Warning: Not a happy fic; character death.
Even though he didn't have anything particularly spectacular planned for the day, and although the sun was just barely poking its nose over the lip of the horizon, John followed his husband downstairs when he got up. It was always hard to stay in bed once Sherlock had vacated it.
Wandering into the kitchen, he found his grumpy, mop-headed spouse rattling around. Looking into the kettle and sneering when he found it empty. Digging into the back of the cupboard for his- their –favourite set of teacups, creating a chorus of shouts from the ceramic dishes as his impatient hands caused them to collide with each other.
John didn't offer to help, of course.
He'd long ago decided that if Sherlock could deduce the identity of a murderer with nothing but a half-burned cigarette and a red mitten to go on, then he could surely handle the physics and chemistry of preparing a cup of tea.
Although… even after all this time, with all of this practice, he didn't seem to be getting any better at it. He always added too much milk. Ironic, since there was little on this earth that he seemed to abhor more than having to pick it up from the shop.
They sat together at the same messy old table that had been in the flat since they moved in, Sherlock putting enough effort into his diet to force down an entire piece of toast. The process was probably made more palatable by the fact that while he ate, he tried talking himself through his latest case. Not a particularly difficult one, but there were just one or two elements still to be explained. One or two tiny morsels of information that stood between him and his killer.
John listened, offered suggestions where he could, but by the time Sherlock finished his breakfast, he still didn't have his answers.
Time to retreat to the sitting room, then. John planted himself on the sofa while Sherlock remained on his feet. Pacing back and forth across the small room, arms waving with the enthusiasm of a symphony conductor as he narrated the case and its various details. Every so often he would go to his laptop to punch out a few search items, always huffing in annoyance when he wasn't given the result he sought.
Knowing that he would be of little use to his husband in this state, John chose instead to just relax. Let his body mould to the cushions, and watch the show.
After all, it was- and always had been –far more interesting than whatever might be on the telly.
[-]-+-[-]
"It's me." Sherlock rarely bothered with pleasantries when speaking with Lestrade over the phone. "You're looking for two women, most likely under the age of thirty. They know the victim, obviously, and are likely competitive athletes."
A pause as he listened to Lestrade's response.
"Fine. Round them all up, bring them in. You're looking for the ones who suffer from chondromalacia patellae."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"They have sore knees." Spoken as if he were addressing a dim-witted toddler, of course.
John already knew what Lestrade's next question was- how do you know?
"Because they went to the trouble of dragging the body down one hundred meters of hallway, where they could've been spotted numerous times, rather than climbing two flights of stairs and leaving him on the roof."
After that, he agreed to meet Lestrade the next morning to go over a few remaining details, and hung up.
Tossing his phone onto the desk behind him, Sherlock rested his hands on his hips and stared out the window. "Well, what do you think? Shall we celebrate?" A dry laugh. "Although I hardly think this case deserves such recognition…"
"Of course it does," John answered, hoisting himself off the sofa. He did agree with Sherlock- the case, while it had taken some pondering, hadn't even come close to exerting the man's intellect. Still, John seized any excuse to see his husband eat something more substantial than a few gulps of air every few hours. "Angelo's?"
A muted smile unrolled across Sherlock's face, his chameleon gaze glued to something outside. After a few moments his mind seemed to teleport back to the four walls of the flat. Spinning around, he retrieved his coat from its hook on the door, and tied his scarf around his neck in that same precise manner he'd been practising for years now. "Off we go then."
[-]-+-[-]
A small, rebellious part of John hated that Angelo's had become 'their place' over the years. He couldn't think of anything more clichéd for a couple to possess than a restaurant they considered 'theirs'.
But the food was good, the owner was always welcoming, and it was quite a cozy little spot.
Sherlock looked down at the gargantuan meal he'd ordered. Of course, for any other human being it would just be considered 'dinner', but it was obvious that the man who had the appetite of an amoeba was terrified of the portion he'd just been served.
He shook his head, a few dark curls flopping back and forth across his forehead. "You know I'm only doing this for you, John," he grumbled, picking up his fork.
"I know," John laughed. "But as always, you'll thank me later."
Another little grumble, and Sherlock speared his first helping of pasta.
Sherlock would never actually admit it, but there was always a gossamer-thin sheen of bliss that unfurled over his features when he embarked on a decent meal. As if, despite the constant protests of his brain, his body absolutely rejoiced at the chance to be refuelled.
John smiled when he saw it, glad to see that relief tacked to his face, even though it would only last an instant.
[-]-+-[-]
Normally, John looked forward to the time in the evening when Sherlock stumbled towards the bedroom.
Not because it meant his husband was about to get any sleep. John had stopped wishing that wish long, long ago.
He looked forward to it, he enjoyed it, simply because it was their chance to just be. To lie in the dark, side-by-side, and pretend that the world had dissolved away for a little while. That reality consisted of nothing more than the two of them. Together.
On a really good night, Sherlock would manage to slip into unconsciousness for two hours here, another three or four hours there. Never much more than that at a time though.
Tonight, something was different in Sherlock's demeanour. Something was… off. John recognized what he was seeing, but he continued to hope that his assumptions were wrong.
He'd felt it creeping up on him since Sherlock's phone call to Lestrade. Like a leopard stalking him through some grassy expanse of the African savannah. Every now and then John caught a glimpse of its silhouette, the merest hint that a predator was upon him. Then the breeze picked up again and the mirage disappeared. Each time, he was too relieved to insist that there really was danger lurking in his midst.
It wasn't until there were two sets of claws embedded in his flesh, a gaping maw of ivory razors coming at him, that John would admit to what he had been seeing.
What he was seeing now. In the thud of Sherlock's feet against the floorboards. The languid strokes of his arm as he scrubbed his teeth. How his fingers lingered against the frame of each door he passed through.
Yes. Tonight was going to be one of those nights.
A chill ran through him at the realization. Tiny fingers scraping shards of ice down his spinal cord. John wasn't sure how many more of these nights he could handle.
Shrugging out of his dressing gown, letting the tattered blue fabric puddle at his feet, Sherlock dropped down onto the bed. He bounced a couple of times from the impact of his weight. Pulling back the blankets, he tucked his feet down into the waiting cocoon.
John circled the bed and climbed in behind him. Wrapped his arms around his husband from behind when he laid down on his right side. Tucked his nose into the divot between Sherlock's two bony shoulder blades.
…And waited.
Sherlock spent the next few moments in silence, studying the framed photograph on his bedside table.
Peeking over his shoulder, John smiled when he saw it. Felt something sharp clench around his heart at the same time.
He adored that photograph. Sometimes, if Sherlock was busy or had gone out, John would come in and do just what Sherlock was doing right now. Spend a few minutes, what sometimes felt like a few days, just staring at it.
They'd gone to Sally's house for Christmas that year.
Yes, Sally Donovan. And yes, the story of how they came to be there was indeed a long one.
There had to have been at least thirty people in her home that evening. Family, friends, colleagues from the Met. It was loud, and busy, and an absolutely splendid gathering.
Or so John and Sherlock had been told. They'd ended up missing a good two thirds of it.
That year, one of London's evidently less upstanding citizens had been making a rather vile name for himself. Breaking into the offices of various charities and stealing whatever cash they had on hand after a fundraising event. Eventually the spree had escalated to the accidental murder of a secretary who'd been working late one evening and walked in on him.
Unfortunately, on top of lacking anything that might be recognized as a soul, the man was quite clever. Sherlock and John had spent the better part of four days tracking the killer through the city. There was hardly an upscale hotel or a dirty old pub within the borders of London that they hadn't searched.
Finally, on the day of Sally's party, they'd caught him.
Which meant that by the time they were actually set to arrive at her house, both of them were exhausted. John had insisted on attending though, saying it was the least that they could do given the fact that she'd been kind enough to invite them in the first place.
Not surprisingly, they'd parked themselves on her large sofa the minute they walked through her door. Even made a valiant effort at staying awake, but… eventually they were overcome.
The couple that had been sharing the sofa with them had chuckled as Sherlock and John slowly melted into the cushioned abyss.
It started with John leaning his back into the arm and pulling one leg up. Continued when Sherlock wedged himself into the space between John's open legs. Was then helped along when John sunk down a little so he could lay his head- heavy, so heavy, he'd been keeping it upright for days -against the sofa's arm. Sherlock adjusted himself accordingly, until they were both comfortable.
Comfortable enough to fall asleep.
Which was when one of the partygoers had captured the image of them that was now sitting on the bedside table. Lestrade had presented it to them a few days later, an amused little grin on his face.
There was John, head tipped back over the arm of the sofa. One leg still resting in front of him on the floor, the other wedged between Sherlock's body and the back of the piece of furniture. His hand could be seen resting against the dip made by Sherlock's lumbar vertebrae. Sherlock was crumpled up against him, cheek flattened against his chest, mouth halfway open. One arm was slung around John's torso, while the fingers of his other hand were curled into his shoulder.
John loved the image for its simplicity. Its spontaneity. The fact that they hadn't had to be asked to pose for the camera in order to show the affection that existed between them. It was just there. Always. Even in sleep.
Sherlock reached across the void and rested the tip of his index finger on the corner of the frame for a moment. Ran his thumb across the image of John's face. Then he reached up and turned out the light.
A long, deep breath rattled through him. Every bone in his lithe body trembled with the weight of the air that he drew into and then pushed out of his lungs.
Frowning, John sat up on one elbow, and looked down at his lover's face. He already knew what he would see. Sherlock's eyes were pinched closed. The muscles surrounding his jaw were pulsating. His throat contracted as he swallowed.
It looked as though he was attempting to fight off a gut-tossing wave of anguish. Doing everything he could to keep down the one full meal he'd managed to eat in the last three days.
Then, there was the soft clink of metal against metal. A spark of moonlight as the pair of dog tags that Sherlock kept permanently wrapped around his neck were exposed to the cool night air. He pressed the shards of metal between his fingers. Massaged them with his thumb. Brought them up to his lips so he could kiss to the front and back of each of them.
Another shuddering sigh crackled in the air. This time though, stapled to the last few milliliters of carbon dioxide that made their escape… was a tiny whimper.
John sealed his lips shut and imagined his own trachea collapsing, hoping it might neutralize the sob that wanted to tear out of him.
Sherlock brought his left hand up to join his right, and he clutched the dog tags in the little cave between his palms.
"John," he whispered into the dark.
"Sherlock," he answered, his vocal cords trembling around the familiar syllables.
Sherlock's chin scrunched up and then relaxed, scrunched and relaxed, forcing his lower lip to flutter along with it. There was a hint of moisture collecting against the seal of his eyelids. "I miss you," he murmured, voice fractured. Like each word was a separate bubble that popped as it emerged from between his lips. "So much."
"I know, love," John answered him, even though he knew he couldn't be heard. He kissed his husband's temple. Reached up to comb through his dark curls.
Sherlock didn't sigh with relief at the contact though. Not a single strand of the messy mop deformed around his digits.
Because they didn't exist.
Going on six years now. Six years since he'd become incapable of offering Sherlock comfort or solace or affection of any kind. Six years since he'd been able to slide his roughened palms over Sherlock's silken flesh, or bury his nose into his neck and take a deep breath of London air and dank alleyways and expensive clothing and Sherlock.
Six years. Since the day the bullet crashed through his skull. Obliterated the nervous tissue hidden within. A bomb going off inside a jar of strawberry jam.
Six years since John Watson had found the bullet that had been made to stop his heart.
It didn't stop him though. Didn't stop him loving this insane genius. Didn't stop him wanting to spend every blinking second with the man. Didn't stop him trying to comfort him, even though he knew his efforts were as effective as attempting to destroy an asteroid by flinging a bumblebee at it.
Even with that in mind- the knowledge of how futile his actions were -John kept weaving his fingers through the soft brown curls. Cupped Sherlock's shoulder with his other hand, and tangled one leg around both of his.
He tried to imagine that there was some part of Sherlock that could sense his presence. Some part of him that knew he was there. That he always would be.
Because… where else was John supposed to go? Why would he go anywhere else? Anywhere that Sherlock couldn't follow…?
Leaning in, John stitched a kiss into the edge of his carved cheekbone, before feathering his lips against his ear. "I miss you too."
[-End-]
I thank you so much for reading. I know this concept has probably done many times before, but I decided to try my hand at it. I blame this story's existence on my having heard 'Unchained Melody' when I was at work. It spawned a plot bunny, and here is the result.
Reviews/comments are always welcome, especially if they are of the Brit-picking nature (I'm too shy to ask someone to Brit-pick my work). I consider myself the most amateur of amateurs where Sherlock fic is concerned, and I do this solely for my own amusement... that said, I am always looking to improve.
Thanks again.