It was planned out to perfection.
Sherlock was an expert at manipulation, gloried in it, reveled in the nuances of expression and tonal changes in his voice that he expertly managed to convince the Yard, his brother, all the drones that surrounded him of one lie or another. It was a talent well-practised as Sherlock so despised being inadequate in anything he set himself to. The years of honing this particular set of skills were put to such elegant use time and time again, but none of those manipulations were as desperately well-crafted as the lies he told one ex-army doctor the eve before his death.
"John, I have told you before, I find it tedious to repeat myself." There, the seamless integration of condescension and dismissal. His upper lip curled with brilliant subtlety but was as devastating as a full-on sneer.
He laughed then, lower for the grittiness of generated contempt. "I have no further need of your services, as paltry as they are. I have finally encountered someone worthy of my dedicated focus, who understands perfectly what it is to love the game for the game's sake. Did you honestly think that you would hold my attention next to a man like Moriarty?"
Sherlock allowed the question linger, let the machinations of his design sink into place, the words like dominos tumbling with a delicate breath. He saw them fall in the planes of John's face, in the muscle in his jaw twitching, the flutter of his lashes. There was a sheen of brightness in the doctor's eyes, slick with salt, and Sherlock looked away then, his steel-built façade rocked by the slightest tremor at the sight.
He knew what John would say, the protestations, the honor-bound oaths. So very much a soldier despite everything, still held by that landscape that smelled of gunpowder and sand. It was where John had been forged, remade, become so much more than just a man, before the bullet had torn through his shoulder and sent him into a terrible normalcy that had him barely able to walk and a waiting gun in the bedside table. It was the soldier that would remind him of his duty, his devotion to the cause. And Sherlock was waiting for the soldier to emerge so he could defeat him as sure as the bullet that had brought him into Sherlock's life.
What Sherlock didn't expect was the silence. Curious, insatiably so, he turned his head so he was facing John once more. He let his eyes widen slightly, a slip in the mask but subtle enough to miss, because the soldier did not stand in front of him. The man in front of him was the man he'd met in St. Bart's all those months ago, lifetimes ago, with a psychosomatic limp and a twitching hand and eyes that were dulled, emotionless, utterly and hatefully blank.
"No, Sherlock," said the man that looked like John, sounded like John, but was empty of anything John. "I would have been a fool to think so."
John walked past him and Sherlock did not move. He remained still while he heard the unsteady gait making its way upstairs, the drawers being opened and a duffel bag being zipped. He remained still when John returned to the living area with a bag in one hand and the cane in the other and was looking at him with those dead, dead eyes.
"I hope you're happy, Sherlock."
And with that, John was gone.
It was laughably typical. Despite his genial demeanor and warm, woolen jumpers and his extraordinary ordinariness, John could still and always managed to surprise Sherlock. Whenever he expected the ex-army doctor to act a certain way, move at a certain time, speak the script that Sherlock had so carefully written for this scene, John would transform, diverge, change everything until it was Sherlock who was forced to follow because he could no longer predict the course. He had expected a struggle and instead found surrender and an empty flat.
Sherlock found his feet moving toward the sofa and sat down carefully, as if his limbs couldn't quite remember themselves. He laid his head back, eager to escape into rational thought, when he breathed in deeply and the scent was John. It was wool and tea and earthiness and home. Memories engaged him instead, living pictures before closed eyes, of John sitting here while Sherlock lay along the length of the couch, his feet on John's lap as he yelled his frustrations at the quiz shows for asking questions that were entirely irrelevant. Or John quietly allowing the detective to escape into his mind palace, setting aside a cup of tea that was always made perfectly despite Sherlock never having told him how he liked it. Or watching John nap after a particularly grueling case, curled up into himself, and realizing that his mind was blissfully, wonderfully blank.
The memories made his stomach curl with acid and his chest ache and it had been awhile since he'd last eaten so how had he managed indigestion? Annoyed, Sherlock lifted his head and reached into his pocket, taking out the pink phone. His thumb swiped over the screen, the blue of the display lighting the sharp angles of his face.
It's time to dance, Sherlock. I know you want to. - JM
Will you dance with me? We would be so very lovely together, setting the world on fire, watching it burn. - JM
Answer me, Sherlock. Because I can always find another partner. - JM
I know there's someone who will do the job nicely. A doctor with little to credit him besides poor blogging abilities and an exaggerated sense of honor. - JM
Will I dance with John instead? - JM
There was only one answer.
I will be there – SH
The message sent into the void and his fate sealed along with it. It wasn't long before there was a reply.
Looking forward to it. – JM
Sherlock tossed the phone away, his gesture petulant but his eyes like frozen glass. Many had called him emotionless, nothing more than machine, but he knew that within the depths of his composure lay a cold, seething rage that was terrible and all-encompassing, capable of destroying all in its path, cities laid to waste at his feet. But it was not a city or a civilization that called for this fury. It was the one man that threatened to burn the heart out of him before Sherlock had even known he had one.
Now it was time for the endgame. And should he fall, he would take Moriarty with him.
Reichenbach Falls. How obvious.
Sherlock flipped the collar of his coat up, the wind whipping through the trees with the sharpness of oncoming frost. He continued forward, the pink phone burning a hole in his pocket, as he made his way up the winding path to the top of the falls. He had already sent a text to Lestrade, clear enough that by the time that the detective inspector understood what it meant this would long be over. He had thought of sending one to Mycroft, but he knew Lestrade would tell his brother about the message anyway, so it was irrelevant. As long as there was enough time.
When he exited the top of the path, the trees parted and revealed the churning rapids of the river, breaking over the rocks and tumbling down, down into the depths below. The roar of the falls overrode almost all other sound, but Sherlock kept his focus, remained observant. That's how he saw the slightest movement in the trees just upriver and was unmoved when Moriarty appeared next to the water. The slim man smiled, lewd and giddy and brimming with madness, as he slowly approached.
"Well, hello!" Moriarty's chipper voice echoed over the rushing water. "Fancy seeing you here."
"You invited me," Sherlock replied, tone carefully placid.
The madman laughed, high-pitched and obscene. "Well, I needed to get your attention, didn't I?" He sneered, his face twisted ugly. "I had thought I had wooed you well enough but you didn't appreciate the gesture, it seems. No, you were more interested in your pet."
Sherlock's gut twisted, his nerves alight with glittering, cold anger. "John has nothing to do with this. I'm here. I accepted."
"That's true," Moriarty hummed, eyes fever-bright. "But somehow I can't help but think. You were a little too attached to your pet for my comfort. And I can't stand not being the focus of all the wonderful, calculating attention." His eyes fluttered close, breathing deep with a shudder. "Oh, I do love when you spoil me."
"This is not for your benefit," Sherlock drawled, his anger tightly controlled behind his teeth. "I have every intention of beating you at your own game."
Moriarty laughed again and it was sharp as a knife. "My game? Oh, but it's our game, Sherlock. It's always been ours. Who else would bring nothing to a chess match but you?"
Before Sherlock could move, Moriarty had rushed forward and had a gun in his hand, inches from Sherlock's temple. The madman was giggling to himself, wickedly pleased with the turn of events. Sherlock's thoughts raced, calculating the odds of defensive maneuvers, which ones, the wind velocity on bullet trajectory, the element of surprise. Regardless of scenario, the odds were incredibly low.
"I'm going to kill you, Sherlock Holmes," Moriarty whispered, moving up to the detective's ear so his mouth brushed against skin. "I'm going to watch the light leave your eyes. I would keep you for myself but you have responded very poorly to my training and I can't have a pet that doesn't know his place. Do you know your place, Sherlock?"
Each word counted, another second that the odds could change. "I don't know. Why don't you tell me?" Sherlock asked, keeping his body still but his eyes locked in with that maddened, maddening gaze.
Moriarty was more than happy to answer. "At my feet. Either begging for mercy or with your blood staining my boots. They're Prada but for this, I might make an exception. You've always been my exception."
"Should I be flattered?"
"Flattered? Try honored." The madman pulled back, licking his lips with malicious glee. "I think it's time. It's been fun, Sherlock Holmes, but at last, it's checkmate."
A shot rang out.
Moriarty stumbled back, a sound of surprise escaping his throat as the gun fell from his hand, and Sherlock could only stare at the patch of red beginning to seep through the fabric at the man's shoulder. Panic fluttered in his chest, smothered by questions, who, what, where, where, where? His gaze moved everywhere quickly and saw the movement out of the corner of his eye. A moment later, Sherlock joints froze in shock, his heart pounding in his ears, as the figure of John Watson emerged from the trees, his eyes and gun focused on Moriarty.
"Don't move or I will kill you."
His face twisting in pain and hatred, Moriarty swiped at the blood staining his shirt, nearly vibrating with rage. "Oh, I think that's my threat, Doctor Watson. The things I will do to you. I will skin you alive and burn the marrow from your bones, I will –"
"Shut up." John ordered, his voice dark and laid with steel. "In just a moment, a helicopter is going to come up over the ridge. And you will get on it and you will be taken where no one will ever find you and that's still too good for the likes of you." He glanced toward Sherlock and that hardened expression melted into a grin that made Sherlock's pulse flutter and his bones ache.
"You're such an idiot." John's voice was warm, the words affectionate, his eyes alive and bright and as if Sherlock hadn't had enough, the doctor winked at him before turning his focus back onto Moriarty.
Never had Sherlock lost the ability to speak. But standing there, his John once more surprising him and saving his life and standing beside him, he found the words welling up at the back of this throat too profound, too frightening to say. He had never thought that he would say those words to anyone as long as he lived. But that was before he met John.
The sound of a helicopter rose above the sound of the waterfall and it was enough to cause that moment of distraction. Suddenly, there was a hideous shriek and the glint of a knife and Moriarty's crazed, gleaming eyes as he lunged toward Sherlock, his blade raised for the killing blow. Sherlock would have moved but there was a blur in front of him and John was there, grappling with the enraged madman, the knife between them.
"Sherlock, get out of here!" John shouted, his voice strained as he fought with the beast that was Jim Moriarty. "Go!"
Before words could find him, Moriarty was laughing, shrieking, and then was the horrible sound of blade finding flesh.
"JOHN!"
But it was not John's blood that stained their hands, that poured from the belly wound as Moriarty stared down at the knife buried in his gut. There was a twist of pain on his pinched features and then that sickly smile returned.
"Remember, Sherlock?" Moriarty whispered, his hands still clutching John with ferocity. "I told you I would burn the heart out of you. And I always keep my promises."
There was the scuffling of shoes, the struggling of two men, and Sherlock, who had been seeing but hadn't observed, finally noticed the slickness of the water on stone, the fragile ledge, the precarious footing. And Moriarty saw the pieces fall into place.
"Checkmate."
And Jim Moriarty flung himself backwards and off the edge of the falls, pulling John Watson with him.
The next few moments were burned indelibly in his mind.
The slow, graceful plunge of two men into the mist of the waterfall before disappearing altogether. Uniformed soldiers pouring out of the helicopter, guns raised, orders shouted. Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade making their entrance. And both of them holding his arms, shouting obscenities, as Sherlock struggled, fought, thrashed wildly against them. His knees scraped against the stone, his lungs burned from the cold air, and his throat ached as he cursed and snarled and screamed to be released, to follow John, to save John. That word, that name, echoed over and over in his mind, his bones, all he could see was John falling, all he could scream was John's name, as Lestrade and Mycroft pulled him from the edge of the falls and away from John.
There was something hot and wet blurring his vision and searing his cheeks and Sherlock for the world couldn't deduce what it was, only that it hurt.
Time blurred around the edges and Sherlock found himself seated in a helicopter with that damnable shock blanket wrapped around his shoulders and his damnable brother standing in front of him. He was sure Mycroft was speaking, when did he ever stop, but Sherlock looked through and past him and didn't register a word. Not when the only word that mattered had been torn from his throat so many times it bled.
"I have recovery teams searching." Mycroft was still talking. "We'll find him, Sherlock. We will find him."
There was the ever so slight twitch to Mycroft's brow and Sherlock knew he was lying. But he said nothing, just stared at the edge of the falls, at the point where John had stood and smiled at him, as if they'd always be together.
The teams found someone. But it wasn't John.
The body of Jim Moriarty had washed up on the rocky shore, knife still deeply embedded in his stomach. The rescue teams had pronounced him dead, their voices filled with static on Lestrade's radio, but Sherlock found himself on his feet and hurrying down the path before anyone could stop him. He had to see, had to know, had to confirm with his own senses that it was true. Soon, he was standing above a body, Moriarty's expression one of eternal surprise, and he found that it did nothing to amuse him. Sherlock bent down, pressed his fingers to the wrist, the jugular, the chest, all pulse points that rang completely empty. He noted the pallor of Moriarty's features, evidence of exsanguination, the blue tint of the lips. And the eyes, dulled and open, refusing to react to light stimulus. While the deduction was fairly easy to come to, Sherlock took his time, allowing minutes to pass before he stood over Moriarty's corpse.
Jim Moriarty was dead. And John had not been found.
Hours later, as the sun fell behind the trees and the search teams had to disband for the night, he remained at the edge of the falls, staring into the churning waters as if they held the answers. When he felt Mycroft's hand on his shoulder, Sherlock still said nothing, but allowed his brother to pull him away and to the helicopter. They lifted off and away from Reichenbach Falls and as Sherlock stared he realized that Moriarty had been wrong. He had promised to burn the heart out of him. But there was no heat, no scent of burning flesh, no charred edges where a heart should be.
Instead there was the breath of winter, heavy frost gathering on a stone, the slow, leaden pulse echoing with one name.
John. John. John. John.
Mycroft led him up the stairs to the flat, taking the keys from Sherlock's coat and opening the door to 221B. The staircase groaned with every step, as they made their way to the living room. It was like stepping into an alternate reality where John would step through the door at any moment with a Tesco's bag, complaining about the test tubes scattered across the kitchen table along with several, unnamable viscous substances as he put an extra carton of milk in the fridge and set up the pot for tea. The striped jumper was strewn across the back of the armchair; the laptop half-open on the side table waiting for the newest blog entry, unknowing there would never be another.
"I'll keep you updated as I get new information." Seriously, couldn't his brother ever shut up?
Sherlock nodded instead.
"I'll be back soon, Sherlock. Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."
As soon as the door closed behind Mycroft, Sherlock let that terrible, untapped rage that could destroy cities surge through him until he was a man possessed. He threw his books and turned over the coffee table and swept his arm across the kitchen counter, the test tubes shattering all over the kitchen floor. He screamed and beat his hands against the walls until plaster dust fell from the ceiling and tore the cushions from the sofa and screamed and screamed until he was curled up in the middle of the wreckage, his hands knotted in his hair, rocking back and forth and back and forth and whispering a name like a benediction as what he finally recognized as tears sliced down his face.
Days passed and there was no news. Mycroft came every day that first week, saying nothing about the mess that was the living room, but there was no information and he was more unwelcome than ever. It was two weeks after Reichenbach that Mycroft had finally uttered the words that Sherlock had been waiting for.
"He's dead, Sherlock." It was so final, brooking no argument. "We may not have found a body but the teams have searched for him and he hasn't surfaced. It's time for you to face the truth. John Watson is gone."
For the first time ever, Sherlock had physically removed his brother from his flat, flinging him out on the street with a crumpled shirt and a broken brolly.
Lestrade would visit too, less often, and no one would say that he was Sherlock's assigned keeper despite everyone knowing that he was Sherlock's assigned keeper. His eyes would glance around the flat, taking in the chaos, watching for signs of twitching, bloodshot eyes, dilated pupils, newly formed track marks.
"So, Sherlock," Lestrade said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "Are you doing alright?"
Sherlock didn't deign him with a reply, just continued staring at the window, folding his dressing gown tighter around himself. This would last another seven minutes and forty eight seconds before Lestrade was satisfied and would leave, on the phone with Mycroft with a report as soon as he was stepped foot on Baker street.
That's when Sherlock would uncurl himself from the window ledge, stepping gingerly around the disordered clutter that he hadn't touched since that first night. He slowly made his way up the stairs, careful not to make any of the steps creak, the door at the top cracked just slightly. Carefully, he let the door open and stood at the edge of John's bedroom.
Nothing had been moved. The bed was partially unmade, the comforter crumpled to one side and the pillow still slightly dented. Medical books were neatly stacked on the dresser, the top drawer half-open, revealing rows of hastily folded socks. The closet was open, clothes hung haphazardly on plastic hangers. There was an empty mug on the bedside table and Sherlock knew there was an empty gun case beneath the bed. All waiting for their owner to return for them, set them to proper use again.
His bare feet slowly made their way to the bed, walking to the mostly-made side and slowly sat down, careful not to disturb anything. Slipping his hand underneath the second pillow and pulled out an oatmeal-colored jumper, setting it into his lap. His fingers traced the knit pattern, memorized the feeling of wool against his skin. As it absorbed his body heat, Sherlock could almost pretend that it had been worn recently, was still being worn. He turned his head, eyes drawn to the slight depression in the pillow beside him, like a head was still resting there, golden hair cropped short and blue eyes closed in slumber. A few moments passed as he watched John sleep, waiting for him to wake up, but John never did and the sun had long since set.
"Goodnight, John," Sherlock whispered, slipping the jumper back beneath the pillow and tiptoeing from the room, making sure to close the door behind him.
Lestrade was the one who called him, though it was John's sister who was arranging the service, deciding that they be allowed to grieve properly, with or without a body. The invitation had been sent through the post and upon seeing the curled, sloppy handwriting of Harriet Watson, Sherlock had tossed it into the fireplace and thrown in a lit cigarette. He had watched the orange glow consume the parchment, the edges of the paper curling up and dissolving into ash, taking the words with them.
"Come on, Sherlock." Lestrade was clearly frustrated but still patient, still calm. "Most of the Yard is going to be there. It'll be good for you to say goodbye."
Sherlock hung up the phone and threw it across the room.
When the day of the memorial service arrived, Sherlock brought the jumper down from John's room and laid it out on a kitchen chair as he attempted to make tea like John had so many times before. He poured it into the mug, taking a hesitant sip, then his face darkened in anger and he threw it in the sink, the mug breaking in two. He stood there and watched the over-brewed tea spiral down, down into the drain and how he wished he could do the same.
Sherlock had expected the visit from Harry ever since the invitation to the memorial service. He had known by the bell, two short blasts, that it was her and some twisted, masochistic urge inside him had him opening the door. She looked like John, with short, golden hair and blue eyes, but her mouth was pursed and mean and she didn't have the same laugh lines and she was not John and that was unforgivable.
"I've let you have your space." Harry had followed him up the stairs when Sherlock had just turned and left her on the stoop, not even bothering with a greeting. She stood in the middle of the living room and Sherlock hated her because it was her brother who should have been there and not her.
"It's time that I take John's things home. It's what he would have wanted. And I am his sister." She said that like that gave her precedence, gave her the right to make demands.
"I don't give a damn who you are," Sherlock whispered, each word dripping with acid that nearly burned holes in the carpet. "Just because you happen to share similar genetic markers doesn't give you any more right than I." His frozen-glass eyes burned as he turned that intelligent, piercing, merciless gaze to her. "I was his flatmate. I was the one who shared his life. There is nothing for you here."
Harry's face blanched with shock just before anger colored it a mottled red. "You arrogant prick. What gives you the right? I am John's sister -"
"You, madam, are soaked to the brim with gin and it's only eleven in the morning. Your cheek has leftover pattern from upholstery, most likely from sleeping on a sofa, the overdue bills in your purse are from a real estate company, probably your landlord, you've been evicted recently. The sofa is probably a friend's, maybe even Clara's, but you have not resumed your relationship with her, obvious by the fading tan line on your finger." His voice was becoming strident now, his expression near murderous. "There is a subtle, sallow tinge to your face, most likely from liver disease that will escalate into failure because your history of alcoholism will place you very low on the donor list. John would have tried to help you and you would have refused him and now you have the gall, the utter nerve, to walk into this flat and demand his things as if you deserve them. You. Have. No. Right!"
The silence that followed was long and ugly. There was something there, at the back of his mind, a voice that was John's voice telling him that he should apologize, that he can't just treat people like that. But as much as he wanted to be a good man for John, to do the right thing, Sherlock kept his mouth shut and watched Harry storm from the flat, slamming the door behind her.
She never returned and John's things stayed where they belonged.
Six months passed.
The surprise on Lestrade's face as Sherlock burst into his office would have amused him any other day. But all he could focus on was the fire burning in his brain and the thoughts aching beneath his skin until all he hungered for was a thin, clean needle.
"I need a case, Lestrade," Sherlock demanded, slamming his hands on the desk.
It took a moment before the detective inspector recovered, suitably annoyed at the interruption. "It's been slow, Sherlock, and nothing remotely interesting."
"I don't bloody care!" His shouting echoed through the offices of the Yard; he could feel their stares boring into his back. It didn't matter, none of it mattered. "I need the work, Lestrade. The Work is why I'm here, it's what I do, it's all I have anymore so give me a goddamn case!"
The pity that flickered across Lestrade's face made his fingers itch to drag his nails across it, ruin it until it was contempt and frustration once more. Hate him, loathe him, despise him, feel anything and nothing at all for Sherlock but pity was more than he could bear. His mouth twisted in a sneer, his sunken eyes luminous in the starved planes in face like burning pale stones.
"I need it." Sherlock's voice cracked then, chinks in the armor. "Please."
He left the Yard with a stack of cold case files in his arms, clutching them desperately against his chest. Once he was safe inside 221B, Sherlock fanned them across the coffee table, upright once more, and tore into them like a man starved. His mind race, his deductions precise and razor-edged, and he didn't stop until the hideous, clawing feeling at his chest and the blistering heat inside his brain began to ebb. Three days later, Sherlock looked up from his perch on the sofa and saw the thirty-five files in front of him, now solved. Suddenly nervous, his hand reached to the side and brushed against the sleeve of the jumper laid next to him, the striped one this time. His mouth flickered as he curled his fingers around the woolen cuff.
John would have been proud.
For the first time in the year since John had fallen, Sherlock found himself looking into a mirror.
His hair was long, longer than he'd ever allowed it, curls hanging down the back of his neck and into his eyes. It was hacked unevenly in places where Sherlock had grown frustrated and taken scissors or a nearby knife to the errant curls that had dared fall into his eyes while he was working on a case. His hair was a dull black and dirty, when was the last time he had showered? He couldn't quite remember and he didn't quite care.
His skin, while always had been pale, was nearly translucent; the blue pathways of his veins clearly mapped just beneath the surface. It hollowed at his cheekbones and stretched taut across his throat. His skin was dry, chapped from the wind, and dotted with scars, the ones he could see anyway. The ones that didn't matter.
Bones protruded and jutted, all sharp angles and stark corners where muscle had once been. Each rib was plain to see, his hips honed enough to cut, his knees and elbows like knobs and knives. His stomach was concave, shadows lingering in the cracks and crevices of his form, neglected so long that any protests had long since vanished.
Sherlock reached a hand toward the mirror, his fragile fingers stroking the glass, and caught himself in his gaze, those sea-glass eyes that held all the sorrow in the world.
The mirror fell, shards raining at his feet, his knuckles stained red with blood.
On the second anniversary of John's death, Sherlock found himself in a staring match with his brother, a small tin lying between them like a challenge. Mycroft's expression was as bland as ever but there was a warning in his gaze that Sherlock had never cared to heed.
"Did you think that I would not find it?" Mycroft asked, his question perfectly poised.
Sherlock said nothing. He watched as Mycroft opened the lid of the tin, drawing out the perfect symmetry of a hypodermic needle. It gleamed in the evening glow of the streetlamps like a siren's call and Sherlock had to look away. There was a lingering moment, but somehow Mycroft had found his answer, because he returned the needle to the tin and shut the lid.
"I see. So you haven't used."
Without even meaning to, Sherlock shook his head but kept his gaze firmly away. He heard the tin scrap against the table as Mycroft pulled it into his lap before tucking it into his coat. The brothers remained silent, conversation had never been a part of their relationship, when Mycroft sighed, standing abruptly. Tucking the newest umbrella beneath his arm, the elder Holmes brother began walking out of the flat before hesitating and turning back around.
"If I may dare ask," he started, his voice void of actual curiosity, "why?"
Sherlock meant to tell his brother nothing but his eyes betrayed him, flicking to the nearby armchair, a navy cardigan folded over the back. And that glance said everything that words couldn't, that John wouldn't have approved, that John always urged him to think about his health, that John would have been disappointed in him and Sherlock couldn't have born that, not in a thousand lifetimes, not when it meant hurting John.
The gentle hand on his shoulder startled him and Sherlock looked up to see Mycroft standing over him, something like compassion filtering through the mask. "I'm sorry."
Mycroft let him be for a whole month.
Something like normalcy was returning to the flat of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock was just as brusque, impatient, brilliant as ever. Lestrade liked to call him to the Yard at least twice a week, if not for a new case then for the never-ending slew of unsolved crimes from years past. Mycroft would interfere and intrude as was his wont, annoying his younger brother a primary directive in his agenda. Experiments bubbled and thrived in the kitchen, body parts were carefully tended in the fridge, and St. Bart's could never seem to get rid of him. And Sherlock Holmes was defined by and existed only for the Work. It was as if John Watson had never been.
That was what was seen but no one observed.
No one observed Sherlock during his grandiose deductions, swirling his coat around for dramatic flourish, for they would have seen the subtle pauses, the gaze flickering lower and to the side, the whispered conversations for no one under his breath. No one observed the state of Sherlock's flat, the rooms as cluttered as they had ever been, for they would have noticed a door at the top of the stairs and a room that remained untouched, a sacred shrine to the dead. No one observed the jumpers that were tossed about the furniture with seemingly careless abandon, for they would have seen the worn areas of fabric where fingers had made patterns over and over.
It was three years after Reichenbach Falls when a dead man appeared on the stairwell.
Sherlock was puttering in the kitchen, observing the effects of mold oil on blood cholesterol levels, when he heard the footsteps on the stairs and the pipette fell from his hands to clatter onto the table. The gait was uneven but sure-footed; there was the gentle brush of a hand on the railing, always the left, never the right. The boots were military grade by the sound of the rubber on the wood and well worn from running on pavement at great speed, nicked from the sharp edge of a fire escape during a particularly long chase. As they came closer, Sherlock could hear the gentle breathing, shallow not from exertion, but from trepidation, catching slightly with every step closer.
Sherlock raced from the kitchen and stopped halfway through the living room when John Watson took the final step to the top of the stairs.
Both of them stood utterly still, as if the dream would shatter at the slightest movement. Sherlock let his eyes take in every detail: the calloused hands with the left index finger slightly indented from trigger of the gun, shoulders pulled back indicative of military service though the left one was slightly strained from previous injury, the cane was gone but the limp remained as evidenced by the slight shifting of weight. At last, his gaze rested upon that familiar face, the laugh lines at the corner of the eyes, strong line of the mouth, and those blue eyes that were looking at Sherlock like a dying man searching for hallowed light.
Unable to keep still for any longer, Sherlock took a hesitant step forward, then another, until there were mere feet between him and his doctor. He could see John's fingers twitch, stifling the urge to reach out, but with a soldier's stoicism, John remained still and allowed Sherlock to come to him. And with a trembling hand, Sherlock reached out and traced the shoulder of John's jumper, the fabric so familiar now but nearly burning with heat because there was flesh, muscle, bone beneath, warm and alive.
"John." The word was tremulous, soft and sacred. "John."
John's mouth tightened, relaxed, and his own prayer slipped from his tongue. "Sherlock."
And suddenly he was clutching John to him, his fingers digging into the jumper that was warm with life and his head buried against John's shoulder and John had his arms tight around Sherlock as he crushed the taller man against him with a desperation that Sherlock understood all too well. John's breath was ruffling his hair and John's pulse was beating against his cheek and it was too much data, too much everything and his eyes burned wet, saltwater soaking into John's shoulder but John didn't seem to care because his own tears were scalding Sherlock's cheek and it was a baptism, washing them both clean.
"I'm so sorry." John was murmuring into Sherlock's hair and his voice was summer and home and life. "I'm so sorry, oh God, Sherlock, I'm so sorry."
His words sank deep into Sherlock's bones, a penetrating heat, and it burned so wonderfully that he hoped it would never end. For his part, Sherlock could barely manage to remember any words save one, the one that had been in the echo of his pulse for more than three years. "John, John, my John, mine."
"Oh, Sherlock." John pulled back slightly, Sherlock nearly whimpering at the lost of heat, but the doctor lifted his hands and began tracing the lines of his face, the calloused fingertips so very gentle that Sherlock's eyes almost fluttered close. But he needed to watch, needed to see, couldn't not see John after all this time. And John was committing him to memory, relearning every last detail, his thumbs sliding over the jut of his cheekbone and arching along the curve of his brow, swiping the edge of his mouth and tracing the outline of his ear. It took forever and yet it was over far too quickly because John's hands stopped, holding Sherlock's face in his palms.
"God, how I've missed you."
Sherlock's eyes did close then, his whole body shuddering, and his knees nearly gave way underneath him when he felt the barest brush of lips against his own, so soft that he might have imagined it but for the warmth lingering afterwards. He managed to open his eyes again, caught once more in those blue eyes that were glimmering wet and devouring every inch of him like a man starved. That look seared through him, burning away the frost and winter that had splintered his bones for so long, the stone in his chest aching as it transmuted, transformed, and for the first time in three years, Sherlock felt his heart beating in his chest.
Somehow, they found their way up the John's bedroom, unable to bear the thought of being parted. John's head was once more where it belonged, in that slight depression that Sherlock had kept in perfect stasis as if waiting for this moment. Sherlock was on his side of the bed, claimed since that very first night after he'd seen John fall, still clutching onto John as if John would disappear the moment his fingers loosened. His limbs were heavy, body thoroughly drained of energy, but in the quiet after the storm the questions were now beginning to rise but his mouth couldn't form the words. John smiled softly, knowingly, and placed a gentle hand on Sherlock's mouth.
"I will answer all your questions tomorrow, alright? Everything you want to know, I will tell you. But, Christ, I'm a selfish man and all I want to do is sleep knowing that when I wake up I'll be here and so will you."
As always, John knew exactly what to say. Sherlock nodded and John removed his hand, letting it slip down Sherlock's shoulder and linger on his hip. With Sherlock's approval, exhaustion seemed to overwhelm the doctor and his eyes slid close, his breath starting to even. So close to sleep himself but not quite satisfied, Sherlock nudged himself forward, even closer to wonderful warmth in front of him.
"John?" His voice was barely above a hush, but John heard and made an answering sound, waiting. Steeling his breath, Sherlock bent his head forward and brushed his own mouth against John's, so soft it could have been a breath. Sherlock pulled back slightly, watching John's eyes open, the blue there heady with something the detective couldn't name but desperately wanted to.
"I missed you too," Sherlock whispered and the smile that stretched across John's face was everything he had ever wanted.
Curled up together, limbs intertwined and breaths mingling, Sherlock and John slept.