and chicken is wafting in from the kitchen and the entire room is airy and clean.
John follows him into the kitchen and watches with satisfaction as Sherlock's jaw drops. John has cleared out an entire area of the kitchen and created a workstation for him. The counter is clear except for an old microscope John has pilfered from the hospital and the shelves are lined with John's old medical books and various powders and chemicals.
"How did you…that wine must cost a week's wages….where the hell did you find chicken?" Sherlock stammers.
"Black market. I got a job at the hospital today," John says, grinning. "Now that my left hand isn't shaking, thanks to a certain crime-solving genius, I got up the courage to apply…well, let's just say they needed a surgeon. I thought I'd spend the money on getting some food in you. You really are skin and bones."
Sherlock is grinning back. "And why have I suddenly got myself a scientist's workstation?"
"A gift. To say thank you, for everything you've done," John says soberly. "And sorry about—"
"Thank you," Sherlock says hastily, breaking him off. "I really don't know what to…thank you for this."
They eat heartily and Sherlock brightens up, talking about his latest case working with some American generals to catch smugglers.
"I found a letter today," John says, unable to help himself.
"Oh?" Sherlock says, mildly interested.
"Your letter."
"What letter?" Sherlock asks, genuinely confused.
"It was your letter and it said on the envelope: 'In the case of my death, please deliver to Sebastian Moran'," John explains digging into his potatoes. "I've learned a little trick or two from you. Clearly, you meant for it to be delivered to Sebastian in the case that you died in the war but if you want me to help you find this man—"
"Shut up," Sherlock snaps. John looks up to find that all color has been drained from his friend's face and that he is standing now, all thoughts of food forgotten. He has never before seen Sherlock angry and it turns his insides cold instantly. "Did you read it? How much do you know? For god's sake, have you tried to find Sebastian Moran, you absolute idiot? Answer me!" he screams. "What have you done? Answer me."
"No, I…Sherlock, I didn't read…I haven't tried to find anybody…" John stammers.
"Thank god, you absolute moron," Sherlock snarls, pacing back and forth and hands pulling at his curls. "You have no business snooping through my things."
John feels the sheepishness recede and give place to annoyance. "I wasn't snooping! You just left the letter there on the desk among the newspapers and articles. And I wasn't trying to intrude. I simply…Sherlock, if this person is important to you, it might be worth trying to find him."
Sherlock looks at him blankly. "If he is…what?"
"I'm saying," John says, nervous again. "If this is a person you loved…I understand now why you said you couldn't last night. Was he your lover before the war? We could…we could find him."
Sherlock looks like he is about ready to murder him, every inch of his body is shaking with fury.
"Sherlock, I'm not trying to replace him," John says hastily.
"Not trying to…" Sherlock says through clenched teeth.
His face is scrunched up into an animalistic grimace, his skin an unpleasant shade of red. He approaches John's chair very slowly.
"You don't understand anything. I want you to listen carefully, you useless idiot," Sherlock says in a scary calm voice. "If you try to find him, I will disappear. If you mention this incident to me after this night, I will leave. If you ever speak Sebastian Moran's name, you will never see me again. Do not speak his name, do not breathe it, do not think it. This is a promise, John. I will disappear from your life if you dare speak of this. If you value my friendship at all, you will forget this. You will forget this. Do you understand me?"
John nods.
"Say it! Do you understand?" Sherlock snarls, almost tipping John's chair over.
"Yes. I understand," John says, angrily and then throws off Sherlock's hold on the chair and stomps off to bed.
When he wakes up the next morning, still annoyed at Sherlock and eyes bleary with sleep, he finds the infuriating man curled asleep on the sofa.
All the anger drains out of him at the thought of Sherlock sitting up for him, wanting to soothe him even when he's angry and then finally succumbing to sleep. He watches his friend, brows curled a little, even in his sleep. His lips move a little fretfully, as if he cannot be still even in his sleep. John tries to will away the affectionate smile that tugs at the corner of his lips.
"Alright," he mutters. "Up you get or your neck will have a crick for days to come."
Gently he nudges Sherlock's shoulder and is entirely unprepared for what happens next. Sherlock emits a noise that John can only characterize as the sound of a man who is being tortured to death. He curls in and away from John's touch instinctively, every bit of him seizing up in terror.
"No, please," he sobs wetly. "No. No."
"Sherlock, Sherlock," he says urgently, "it's just me. You're in 221B. You're safe."
Sherlock looks up at him blearily, lashes wet and mouth clenched painfully. Devastating realization crashes down on John. He's been so wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. Every bit of the past few months falls into place and suddenly John knows, knows with heartbreaking certainty…
"I can explain," Sherlock says desperately.
"There's nothing to explain," John says, his heart clenching. "I know."
"Please, John—"
"I've been an idiot," John mutters, staggering back to sit on the chair opposite.
Sherlock wobbles to his feet and rushes to his bedroom. John follows him, in a trance.
"Why didn't you tell me?" John says shakily. "You let me go on about how difficult the war had been for me and you took care of me and you didn't once tell me…I'm so sorry, Sherlock. The things you must have been through, the things you must have seen. I'm so sorry."
Sherlock does not look at him, he's stuffing clothes into a suitcase. John looks at the beautiful suits and wonders why he didn't realize that they were a few years out of fashion and yet utterly new because they hadn't been worn in a few years, because their owner had been…
"The letter that was meant for Sebastian Moran. It wasn't from me," Sherlock says quietly, packing. "I took it off the body of the Nazi general whom I shot during my escape from the camp. His name was James Moriarty and he was quite a bit obsessed with me. Sebastian is a very dangerous arms dealer who is most definitely intent on killing me and whomever might be associated with me. That's why I was so afraid last night when you expressed your intention to find him…"
"Oh Sherlock," John breathes. "I'm so so—"
"My brother, Mycroft, did try to get me to England. He left Germany in 1938. He's very clever. More clever than I am. But by the time I realize, it was too late," Sherlock says, staring at his own hands as he folds a pair of trousers and places them in his suitcase. "You see, Moriarty had heard of my work with the police and he was quite intent on collecting me. He was fascinated that a Jew could be intelligent. Do you see? It was a lab experiment for him, getting me to work for him and crack code against the Allies. I, of course, had no idea my grandfather had been half-Jewish until the SS came knocking at my door. It's all bitterly ironic."
"Forgive me," John pleads. "I've been so selfish, so blind. Stop packing. If you need distance from me, I'll visit my sister in Frankfurt for a few weeks. Don't leave."
Sherlock stares at him wide-eyed. "Did you not hear me?"
"I heard you perfectly."
"I'm Jewish and you served for two years in the army that was fighting for a Judenfrei Europe. This isn't bloody Romeo and Juliet, John. This is post-war Germany and neither of us are going to forget that we fought on separate sides of this war," Sherlock says bitterly.
"Did we fight on separate sides? Are we to be condemned by our fate and not our actions?" John counters, finding strength in himself to argue back. "Did I have more control over conscription than you did over your ancestry? I left the Heer in the end and went into hiding. Do my actions count for nothing in your eyes? Does my friendship mean nothing to you?"
John shouts after Sherlock as he follows him out into the living room. Sherlock hesitates by the door.
"I'm simply not foolish enough to believe that you can undo years of being taught to hate," Sherlock says, hand resting on the door.
"Well, what about the fact that I'm fucking in love with you, are we going to factor that in here somewhere?" John yells, annoyed.
"You...what?" Sherlock yells back, also annoyed.
"Yeah. You heard me. Don't make me repeat myself," John says, huffily, throwing Sherlock's favorite words back at him.
"Oh for god's sake," Sherlock says, running his hand over his face. "No you're not."
"Am too. Head over heels. Haven't stopped thinking about you since the moment you smiled at me and said 'your leg.' Would do anything for you. Will never love anyone else," John says matter-of-factly.
Sherlock throws his suitcase aside and grabs at his hair. "This is annoying. I hate you."
"That's unfortunate," John teases. "Because I love you."
"You're being absurd. Why are you saying this?" Sherlock grumbles, looking thoroughly inconvenienced by John's confession. "You can't just win an argument by declaring your love."
"I love you. You saved me, you made me want to live again. I'm better when I'm with you and you…you're better with me too, I think. I would do anything for you. Do you realize I was ready to help you reunite with an old lover, even though it would have killed me?"
"This is so inconvenient," Sherlock complains and walks out of the apartment, not even bothering to grab his coat or suitcase.
"Get back here. We're not done," John rushes after him after pulling on his own coat and grabbing Sherlock's.
"Is everything alright, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asks as he sees him rushing out the door after Sherlock.
"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. Don't worry. I live with an overgrown child," John says with a smile as he dashes after Sherlock, "he's bound to throw fits sometimes."
"Oh you boys," she says affectionately.
At first it seems like Sherlock has pulled one of his disappearing acts. The street appears entirely empty as John looks around. But then there is the silhouette of his best friend against the morning sky. He's standing on a tall heap of rubble and looking out at the city. John climbs the little hill of stone and drapes Sherlock's coat over his shoulder.
"Everything is ruined, John," Sherlock says without turning to look at him.
John doesn't say anything.
"So you're in love with me?" he asks unhappily.
"Yup. It's not exactly been a walk in the park but, yes."
Sherlock laughs.
"What the hell could be funny right now?" John snaps.
"Because I've been in love with you from the moment you looked at me and said 'amazing'," Sherlock says, as if he's commenting on the state of the weather.
"Oh, well. That's…good then," John stammers, suddenly overtaken with emotion. It's not that he didn't realize that Sherlock cared for him deeply but he was simply hoping for their friendship back.
"Yes. It is, isn't it? Good and inconvenient and illogical and fantastic," Sherlock says, laughing still, as if in hysterics. "Come on. Let's go home."
"Wait," John says, "now you listen to me, this time. I will sit up every night for you, just like you did for me, to make sure you can sleep, knowing they aren't coming for you. And I'll feed you with my own hands if I have to, to make sure you don't go hungry. I will murder anyone, anyone who is still after you. I am going to murder Sebastian Moran. Do you understand? And your demons aren't just yours anymore. I won't pretend to understand the horror you went through but I'm here, for whatever you need, anything at all. You've fought for so long and you've done it alone, you've hid it from me, all the trauma and the pain. Not anymore, please. You're not alone."
Sherlock stares at him like he is the whole world and takes his hand and squeezes it tightly. "Let's go home, you wonderful idiot."
Dear all, please please review. One more chapter forthcoming and I promise reviews will speed things up. Part II is set right after the building of the Berlin Wall: hopefully it will provide closure for the themes the characters are dealing with in this chapter and move on to lighter political themes as well.
Note: My two other works have been stalled because I lost thousands of words from my computer a few months ago. As any writer will tell you, it is incredibly hard to re-write thousands of words the second time round but I AM doing it. I just needed to get something else out to feel good enough to continue on with the WIPs.