Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock.
o
The world around John Watson ceased to exist when he witnessed the suicide of his best friend. He was consequently hit by a young man on a bike and was momentarily knocked out, and now, two hours later, there is a faint buzz in his ears and the dull throbbing of a headache, nothing else. Pain, so raw and intense that his insides feel twisted up into knots, but nothing else. The terrible, unfeasable realization that he has lost Sherlock Holmes, and nothing else.
He doesn't feel the touch of people's hands on his shoulder, doesn't hear their voices, doesn't see their concerned faces as he sits on the floor outside the morgue of St Barts and tries to not comprehend. He doesn't want to understand what has happened; making it real is only going to bring more pain when he is full to the brim already. He thinks of Sherlock and can't recall his last words, only sees his face, pale and tear-streaked. He feels like a traitor.
I called him a machine, he thinks, unaware that he begins to sob loudly and open-mouthed at that, I made it worse. The notion that he doesn't even know the reasons, had no idea what Sherlock was going to do, that his friend must have been desperate and lonely, makes him cringe. A true friend would have seen something was wrong, would have been able to prevent this.
John, still sobbing, doesn't protest as he is gently being hauled to his feet and taken somewhere. He barely notices that he is walking and therefore doesn't care that someone helps him into the backseat of a car. The loud, uncontrolled sobbing eventually turns into quiet weeping, if exactly as desperate. He doesn't stop when the car does and he is being helped to his feet, doesn't register where he is going or that he is being led into a large house. He has been sitting in a comfortable armchair in front of a fireplace for more than twenty minutes when his tears finally abate. He feels drained and empty and only now wonders, briefly, where he is and how he has gotten there.
"John."
His eyes are burning and he is exhausted, but he knows that voice, and it immediately riles him up.
"No!" he says, his voice hoarse and sounding alien to his own ears, "not you! No! I can't deal with you right now!"
"If you'd listen to me for just a second-"
"No." Shaking his head, John unsteadily gets to his feet. The angles of his surroundings are all wrong, somehow, but he doesn't care. He needs to get away from Mycroft Holmes, he needs-
"Sherlock-" Mycroft's voice is entirely too calm.
"Don't you dare say his name!" John explodes, even though that only increases the throbbing in his head. "You betrayed him, Mycroft, you-"
"It was all part of the plan," another, deeper voice interrupts him, a voice which makes John gasp and sway because he thought he'd never hear it again. He closes his eyes for a second, needing to collect himself, and when he opens them again, Sherlock is standing in front of him, unharmed; there's no death left in his eyes.
John just stares.
"A magic trick, John," Sherlock says softly, referring to his words from earlier, from before.
John continues to stare, as all words are eluding him. He can't for the life of him imagine what kind of plan required for Sherlock to fake his suicide in such a fashion.
For a long time, it is completely silent apart from the crackling fire. The room is rather dark since dusk is setting in, but no one moves to light a lamp. It's not important as long as they can still see each other.
"John?" Sherlock prompts, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain.
John narrows his eyes. His eyes are still swollen and his throat feels dry, but right now he feels ready to kill.
"Are you out of your mind?" he asks, dangerously calm now. "Do you have any idea what you have done?"
"I'll explain everything," Sherlock replies. "There was no other way." He seems to sense that John is on the verge of losing it and quickly adds "I'm sorry, John."
The doctor draws a few deep breaths. His knees feel weak now, therefore he sits down again, doesn't care whether that makes him vulnerable.
Sherlock however sits down opposite of him, still in his coat, while Mycroft wordlessly leaves the room.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock feels compelled to repeat once he has had another good long look at his friend; John has no idea how beaten up he looks, how pale and weary.
He listens attentively while Sherlock explains how he and Mycroft played Moriarty, how the latter in turn unexpectedly shot himself, how he had threatened the lives of John, Mrs Hudson and Grant Lestrade.
"Greg," John corrects Sherlock, automatically. "So- why didn't you tell me about the whole thing earlier? Why only now?"
Sherlock fidgets in a downright suspicious manner.
"You didn't plan on telling me, did you," John says, gravely, disappointment thick in the air.
Sherlock is silent for a moment: "No, I didn't."
"Why." It's not even a question; John feels so exhausted now that he can't raise his voice anymore.
"It's too dangerous, John," Sherlock answers, his own voice sounding flat. "I didn't want to risk your safety."
John gives a humourless chuckle. "That's a first," he mutters. "Since when do you have any concerns about my safety?"
Even though the room is now bathed mostly in gloomy twilight, Sherlock looks down at this, effectively avoiding John's gaze.
Who, despite his anger and disappointment, realizes he hurt his friend just now, probably reminding him of the machine comment. And even though he doesn't want to be bothered by it, he feels bad. He's never been one for petty revenge, and it was unfair to say too.
"I didn't mean it," he therefore says, "when I called you a machine. I know you aren't one. I'm sorry. And I'm aware that you do care about me."
Sherlock repeatedly clears his throat: "I know," he almost whispers. "No need to apologize. You least of all people. If anything, it's me who..." He doesn't end the sentence, lets it run cold. There's so much darkness around them now, it could easily swallow them up, steal their words out of their mouths.
John feels like weeping. They're tired and this day has been a nightmare, and he has no idea what will happen next. To the world, Sherlock is dead. His own feelings are a mess. And Sherlock looks genuinely unhappy now, something John hasn't once witnessed before.
"I wish I could have found another solution," the detective eventually says, slowly. "I didn't. Maybe I wasn't the right match for Moriarty. If he hadn't killed himself, everything might have ended differently. I, er... I mean it when I say sorry. I hope you'll forgive me, one day."
John surreptitiously wipes his eyes: "Can we please light a lamp?" he asks.
Sherlock gets up: "You aren't afraid of the dark all of a sudden, are you?" he half-heartedly jokes in the attempt to lighten the mood; he's always been bad at judging these things. It's why he's so dear to me, among other things, John thinks. Loudly, he says: "No. I want to be able to look at you." See that you're moving instead of staring into the sky with those unseeing eyes.
God. The term "nightmare" doesn't even begin to cover it.
"I want to come with you," John says, once Sherlock is sitting down again. "Wherever you're headed now."
For a moment, there's pain written all over Sherlock's features, then he quickly arranges his face. "You can't," he replies in a low voice. "I need to go alone."
"No."
"I do, John."
"Please," John hears himself say, his voice, still hoarse and all but begging. "You know I can help."
"My brother has offered the best agents of the Secret Service. I turned them all down. I'd much rather-" Sherlock only stops himself in time not to say have you there with me, because he doesn't want to further fuel John's argument. "- operate on my own." he therefore finishes.
"That's not true, and you know it," John says, trembling. "You know we're good together, and that I'd have your back."
Sherlock closes his eyes. He tried to run the possible scenarios in his head, back when they were still planning and he was still holding a small hope that he might be able to take John with him, back before he realized how selfish that would be, and how much more dangerous. What if someone caught John, tortured him, killed him? No. This isn't John's choice, and it isn't a war with clear sides. This is far more intricate; one false move might blow the whole operation.
He has reasoned with himself like this over and over again, but hearing John pleading with him is so much more difficult than he could have imagined. He is surprised by the surge of emotions their encounter brought up. Seeing John so desperate and broken was unbearable; hearing him saying all these things which Sherlock knows are true are only emphasizing the immensity of the task lying ahead of him. He can't allow it to intimidate him, but it's happening from time to time. It makes it even harder to refuse his friend's help.
"Please," John now repeats, sounding as though he is weeping again, and Sherlock feels his own eyes prickle and moisten at that.
"I can't," he breathes, barely able to get the words out, "I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry."
Despite the light Sherlock turned on a little earlier, it is the darkest evening John can remember.
That night, both of them stay at Mycroft's house. John receives several texts from concerned friends who're either expressing their condolences or asking how and where he is, or both. He fobs them off with a short reply (hotel, need to be alone) because his focus is on Sherlock, who is going to leave the country on the following morning.
They have retreated to what Mycroft called Sherlock's room; it seems unfeasable to spend any more time apart than necessary. Sherlock is infinitely glad that John is there with him, and vice versa if for slightly different reasons.
It's past midnight now, and they are both wide awake, lying side by side on the large bed, facing each other.
John is studying Sherlock's face. He can see lines of fatigue now that he gets to take a closer look. Apparently, turning the game into a task has taken its toll on the detective; the past few weeks must have been difficult, judging from everything John's learned in the past few hours. On top of all the planning and researching, Sherlock had to keep everything secret, couldn't allow himself to slip out of his role for one second. Not even with John, though the doctor still thinks that that's Sherlock's own fault.
Nevertheless, he wish he could keep him safe, hidden away somewhere. It's silly and he knows it, but it's a fact that he can't imagine living without Sherlock ever again.
"You keep looking for trouble, Johnny," his mum used to say, with a smile on her kind face.
Yes, mum, John now thought. You're right. Sherlock's trouble, but he chose me for his only friend and I'm glad to have him. Aloud, he asks whether Sherlock's sure about going alone, even though he already knows the answer.
"It's a rational decision," Sherlock murmurs, "not an emotional one."
"I know." Nevertheless, John is frowning. "Why does it have to be you?" he then wants to know.
"Because I can think my way into Moriarty's net." Sherlock frowns pensively. "He was unhinged, but he knew what he was doing."
John doesn't want to hear anything about Moriarty's brilliance. "And Mycroft's going to help?" he therefore asks.
"He clearly is under the impression that he is," Sherlock says, irritably. "He was useful until now, I have to grant him that, but from this moment on, I'm on my own."
John looks so unhappy at these words that Sherlock immediately regrets them.
"I can't just stay here and pretend you're dead and at the same time know you're in danger," the doctor now says.
Sherlock doesn't reply; he doesn't need to, because they both know what he'd have said.
"Do you still want me to tell everyone you're a fraud?"
"Yes."
"I hate that."
"The story has got to be waterproof for a while."
John hums; he understands, but that doesn't mean he approves of it.
"Mrs Hudson will be inconsolable," he eventually continues absent-mindedly.
They fall silent; there is so much more to say, but at the same time, everything of importance has been said. And John knows that he won't have any trouble to pretend being sad; it will easily be mistaken for grief.
Some time between one and two in the morning, they fall asleep.
When the butler comes in at half six to wake Sherlock, he is already gone. John sits up, immediately feeling bereft; it's a small consolation that he finds himself covered with Sherlock's coat, but only until he begins to ponder what it might mean that his friend left it behind. It is, after all, one of the things he values the most and an essential part of him.
"You and me both," John murmurs, unaware that he said it out loud.
The next few weeks go by in a blur; at least during daytime. The nights are a different affair. John often lies awake, caught in his worry and guilt. If only he could have proven to Sherlock that he could actually have helped.
He curses Moriarty and the day he was born, to no avail.
The lack of sleep at least helps with the pretense of being in mourning, as it leaves John pale and bleary-eyed. It doesn't take much pretending anyway, since he is increasingly inconsolable. He has no idea where Sherlock is or what he is doing. He doesn't even know whether he is still alive, a thought which is unbearable, but he can't stop all the horrible pictures his mind conjures up while he is lying awake.
"He can look after himself," he tells his mirror image one morning after a particular bad night. "He knows what he's doing."
And yet. There are times when he can't eat because he doesn't know whether Sherlock is all right, has warm clothes, enough food, shelter. Is healthy.
At one point, five months after the fake suicide, he calls Mycroft. Outside, the first leaves are falling, and the air is turning decidedly nippy. John thinks of the coat which is hanging on its hook, at home in Baker Street.
"I'm sorry," the older Holmes says, "I haven't heard from him."
"But- don't you have a... a... someone who's keeping an eye on him?"
"I did," Mycroft replies, pensively; his tone doesn't betray his emotions."Until three weeks ago. We've had no visual contact ever since."
It takes John a moment to find his voice because he can't believe what he just heard: "Seriously? I thought you were the British Government. I thought- hell, I don't know what I thought, but you're always watching Sherlock, aren't you! It's not just paranoia on his part, no, but now, the one time that it really counts, you lose him?"
Mycroft remains silent: "I do worry about him as well," he finally says quietly, "as I believe I told you when we first met. That hasn't changed."
"Find him, then," John huffs and rings off.
Mrs Hudson, for the first time since John knows her, doesn't put up any Christmas decorations, not even a single chain of fairy lights; she just can't bring herself to do it. Without any enthusiasm, she bakes some cookies which largely remain uneaten. John sometimes wishes he could tell her the truth; she's 78, after all, she shouldn't be put through so much hardship. All he can do however is to spend time with her, trying to substitute for the man she all but adopted as soon as he had moved in and whom she's now mourning.
"Shouldn't we pack up a few things?" she asks a few weeks into the new year. "All of his stuff is still there, it's like he'd never left..." She breaks off as her voice gives out.
"Not yet," John says flatly, and they leave it at that for the time being.
Molly Hooper is the only one who, apart from Mycroft, knows Sherlock is alive. John hasn't met her once in the past months, not since the funeral anyway; it was her who informed Sherlock about John's complete and utter breakdown, and he knows that he probably owes it to her that the detective changed his mind about letting him in on the secret.
He was jealous of Molly at first, but on one day in spring, he calls her. They meet in a pub near Barts; their conversation is hesitant at first, as neither of them are quite sure what to say, but after John's first pint and Molly's first glass of red wine, both of them relax a little. Inevitably and without using names, they talk about Sherlock after a while, and it's a tremendous relief to be using the present tense for once, despite the anxiety which is still there, presenting itself as a leaden weight in John's stomach.
"It's killing me not to know," he admits at one point, two pints later. He doesn't have to elaborate, as Molly isn't blind. She's guessed why he's looking so dreadful.
"I didn't think it'd affect you that much," she says softly. "You always seemed so unshakable."
John looks at her: "What, you think I'm a heartless bastard?" he asks, almost amused by the irony.
She blushes: "No, I- sorry, I didn't mean it like that. I just thought you'd be the kind of person who... who waits and sees instead of worries about what might be."
John shrugs: "Yeah. I think I probably was, some time ago. Before I moved in with him. A lot's changed since then."
Molly smiles knowingly into her glass; she is a little bolder with a bit of wine in her.
"For God's sake, not you too," John groans. "Molly- I'm not gay!"
"Okay," Molly says, her smile turning sad, and John realizes that she's still not over Sherlock.
"I keep telling myself he'll be okay," she tells John after a few moments of maudlin silence. "He's always so... in control of everything. He always plans ahead. He'll be careful."
It's what Sherlock likes people to see of him. John however thinks of a pill which may or may not have been the poisonous one. He thinks of jumping from one rooftop to another, of how the thrill of the chase is able to fool oneself into feeling invincible. He thinks that he should be there with Sherlock, having his back as usual, jumping across chasms instead of being useless.
He doesn't tell Molly all this; there's no point in making her nervous.
"Yeah," he therefore mutters. "I hope you're right."
On the following day, John begins to look for a job; if there's nothing he can do for Sherlock, he can at least try to feel useful.
Eventually, more than a year after he has last seen his best friend, he brings home some boxes and half-heartedly puts some things into them, leaving them in the living room for all to see. Not that he gets many visitors or that he really intends to get rid of something, but he somehow feels compelled to keep up the pretense.
Which does come in handy on the day on which Sherlock's name is being cleared. Greg Lestrade stops by that evening, and they toast with some whisky. Lestrade is visibly proud but also keeps apologizing for what happened.
"I should've known better," he says, running one hand over his face, for one moment revealing how tired he is. "It's like I couldn't think straight anymore, you know? Everything they said about Sherlock seemed plausible, and... yeah. The way he left me in the dark most of the time... I guess I was fed up. I was an idiot, John."
"I don't think he'd blame you," John says. "He probably enjoyed being chased like that, handcuffed to another person. You know how he's different in that regard."
Nothing compares, in fact.
Lestrade hums agreeingly, a sad, fond expression on his face: "At least you told me the truth."
John couldn't bring himself to lie to Lestrade about Sherlock being a fraud, and didn't see any reason why. So he told the DI about Sherlock's last words and what he, John, thought of them.
If Greg knew how the truth really looks like, he probably wouldn't seem so downtrodden right now. As it is, his eyes are actually swimming: "Still. I don't think I'll ever stop feeling guilty."
Oh, maybe you will, John thinks. If we're lucky.
The same crowd of reporters which beleaguered 221B after Sherlock's suicide is waiting outside. After a few days, they give up since neither Mrs Hudson nor John are available for a comment.
He reads the papers even more carefully nowadays, looking for signs of success. There are morsels of information Mycroft keeps sending him from time to time, but that's mainly guess work as well. Apparently, Sherlock is still under his brother's radar.
The year goes by in a blur. Another Christmas comes and goes, Sherlock's birthday, Easter, a mostly rainy summer. The new job at least has the side effect that John often is tired enough to sleep. He looks better and eats more regularly even though he often works overtime, since he actually welcomes the distraction. His days are what Sherlock'd call boring, but they also grant him a reprieve, a different reality to escape to.
And then, in early autumn, John gets a call from Mycroft.
"Sherlock sent me a file," he says without preamble and sounding remarkably satisfied, "containing information about his endeavours. It seems he's nearly finished what he set out to do. If everything goes according to plan now, he'll soon be back in the country."
John listens with bated breath. He's alive, his mind reels, he's still out there.
"Where is he?" he asks.
"I'm afraid I can't tell you," Mycroft replies.
Immediately, John's blood is boiling. "Still?" he asks, barely able to stay calm, "you're seriously still not trusting me? After all this?"
"It's not so much a matter of trust," Mycroft says. "I don't want to take any risks. If any of this intelligence leaks-"
"Bloody hell!" John interrupts him. "Send a car then! I'll meet you in person, you can write it down for me and we'll burn the paper right afterwards if you think it's necessary, but you are going to tell me where he is!"
"No," Mycroft says after a moment of silence. "I'm truly sorry, John, but Sherlock'd never forgive me if anything happened to you. I can live without your forgiveness if I may be so blunt, but not without his. Good day to you."
John stares at the phone open-mouthed for a full minute, then he pockets it and goes to get his coat. Cursing, he all but runs down the stairs.
Nothing has changed in the Diogenes club, but John doesn't find Mycroft there. Not on that day nor on any other. He tries a few more times, without success.
At least keep me informed, he sends a frustrated text to the older Holmes after his latest futile trip to Knightsbridge.
The answer he gets is not from Mycroft himself but his assistant, telling him that her boss is momentarily indisposed and can't be reached directly.
I know he doesn't want to talk to me, John texts back, fuming, but I expected him to be honest about it.
The next text he receives from "Anthea" is short: It's not what you think. He will contact you in due time.
John is restless. If something's happening, he wants to be a part of it. He hates being left out like this.
Mrs Hudson doesn't know what to make of his mood; Sherlock always was the snappish one whereas John rarely lost his temper, and if he did, never with her. At least he apologizes immediately, after having lost control and seeing her crestfallen expression.
It's what grief can to do you, the old lady thinks. It's an emotional rollercoaster that's constantly going downhill; some days are just bad, others can bring you to your knees.
She doesn't know half of it, of course, but even after such a long time, Sherlock and how he ended his life is still very present in their lives. Not surprising, considering how little John has changed in the flat, but Mrs Hudson can't bring herself to clear any of Sherlock's possessions away either; it's just not the same when no one complains.
Roughly four weeks later, John finally gets a text from Mycroft. Because he has been waiting for whenever the ominously dubbed "due time" was actually due, he jumps every time his phone buzzes. It's just turned November, the past few days have been rather cold, and John, who's on his way to work, stops on the pavement in front of 221B and fumbles in his pocket.
I brought him home, the text reads. Car's on its way. You're excused from work today.
John's mind is reeling. He's back, he tells himself. He's back. I'll see him in a moment.
Then he comes to his senses. What do you mean, you brought him home? he texts back. Why didn't he tell me himself?
He doesn't get an answer. Anxiety forms a nervous knot in his stomach as John settles into the backseat of the car; it doesn't sound as though everything went "according to plan". He doesn't register anything they're passing, he's nervous and excited and sincerely hopes he's not dreaming.
He distinctly remembers how lonely he felt after waking up in hospital after having been shot; the prospect of returning to England didn't hold any pleasant anticipation for him, since he didn't have a family to come home to. Harry and he hadn't spoken since the last time they had met, and he couldn't conjure up any positive feelings for her after that. She might as well have been a stranger.
It was Sherlock (and admittedly Mrs Hudson to some extent), odd as it was, who had become John's family once 221B had become his home. The doctor is certain that that's not going to change, even if he'll one day have a wife and kids; life without Sherlock simply isn't feasible, as the past months have proven.
Let him be okay, John prays, if to no deity in particular, let him be all right.
The butler leads John into the house and down a long corridor. At the end of it, hidden behind a door, there's a staircase leading to the basement.
Contrary to John's expectations, the stairs don't lead to a dark, dungeon-like, shellproof office (he wouldn't have put Mycroft past taking such precautions) but to a large, slightly old-fashioned kitchen, a reminder of the times when the large house has been home to more than one person.
A few small lamps are lit, there's cream-coloured enamel everywhere, and an obviously old but well maintained Aga is adding to the surprisingly cosy atmosphere. John however barely registers all this. His eyes are on the two men in the room as he comes to a halt. One of them is Mycroft Holmes, who under normal circumstances would probably look out of place in these surroundings; he is currently spreading butter on a few pieces of bread, standing at one of the worktops, and something about seeing him performing this basic domestic task is rather refreshing.
The other man is sitting at a wooden table near the aga, hands wrapped around a mug of steaming tea. They both look up now, and John feels the skin underneath his eyes prickle as his gaze meets that of his best friend.
"You took your time," he says, unaware of how tremulous his voice sounds. Sherlock, who is paler than John ever saw him, and who looks as though he hasn't slept in a month, hastily lets go of the mug and scrambles to his feet: "John," he says, hoarsely, circling the table with visibly measured movements. He's wearing what looks like silk pyjamas and a matching dressing gown, his hair looks slightly damp.
"John," he repeats as they come to stand in front of each other, and when they grip each other's arms, John can feel that he's not the only one who's shaking. They take stock of one another, their gazes roaming over faces and limbs, all the while keeping the other in their grip.
John can't believe that Sherlock's here, that he's in one piece if obviously not entirely undamaged, that he's really got his best friend back.
"I missed you so badly," he whispers to avoid a complete giving-out of his voice. "I'm so glad you're back."
Sherlock, who once said that love was a chemical defect found in the losing side and who for years prided himself in being above human emotions, smiles at those words. It's rather tentative at first and there's pain in it as well, but the smile is genuine, illuminating his exhausted features. To John, it's like finally seeing sunlight after months of perpetual darkness.
They'll need some time to comprehend all that's behind them, but for now, John pulls Sherlock closer until he can wrap his arms around him, and despite the fact that his brother is watching, Sherlock mirrors the gesture. They hold on to each other for an unaccounted amount of time, not even noticing their tears.
When they finally let go, John's shaking has abated, but Sherlock is trembling. Fatigue, John realizes, and probably physical discomfort of some sort, if his face is anything to go by: his eyes are blood-shot, the skin next to the left one and on his temple is reddenend and slightly swollen, a few scratches visible. Who knows what he's been through.
He seems to be relieved to be sitting down again when they gather around the table. Mycroft pours some tea for John and himself, briefly making the doctor think of one of the weirdest days of his life (and the ashtray that is sitting on the desk in 221B's living room). The present however is not much less surreal. They are drinking tea and eating toast, and the Holmes brothers do not bicker once. Well. Sherlock doesn't eat much and looks as though he'll keel over at any given moment, keeping his eyes open with obvious effort. Mycroft surreptitiously glances at him a few times, but apart from that, they are rather quiet. There's a file lying on the far end of the table, apparently forgotten or postponed or already dealt with.
Witnessing Mycroft being so uncharacteristically gentle, taking care of Sherlock like this and putting business second, makes John realize that the past two and a half years probably haven't been easy for the older Holmes either.
John can't but look at Sherlock; he has a lot of questions, but it seems that his friend needs to rest before they can talk; his eyelids are beginning to droop now.
"I've got your room ready," Mycroft says at one point, and his brother only nods in silent approval. Of course, staying here is much easier than risking giving the poor unsuspecting Mrs Hudson a heart attack, but the fact that Sherlock doesn't even try to argue tells John how depleted he really is.
By unspoken agreement, John accompanies him as Sherlock all but drags himself upstairs. He unceremoniously drops the dressing gown on the floor and crawls under the covers of the large bed, and it occurs to John how they have come full circle; it was here, in this room, that they have last seen each other.
He doesn't yet know what Sherlock has done in the meantime, where he's been. It doesn't matter; they'll be talking later. What matters is that this time, it doesn't feel like time's running out.
He sits down on the mattress once Sherlock has settled, turning onto his side gingerly; his eyes are already closed.
"Sleep well," John murmurs.
"Are you staying?" The detective's voice is drowsy.
"Of course I'm staying," John replies, "all the king's horses couldn't drag me away."
"Hm," Sherlock is already dozing off.
John sits with him for a while longer, his whole body tingling with delight at the realization that the dark times are indeed over. No matter the repercussions, they'll deal with them. Together.
Happily, he listens to Sherlock's quiet breathing until he is certain that his friend is asleep, then he gets up and leaves the room.
He finds Mycroft still in the kitchen where he's cleaning up the dishes they used. It's a peculiar sight to behold, seeing the otherwise so offish man with upturned sleeves, hands submerged in soapy water.
John takes a tea towel and begins to dry the fine china. "Thank you for calling me," he says, because Mycroft seems unusally silent.
"It was understood that I'd notify you, after all," Mycroft replies. "We landed in the early hours, which was rather convenient."
"So you actually went to get him," John says after a moment.
"Yes. I had to take a few precautions first and actually go undercover in order to find out where he was." Even though Mycroft sounds calm, his shoulders subtly tense at his next words: "He had gotten himself into a bit of trouble."
They dry and put away the tableware while he tells John about Serbia. The doctor nearly breaks a plate at one point, but he catches himself in time.
"You must understand," Mycroft says once he's finished, "that he was very successfull for most of the time. He managed to destroy the entire network from what I gather. My people are currently reviewing the data, but I'm rather certain that Sherlock has been utterly thorough." There's unconcealed pride in his tone.
John however is more interested in Sherlock's well-being at the moment: "You had him treated, I expect," he says tersely; he can't help himself, considering the information he just received.
"Yes, of course," Mycroft seems irritated that John even asks. "Once we had gotten out of there, a helicopter took us to the British Embassy in Sarajevo, where a doctor was already waiting. That was last night."
John blinks, trying to come to terms with what Sherlock's been through, and for once glad about the kind of things Mycroft Holmes is able to do. He isn't prepared to hear more for now and decides to trust Mycroft's judgement; if Sherlock would have needed more extensive treatment, his brother without any doubt would have taken him to a hospital.
"Thank you," he mutters. "If you don't mind, I'd like to stay with him today."
"Certainly," Mycroft replies, and for the first time also allows himself to look tired. "If you need anything, just ring the bell and Simmons will come."
"Yeah," John turns to go: "See you later."
Sherlock sleeps the entire day. He wakes up once and totters to the adjoining bathroom barely awake and probably not noticing John, who's sitting in front of the fireplace with a book. He hasn't been reading much though, as his mind is still reeling.
When the rooms slowly turns dark due to the impending sunset, John quietly walks over to the bed. Sherlock is huddled in on himself, lying on his side. John slides out of his shoes and cautiously, trying not to shake the mattress, climbs onto it, stretching out next to his sleeping friend. He is tired now that the adrenaline is slowly wearing off. He looks at his sleeping friend whose face is slack and peaceful until his own eyes close.
A few hours later finds both of them awake (more or less) and talking. Sherlock outlines the whole endeavour from the beginning, but he seems reluctant to tell John about Serbia. Since the doctor is stubborn however, he insists on hearing about it as well. It doesn't do if Sherlock keeps those memories bottled up, he figures. Better to get them out now that they're still fresh. It's possible that he'll take some time to process it all, especially since there are bound to be other things he'll have to deal with judging from what John's heard so far, but the doctor is willing to help. He's no stranger to traumatic experiences, after all, or how badly their aftermath can affect a person.
"Seems you did remarkably well on your own," John says once Sherlock has fallen silent, "considering how long you were gone and the scale of the operation."
Sherlock looks at him, eyes roaming over John's face in a familiar manner: "There were a lot of moments I'd have needed you," he mutters. "But sometimes it was also easier to know that you were at home, safe."
Safe is not what I want, John thinks, but he doesn't tell Sherlock so. What's done is done. The past two and a half years were hard for both of them, and neither of them wants a repetition.
"No more games with madmen in the future, please," John says after a moment of contemplation.
Sherlock sighs, closing his eyes for a moment: "Okay."
A moment later, he opens them again, frowning: "How are we going to tell Mrs Hudson?"
John smiles. "Let's worry about that tomorrow," he suggests.
Sherlock sighs softly: "Tomorrow," he repeats, closing his eyes again.
Not a circle, John thinks with a rush of relief. A spiral, maybe. Because this time, Sherlock will still be there when he wakes up. They'll move on.
Got my trouble back, is the last thing which crosses his mind before he too succumbs to his tiredness once more.
He hasn't slept this well in a very long time.
The End
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Thank you for reading, please leave some feedback
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I'm not a native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes.