"And I felt a rush like a rolling bolt of thunder
Spinning my head around and taking my body under
Oh, what a night."
- December, 1963 (Oh, What A Night)
Sherlock removed his coat as he walked into the room, but he didn't bother hanging it behind the door, throwing it instead onto the couch. Over and under the coffee table were still a few of the serviettes he had been folding a few days ago, Swan and Opera House.
He stared at them for a moment and picked one up, at random. The Swan. Then, in a fit of anger he grabbed them all and crushed them between his hands, in a ball that he got rid of in the kitchen garbage.
It was early. Too early to leave a wedding and Mrs. Hudson's words resounded in his mind, clearer and clearer. He made them stop. He made himself a cup of tea and tried to remember who he was. His methods. His lack of caring.
He had been reckless, he had let it all slip, thinking that there was something to win from it. But, as always, Mycroft was right. He had let himself go too deep, care too much. He has gotten involved.
How could he not? He had been away for two years and he had so much to make up for. He didn't expect John to move on, to love someone else.
He laughed.
Love someone else. He wasn't sure John had ever loved him. Look at him, the world's only consulting detective, the most observant man and yet, he could not be sure. Either way, one thing was certain: John had moved on and there was no turning back. He was not for Sherlock to claim.
His head was hurting and he approached the window, looking at the flickering street lamps outside. He wondered if John would notice him missing at the wedding, if he would ask for him or merely leave for the honeymoon without a thought to spare on him.
No, Stop it. Enough.
His eyes found the drawer. He placed the cup of tea down on the table and opened it, retrieving from inside it what his mind was craving all along. He turned the small bottle in his right hand, round and round. It danced between his fingers the way he himself hadn't had the chance to.
It had been a long time, but he still knew exactly how to do it. You never forget. It is stored in your mind, ready to surface when needed. It was as if the solution was screaming his name, a siren call. So he stretched his arm and he felt the plunge of the newly filled syringe, rough against his thumb. He pressed it.
The relief was almost instantaneous and his mind rested at last, a tune playing on and off as he drifted away. Oh what a night.
Sherlock wakes up trembling, the empty bottle lying on the floor, fallen now like a useless accomplice. He needs more. He wants more. It doesn't matter anymore what it makes of him, if it's a regression. There's no one there to see, no one to acknowledge his good or bad behaviour. Mycroft would be angry, would make him feel guilty and John…
John is gone. And he needs a fix.
When he wakes up again the smell is nauseating, but he knows that the days he has spent there had made him accustomed to it. The bed is uncomfortable, but there is a reason why he is doing this, and he has gone to greater lengths for other cases.
He tries to convince himself he is doing it for the case, but in truth, he probably isn't. He didn't need to actually get high to mingle with the environment, but he also tries not to think too much about it.
He tries to figure out why he woke up when he was up so late the night before, and the familiar tone of the voice he hears gives him the answer he needs. It's John. John Watson.
He hasn't seen him in a whole month – never came back to Baker Street after returning from his honeymoon – but he would recognise his voice anywhere. It sends chills down his spine. Is he looking for him?
But John's voice approaches him and recognises someone – a kid who has been passing his days even higher than he himself is on the next mattress.
Sherlock hesitates. He could just lay there; there isn't a chance John would recognise him. But there's something crawling inside him that wants to make himself noticed. Or maybe it is just the lightness in his head that makes him even more reckless than usual.
"Hello, John." He says, a hint of boldness in his voice.
John doesn't believe he is on a case. Of course he doesn't. Then again, they have grown so apart that Sherlock wouldn't be surprised if John didn't believe anything he says. He tried so hard. He had learned how to fold serviettes on YouTube; he had composed a tune that sawed at his heartstrings as he scratched the violin with the bow, back and forth. He had written a best man's speech even though he knew he wasn't much of a good man, even less the best. He had seen his own feelings stepped on and had kept a smile while anyone could see him.
Sometimes Molly seemed to be the only one to understand him. And yet, the way she had slapped him as the drug's results turned out to be positive, made him realise that even she couldn't always read his thoughts and know what he was going through. It was his fault, anyway. He had made himself look so strong, detached, unmoved, that everyone assumed he had no right to fall back, to indulge on things that were less appropriate for his own sake.
The disappointment on John's eyes should be the thing to hurt him the most, but it isn't. What really kills him, the grinding pain, like salt being constantly poured on a fresh wound, never allowing it to heal completely, is the way John looks at Mary.
Janine had been a necessity. She did not interest him in the slightest; he had long ago decided to whom his heart belonged. And to see the way John looked at both of them together gave Sherlock a sweet satisfaction. It was all worth it, if for nothing else, at least for that.
Sometimes, when he is alone on his flat, pouring chemicals into a flask and seeing them react, ghosts of the past go by him, waving and mocking.
He hears John laughing on the first day they spent together on Baker Street, panting from the run, the cane just a useless fragment of his past. He hears John asking him about a case, to be sure he has all the clues right, and smiling as Sherlock accuses him of romanticizing everything. He sees clearly all the times their eyes had locked on each other and how many times Sherlock had had to stop himself from reaching out and hold John's hand. That was all he had ever wanted: to hold his hand, to feel the warmth of John's rough skin against his own. That would have been enough.
When these ghosts pass him by, he closes his eyes and tries to dismiss them. He struggles to find a safe place inside his own mind palace, but it's not of much use because when he looks for a safe place, his mind always leads him back to John.
The plan is simple enough; or, he has everything mapped out inside his mind to know it will work. The proposal is just a decoy and Janine will have the right to an explanation later. She will forgive him, he is almost certain of it, and if she doesn't it really doesn't matter all that much. Games are won by using the necessary means in order to beat the opponent, and sometimes you need to be a merciless player.
Nothing goes the way he planned. It's not as straightforward as it was supposed to be. And when Mary pulls the trigger, everything starts moving in slow motion.
He sees the blood gurgling, staining his immaculate shirt and he needs to decide what to do. His mind is quick but it all hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. He clings on to dear life and he clings on to John because he knows that is the only reason he has that will convince him to cling to life.
When he wakes up at the hospital, they tell him that his heart has stopped, that for a few moments he was dead.
Sherlock nods and then asks to be left alone.
He had felt dead for a long time now, and the fact that his heart keeps beating is just a mere detail.
He made his decision but it's John who confronts him with the truth. He should lie. But he is Sherlock Holmes and he does not care, so he tells the truth.
Sometimes it's ridiculous how much he lies to himself, specially knowing that as much as he tries, he can't believe his own lies.
It takes all his will to say the words. He needs to stay away from what he used to be and finally embrace what he has become. Not so much for Mary – she shot him and he isn't yet sure if she meant to kill him or not, but he knows that she loves John, and most importantly, that John loves her – so he makes it all about her love for him. He makes it all up so that it will look like she created an entire new life to save herself and that she shot Sherlock for the sake of John.
Sherlock utters the words, turns the game against him, manipulates John in order to convince him that the fact that he chose Mary was not a coincidence; that John's need for thrill and motion are the cause of it all.
It is unfair, in all honesty. To make John believe that he chose Mary because he knew, deep within, what she was. To tell him that he chose Sherlock because of his own addiction. It is sad to make up another lie about how she called an ambulance, when Sherlock isn't even sure of that. But John needs this now, and Sherlock will do whatever it is that needs to be done to keep John safe, to avoid his wounds from opening up wider. John has been through enough, and he is guilty of that as well.
John makes Mary sit and Sherlock's bullet wound is burning and he feels the viscosity of the blood rolling down his flesh, an expected but unwelcomed visitor.
When his body can't take it anymore and the paramedics make an entrance, he gets up and tries to hold on to John's gaze, because he might die and John is the last thing he wants to see. He reaches out for him but the paramedics are faster and he is lying on the ground and he tries to keep the vision of John's face inside his mind, stored away, but all is fading fast.
He mumbles his name and the compass is soothing. John. John. John.
He had never been the selfless kind. John. John. John.
He is bored.
At the hospital, days pass by and they all look the same. He spends his time alone, trying to deduce all of the nurses that come to check on him and he annoys them with his sharp, but ultimately correct remarks, and he entertains himself by imagining how much of their lives he would change if he told them everything he knew.
He is cheating on you. It really was the cat who broke the lamp. I know it was you who stole it.
All different people, different stories, none of them willing to hear him shout about how bored this all is.
"I want to go home."
The talk is the same every day and every time a new nurse comes in.
"You can't go home. You need assistance. You need to heal properly before you start walking around all by yourself, and everyone has agreed it would be fairly impossible to find one person to look after you that wouldn't resign in two days. Trust me, we have been trying to pay each other in order to convince someone else to check out on you, but no matter how much money we offer, no one wishes to do a shift they are not obliged to do."
Sherlock smirks, amused by her honesty.
She has dark hair, mother of three and a happy marriage. She worries with her father, who had been recently admitted into a mental institution. She is the sort of person who is kind enough but takes no disrespect from anyone.
"What if I had medical assistance at every hour? Could I then go home?"
The nurse looks at him almost endearingly.
"I suppose so. If you can convince any nurse to stay with you, then I suppose you can try, but if they give up after a few days you'll have to be readmitted. And from my experience with you, that's exactly what is going to happen, so save yourself the trouble."
"What if I have a doctor taking care of me all of the time?"
"Are you a very rich man, Mr. Holmes? None of our doctors will be bribed, not with your reputation."
Sherlock smiles, not at the nurse, but at the unmoving figure behind her.
John has entered the room, hands on his sides, fists closed, and smiles back faintly. The nurse, following Sherlock's gaze, looks at him.
"Excuse me, are you lost, sir?"
John stares at Sherlock, then back at her.
"No, I came to visit him."
The nurse looks at Sherlock again and scoffs.
"I guess this shows that there is hope for everyone in this world."
But she isn't trying to be snarky, she is merely kidding with him. She adjusts Sherlock's pillow and leaves the room.
"How are you feeling?"
John approaches the bed, smiling apologetically.
"Better. I'll survive." Sherlock answers.
He is thankful for the lack of a heart rate monitor because he can feel it beat faster against his ribs.
"I'm sorry I-"
John starts but Sherlock lifts a hand and dismisses the apology.
"It's okay. You had a lot to deal with."
"Yeah."
John pulls a chair and sits by the bedside.
"I wanted to come earlier but I couldn't make myself leave the flat, and-"
He takes a deep breath.
"I've been using my old room, at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson allowed me to stay."
Sherlock nods.
"I need time to think."
Time to think. Time is good, Sherlock agrees.
"I can go home if I have medical assistance available at all times."
John looks up.
"I can't go back home right now." He says.
"Oh."
The disappointment is obvious on Sherlock's voice.
"No," John adds. "I could take care of you. I can't go back to my own home, that's what I meant."
And Sherlock almost laughs because in his mind Baker Street will always be John's home. Their home.
"So, can I tell the nurse I can actually go home?" He asks.
"From her conversation with other nurses in the alley, I am sure she will be pleased."
And their eyes lock and John's mouth opens in a wide grin.
Sherlock can't help but think that the bullet wound was worth it after all because, even if just for a little while, it will bring John back to him.
"Does it hurt?"
John's voice is soft and he stops on his tracks, looking at Sherlock. Sherlock shakes his head and clears his throat.
"No, it's fine. Thanks for doing this."
John smiles and goes back to his work, a focused look on his face.
Being responsible for Sherlock's medical needs, he is the one entrusted to clean Sherlock's wound. For him it is just a regular procedure, thought it seems a bit weird to be taking care of Sherlock. Sherlock is usually the one who has everything sorted out, and John is not used to see him so vulnerable.
For Sherlock, it is a struggle to keep a straight face, and he prays silently that John won't notice how his heart rate increases as he touches his exposed skin. John's hands are warm and smoother than he has ever imagined and they work with practised ease, careful not to hurt him.
When the wound is clean and the plaster changed, John helps Sherlock put the thin sweater of his pyjamas on and then, in a reflex, tucks him in.
John doesn't spend a second thought on this. Sherlock can't think about anything else for the rest of the day. Oh, what a ridiculous man he has become.
John can tell the effort Sherlock is making; even though he pretends everything is fine and that he can't feel the pain, he is still too weak. Sherlock has always been a man of action and it mesmerizes John how calm he has been, considering he can't solve any cases nor do any research. He has also been unusually quiet. Maybe the bullet wound and the events had made him reconsider his life, had made him less willing to put himself in danger. Whatever the reason, Sherlock has been obeying the rules and that makes John's work a lot easier.
John sits on his chair after checking on Sherlock for the last time that night – he is already asleep – and he feels, as he places a hand resting on his leg, the bulge in his pocket. He has been carrying the usb drive since that evening but he hadn't gotten around to reading it yet. The information it contains scares him more than he is able to admit to himself. He is afraid Mary is right, he is afraid that, when he reads it, he will stop loving her.
He takes it out of his pocket and looks at it for a few moments. It feels heavier in his hand than the size of it would presuppose and with a last fiddle he conceals it again. Then, knowing that if he goes to sleep he will have a night of nightmares ahead of him, he opens his laptop and checks his blog, remembering old cases. Some of the comments make him laugh and he reads Sherlock's, smiling.
Being back to Baker Street it's not a struggle. He sleeps alone now, when he does sleep, but the house is familiar. He knows every corner and he realises Sherlock has left too many things as they were, and John feels that he has never really left.
When John finally goes up to his room to sleep, Sherlock hears his steps up the stairs and he closes his eyes, tracing John's movements with his mind and wondering if he will be part of John's dreams that night.
When John touches his skin while changing the plaster for the second time, Sherlock doesn't flinch. John's fingers still feel like fire against his skin, so he closes his eyes and nods as response when John asks him if he is okay. John keeps working on the wound for a while longer.
Sherlock wonders how it would be to feel John touching him intimately and he can understand, deep down, why Mary was so afraid of losing him. Sherlock didn't know what he was losing, didn't know there was a chance he could lose John. To be honest, he really has no idea when it all began.
He had always been detached. Having friends wasn't something he longed for but when it happened with John he accepted it easily enough. He didn't think it was worth wasting his time thinking about the how. John was, when compared to all the ordinary people Sherlock knew, remarkable. Nerves of steel, as thirsty for action as Sherlock himself had always had. Loyal, trustworthy. And mainly, he accepted him as he was, he hadn't given up straight away and, in a way, Sherlock realises that he has become so entangled in Sherlock as he has become entangled in John.
But love; now love was different. Love was not something he handled. So much that he didn't even take a second thought about it. He had never needed to review his own feelings towards John simply because he had never lost much time thinking about them. But then Mary had come along while he was gone.
He liked Mary, she was fierce and assertive and clever, but he knew what jealousy felt like now. Was he still the man he used to be, or had he changed? He could not know, because no one else had come as close as John. This was brand new and frightening.
He had tried not to think about the future now but the idea of living in Baker Street alone again haunted him more than he would like it to.
A few nights later John falls asleep on the couch, holding the usb drive once again. Sitting on his chair, his muscles begin to hurt and he thinks that that is the reason he woke up. But, tingling at the back of his neck, he feels as if he was being observed. He looks back but he sees no one and he doesn't hear a sound. He gets up and places the usb drive on the living room table, and directs himself to Sherlock's bedroom. The door is half closed and he opens it slowly, peaking inside.
Sherlock is sleeping on his back, uptight posture, but his expression is calm.
John turns the lamp on the bedside table off and turns his back, taking a look at the clock on the way out. It's late. He was dreaming about Mary. In his dream she shot him, not Sherlock and John realises that he would have preferred it that way.
Sherlock walks slowly, with bare feet, and looks around the living room. His eyes dart to the usb drive and he approaches the table it is on, and picks it up. He could read it, he could know all of her secrets and yet, he isn't sure he wants to. He has reasons enough to hate Mary already; well, he has one.
He sits on John's chair, still warm, and he clings to the fabric, feeling it on his fingertips as the pain on the chest hits him. Not from the bullet this time. The wound on his chest gets better by the day but he knows he will be in trouble if he starts bleeding internally again, not to mention that if the wound didn't kill him John probably would.
He gets up carefully now and as he paces in the direction of his room he sees the music sheets containing the many drafts of compositions he has written to John and Mary's wedding. Strange, how easy they were to compose and how easily they shattered his heart.
If he closes his eyes hard enough he can still hear John saying 'I do' and for a second, he repeats the words and he pretends they were uttered to him, and it all feels better.
Lestrade comes to visit Sherlock and John often, and he always brings Molly along. Usually she brings home baked cookies, and Lestrade, not knowing what else he could offer, brings Sherlock the daily newspaper.
Sherlock never reads the newspaper but he always eats a cookie before Molly leaves, showing her that he appreciates her effort.
Both the detective and the pathologist have funny stories to tell and they keep Sherlock entertained.
Sometimes, while Molly explains Sherlock the results of a research she is doing for him, John and Lestrade move on to the kitchen and they have a beer together. In a way, he and John are in the same situation: complicated wives. Lestrade promises, talking more to himself than to John, that this time he won't forgive her, that this time he won't give her a change to come back. John doesn't say anything because he can't explain anything to Lestrade without putting Mary at risk and, mostly, because he has no idea what he should do.
"Are you going to read it?"
It's Sherlock who asks. John is reading a book and Sherlock is lying on the couch, looking at the ceiling, as it is his habit. John lifts his eyes from the book and looks at him.
"Sorry, what?" He asks.
He was too absorbed in the book and he needs a moment to understand Sherlock's question. Sherlock points at the usb drive. It hasn't been moved from the table ever since John forgot it there but they have both passed by it as if it was yet another part of the furniture.
John puts the book down and picks the usb drive up.
"I suppose I ought to."
Sherlock wants to ask why he hasn't yet then, but he lacks the courage, so he closes his eyes again and places his hands on his chin, palms pressed against each other.
"I don't know what to do."
When Sherlock opens his eyes again and faces John, the other man is looking at the fireplace, fighting back the tears. Sherlock does not know how to deal with this, so he gets up and makes some tea.
"She's pregnant."
It's Sherlock who utters the words, as if he was talking to himself, but loud enough for John to hear it.
"Yes." John says. He takes the cup Sherlock passes him. "What would you do?"
Sherlock scoffs.
"You're asking advice from the wrong person."
"You are the only person that I can talk about this with, no one else knows about Mary shooting you and…" He trails off. "If she was a regular client, and I was not your friend…"
"But you are my friend."
John stares at Sherlock and his eyes look straight at him.
"Please, don't ask me to help you make that decision; I don't want to be involved."
And he gets up and slowly walks to his room, dumping his full cup of tea in the sink on his way.
John gets up and follows him. When he enters the room Sherlock is arranging his ties on the drawer.
"You should rest." John affirms.
"I'm tired of resting. And I am feeling better, arranging my ties is hardly a tiring occupation."
John sighs.
"You left my wedding earlier."
Sherlock stops for a heartbeat.
"Yes."
"Why?"
The question is straightforward enough but Sherlock can't answer. At least not with the truth.
"I didn't want to be a nuisance."
"And what makes you think you would be a nuisance."
"Because I don't have any other friends!"
Sherlock shouts the words and then he takes a deep breath before approaching the bed and sitting. John doesn't know if he should say anything, or if Sherlock still has something to add. Sherlock turns around and his eyes lock in John's.
"I'm sorry."
"You don't have to apologise."
Sherlock nods and when he doesn't speak another word John leaves the room, grabs the grocery list and goes shopping. Now that Sherlock can't conduct experiments anymore they always have plenty of milk in the house, but he still needs to get some air.
Sherlock is left alone with his thoughts and he can't explain why he can't just tell him. He is going to lose John anyway.
Mary enters the living room, head bowed down. She is still holding her mobile; the message Sherlock sent her announcing that the cost was clear still on the screen. She looks around nevertheless, searching for John, and Sherlock gives her a moment. Her eyes turn finally to him and she steps forward.
"How bad is it?" Sherlock asks.
Even though he didn't point at the usb drive placed on the table, Mary knows exactly what he is referring to.
"I am not you, Sherlock."
The words surprise Sherlock. He does not know what to make of them or what does she mean by saying them. Mary sits down, dropping her bag on the floor.
"I have the feeling that John would forgive just about anything if it came from you. But he will not forgive me for that."
"I don't-"
Mary opens a hand in front of her, stopping him.
"You do not understand. You do not see it, but I do. And that's what I am most afraid. It's not about fighting; it's not about him choosing to keep me or to stay alone. It's about the fact that you do not realise how much you can weight in his decision, and when you do… Well, it all depends on you. On what you want to do with it."
Sherlock still doesn't understand. Mary smiles but her smile is sad.
"Whatever you tell John to do, he will do. You've got the game in your hands, and with it, you've got me and my future with John as well."
"Mary," Sherlock begins, her words starting to take shape in his mind. "It's not like that. We never-" He clears his throat. "John loves you."
"Yes. Maybe he does, or he did at least. I am certain of that. But he also loves you, whether he admits it or not and I won't even bother fighting you because, as I said before, I know who would win this battle. I never wanted for this to happen and, in a way, I wished you had died that night."
The words hit him like a punch in the gut and Sherlock nods.
"Whatever you do, just make sure he is happy. I don't deserve him, either way."
And Mary gets up, picks up her bag and turns away.
Sherlock is left alone with a decision to make, the most difficult he has ever had to.
John's walk was longer than he had anticipated. His instinct is guiding him and he is following, hardly unaware of where it is leading him. Then he stops, and looks up.
Somehow, St. Bart's looks different now than it did two years ago. The angles of the facade are sharper, less twisted. He looks up, right at the place where he saw Sherlock jump and he picks up his phone. Sherlock picks it up at the third ring.
"John."
It's not a question. The voice resonates through John's ears and the same feeling comes back. Desperation, need, the feeling that that can't be real, that something is numbing his senses but he will wake up eventually and it will be nothing but a dream.
"John?"
This time the voice is preoccupied, almost pleading.
"Would you have done it?" John asks, his voice half-cracking.
"What?" Sherlock is confused, and John can hear him moving around in the flat, probably putting his coat on by the sound of it.
"Would you have jumped? If you had to. If you really had to, to save me?"
Sherlock stops, phone pressed steady against his ear. He takes a deep breath that sits in John's heart.
"Yes."
John swallows and his jaw clenches.
"Why?"
"Because you're my best friend. My only friend."
The words come too fast, too fast for John to believe them.
"Just that?"
Sherlock takes a second to answer.
"Yes."
"Thank you." He finally manages to say.
"What for?" Sherlock needs all his strength to ask, to say anything at all.
"For giving your life for me."
"I didn't." Sherlock rebates.
"Yes you did."
He wanted to tell him that he didn't know what it was to have to abandon London, the place Sherlock loved the most, that he had seen the scars on his back and chest, scars Sherlock did not bear before those two years. That he didn't know, but he could imagine how it must have been. That Sherlock had survived but he recognised that a part of him had died that day, two years ago. And it was all because he had people to protect, he had him to protect.
"I'm going home now." John said, finally moving his eyes away from the roof of the hospital.
Sherlock closed his eyes before asking.
"To Mary?"
John frowned.
"No. To you. To Baker Street."
And then he realised the reason for Sherlock's question, his own answer, and all its implications.
"Don't read it."
The words were uttered loud enough that John jumped in his sit. They were one in front of the other, Sherlock playing his violin softly and lowly and John reading a book, immersed in it.
"Why not?"
Sherlock got up and placed the violin in its stand. John can see that his equilibrium and strength are almost back to normal. He has insisted on wearing his normal clothes in the house for a while now because they made him feel better, healed, ready. If there is something Sherlock hates is the feeling of needing someone, of not being capable of taking care of himself. In no time he will be able to get back to his work and to resume his normal life. Not that there is a separation between these two things.
John gets up. He is tired of playing games. Tired of fearing the truth, of dodged questions. Tired of lying to himself too. He knows where his decision really relies on.
"Why are you doing this?" He inquires.
"I am just advising you. I don't know until which point you really want to know who she was. Does it really matter?"
The question and Sherlock's sudden coldness has taken John by surprise.
"What do you mean?"
"She's expecting your child. Do you really want the baby to be raised within a broken family? You loved her up until here, didn't you? That's why you married her."
"Oh, I thought I had married her because she was an assassin." John shot back.
"Well, you certainly sensed something. But you didn't marry the assassin. You married someone who was trying to redeem herself from her past. You married someone who cared about you. You fell in love with the woman Mary is now. She was an assassin, she has a complicated past, but she is also all that she showed you when you two met."
"She shot you." John pointed out.
"For you. She shot me to protect you, your relationship at any cost. She would go to any lengths for you, John."
Sherlock was facing him now and the significance of the words struck John.
"So would you, apparently."
This was it. The words had escaped his throat with a sigh, as if all that he had meant to ask had been suddenly released, finding its way out of the cage and there was no way to take them back. He wouldn't want to take them back.
Sherlock looked at the floor.
"Yes." The silence was long, and Sherlock could hear his own heart beating in his ears. "But it's her you love and married. And that's why, no matter what happens, you will always choose her."
He didn't face John. The confession was made and he knew the repercussions this would have. He felt like a fool. This is why he was not meant to love. This is why he should have never had gotten involved. This is why, when words as vacant but as significant as these escaped him, he felt more lost than relived.
"So don't read it." He advised. "Ignorance can be a blessing too."
And without looking at John he removed his night gown and substituted it for his coat, and left through the door, staggering down the stairs, feeling as if someone had stolen a part of him he would never be able to reclaim.
Mary opened the door just a bit, wondering who might want something from her at a time like this. Since she and John had separated no one ever visited her.
"Sherlock? What…"
"May I come in?"
He didn't wait for an answer, but she opened the door instinctively and he paced inside. He looked around. There was so much of John still there. The wedding photograph placed on the wall nodded at him, almost mocking him. He closed his eyes for a moment and then faced Mary.
"Do you love him?"
Mary blinked a few times before answering.
"More than anything."
He could see the bump of her belly making its way underneath her clothes. She took her hand to it, following his gaze.
"It's a girl." She reveals. 'Don't tell John, he didn't want to know yet."
Sherlock nods. Mary places a hand on his shoulder, commiseration in her eyes. Sherlock doesn't know if for him or for herself.
"I am sorry." She whispers.
And he collapses. Not onto her. No, Sherlock Holmes does not know how to plunge forward and embrace, how to show his own desperation like any human would. He just stands there, looking at the floor, hunched like an old man, and the tears fall down his cheeks and he doesn't make a sound. Even when Mary steps forward and holds him, placing both arms on each side of his, he does not embrace back. Not because he holds any grudge against her. If anything, he understands her. He understands her need to protect her own identity at any cost, the necessity to lie to John just to keep him by her side. He knows what it is like to feel exactly what she feels and that's what stings the most. How can he hate someone who loves John as much as he himself does? How can he blame her for doing anything within her reach to keep him? He left John. For two years he abandoned him, so he is not entitled to demand anything from John, nor Mary. This is his entire fault, and if anything he deserves it. He does not embrace back because he does not know how.
Mary guides him to the couch and sits him.
"I'm going to make you some tea."
And she leaves for the kitchen. When she returns, Sherlock has left already and on the top of the table the usb drive with her initials shines, reflecting the light from the lamp that hangs from the ceiling.
Back at 221B John fiddles with the usb drive, not noticing the way the letters are slightly differently drawn. Sherlock didn't bother much with detail. Partly because John never really sees anything, partly because deep inside Sherlock still hopes he does.
John is sitting on his chair when Sherlock gets home. He stands there by the door, hands in his pockets, dishevelled hair.
"Where did you go?" John asks, standing up.
There's a silent tranquillity surrounding the flat, as if they were standing at the eye of the storm. Sherlock makes a vague gesture with his head.
"Just around the city."
He feels drained. But he has made his decision. He opens his mouth to speak but John talks first.
"What if I chose you?"
Sherlock stares at him, heart pounding. It's trying to find a way out of his chest and he can't let it.
"That would be unwise."
But John takes another step in his direction and Sherlock feels like he is slowly suffocating.
He feels dizzy when John places a hand on his face. Open palm, smooth fingers, just lying there, on his right cheek. Their eyes lock for a second. Sherlock blinks and he can feel the tears welling up, he can feel his own legs giving up with his weight. So he removes his face from John's hands with a head movement.
"What do you want?" He asks softly, without facing John.
"I don't know." John admits.
He doesn't know. He doesn't know because he has committed to a woman he still loves. Because she is expecting his child, because he does not know if he would have the courage to go through this. If he would have the courage to admit to others – because he has finally admitted to himself – that he may actually be in love with Sherlock too. That he might have always been, but was only too stubborn to face that reality.
He sees Sherlock's shadow falling all over him. He looks up and Sherlock is facing down, facing him with a new determination. Sherlock raises his hands and places one on each side of John's face. They are cold, and long, and soft. And he leans forward, and his lips touch John's.
It's not a proper kiss. It is not a storm, nor rage or the hunger of long refrained love. It's contained and gentle and Sherlock's upper lip fits perfectly between John's lips and when he finally lets go he wants more, but he does not take it.
"Destroy it." Sherlock whispers, still so close to John he can see all the ways his skin changes tone. All the freckles on the bridge of his nose.
John shakes his head slightly, frowning.
"The usb drive." Sherlock clears his throat. "And forgive her. Choose her."
"Why?"
He can feel John's heart pacing on the tip of his fingers while they rest on John's neck.
"Because I am asking you to."
Sherlock steps back, his fingertips are burning, throbbing.
"Why?" John repeats the question.
"Because it's the right thing to do."
John is about to answer back, to tell him he has no idea what he is saying, but when Sherlock's eyes find his again, he knows, deep down, that Sherlock is right. He knows that there is much more to that than just choosing between him and Mary. There's the baby, there's his marriage and all he stands for. Sherlock knows this, and that's why he just leaves John there, standing by the door, and ends up falling asleep on top of his bed, still with his clothes and coat on.
When he wakes up the next day he hears muffled sounds and he gets up. He is afraid of facing John, afraid of what last night's remainders may bring, but when he enters the living room, still wearing last night's clothes, it is filled with boxes and John seems to be packing.
"Good morning." John says and stands, hands by his side, fists clenching. Like a soldier.
"You're leaving." It's an affirmation.
"No, not yet." John answers. "I don't know if she'll take me yet."
Sherlock says nothing for a while and John clears his throat.
"I resigned." He says. "These are all the books and material I ended up leaving at the surgery during these two years. A lot more than I thought I could possibly store there."
He takes a deep breath.
"I have something to ask of you."
Sherlock nods.
"I'd like to work with you again. If at all possible."
The request takes Sherlock by surprise.
"I just…" He looks at the ceiling for a moment. 'I can't stand doing the same again. I mean, that's all good to make a living, but I am bored. I can't go back to the army, I can't… Working with you was the only thing able to keep me distracted, to keep me going. So, if you think you could use some help…"
Sherlock smiles discreetly.
"I'd be delighted."
John faces him. He knew he could try to reach out and touch him, talk last night's over, but Sherlock's expression is closed, unreachable. He has spilled it all last night and he has made his decision and he is not giving anything else away. The old composure is back. Trying to breach it would be a waste of energy, and John is tired of it all.
"I wish this could have all been different." John murmurs, knowing what he is losing.
He doesn't wait for an answer; he passes by Sherlock with a box filled with books and takes them up the stairs.
"So do I."
Sherlock doesn't say it loud enough for John to hear it, but he does either way.
On Christmas morning Sherlock leaves the flat earlier. John had made a decision the night before and had communicated it to him, ceremoniously. Sherlock had called Mary and arranged everything. She knew John would be there but Sherlock had not told her anything else besides that. He had told her to trust him, and she did.
On the cab ride to his parent's house he tried to focus on the plan he had come up with for later on. Facing Magnussen. Betraying his brother. He needed to protect Mary, John and the baby at any cost, and he would do it. He had made a vow of that, and that was what weighted more in his decision. He had not told John about this either, but none of it mattered anyway. What had happened between them, that chaste kiss, had been the closure of a chapter. Now it was time for Sherlock to keep his promises. That's what love was all about, wasn't it?
He sighed. He had never been the selfless kind.
Magnussen's fingers drum on John's face and Sherlock can't do anything to stop it. The anger wells up on him and John's gun is burning inside his pocket. He grabs it and he shoots.
The following hours are a rush, a blur and he can hardly recall them. It doesn't matter. None of it matters. His brother's words, the disappointment on his face, the suicidal mission in front of him. There is one thought keeping him sane, one memory he can hold on to. This won't be an empty grave in any sense.
Despite it all, he can't seem to be able to say the words. So he makes a lame joke and John laughs. That's all he needs. John knows. John knows.
And when he enters the aeroplane, there are five words resonating at the pace of his heart, wrapped up on his ribcage.
"What if I chose you?"
And suddenly, Sherlock realises, that it wasn't a question. Somehow, this is enough and nothing else matters anymore.
Maybe he had always been the selfless kind.