A/N: This is irrefutably Johnlock. Don't read if you don't like slash. (Although there isn't really much of it) Some S3E1 spoilers. Anyway, since the Sign of Three is airing today I thought I ought to commemorate it.
It's been two years, Sherlock. He's moved on with his life.
What life? I've been away.
A life with Mary Morstan, apparently, was what Mycroft had been talking about. Standing behind and to the right of the happy couple, Sherlock looks on impassively as the two recite their marriage vows, trying to ignore the painful twinge in the region of his thoracic cavity (where his heart, if he even has one, should be).
"… in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do us part."
"You may now kiss the bride."
He has to look away, then, as John and Marry kiss. They look good together, the two of them. His sandy-blonde hair with her platinum blonde, his tan with her considerably paler skin tone. Their compatibility isn't just limited to aesthetics either – they look comfortable and easy with each other, the kiss brief but sweet and intimate.
The two of them pull back, and out of the corner of his eye Sherlock can see Mary grinning exultantly at John, and hear John's seemingly uncontrollable giggling.
Seeing how happy they are with each other, Sherlock can't help the involuntary pangs of jealousy. He desperately wants the ceremony to be over and done with.
xxx x xxx
– Three years ago –
"That was bloody fantastic."
He and John were leaning against the wall of an alleyway, out of breath, adrenaline pumping insidiously through both their veins, having just run three streets to elude their pursuers (members of a gang they were working on taking down). They had led them straight into the waiting arms of the police, dismantling the criminal organization and solving a number of cold cases in one.
A corner of Sherlock's lips quirked upwards at the compliment. "The case or the chase we led them on?"
John shrugged, chest still heaving from the run. "I dunno, both, I guess."
A moment of silence as they both paused to catch their breath. Then –
"You are, too, you know," John said quietly.
"Hm?"
"Fantastic. And brilliant. All those other things I said before."
Sherlock sucked in a breath, before turning to watch John. John wasn't looking at him. His interest appeared to be in studiously counting the cracks in the concrete beneath their feet. By the faint light of the streetlamp Sherlock could see a faint tinge of red on his cheeks.
Sherlock blinked. "John – thank you – I –"
"Jesus Christ, you're hopeless," he heard John say, and the next thing he registered was the solid weight of John pinning him against the wall, and of John's (hot, wet) mouth on his. A split second pause, during which the synapses in his brain appeared to have short-circuited, and the messages just weren't transmitting. He did open his mouth, to do what he didn't know, but John apparently took that as invitation enough and his tongue delved in, seeking Sherlock's out.
Gradually Sherlock found himself relaxing into the kiss, and began reveling in each stroke, each glide of John's tongue against his own. John tasted like the tea he'd had just before they went out on the case. While Sherlock was quite positive one couldn't get drunk on tea, he thought he was coming rather dangerously close to doing so. There was a hand buried in his hair and another snaking around his waist, and Sherlock arched unconsciously into the touch because it had been so long, too long, really, since he had last sought physical affectation from another person.
They only parted when their need for air became too hard to ignore, and the two of them stood there, their foreheads touching, Sherlock supporting half of John's weight as the other man leaned into him, occasionally leaning up to steal another kiss.
Then they were stumbling out onto the street, and one too-long cab ride back to Baker Street later, they were staggering up the seventeen stairs to 221B, tripping over their own and each other's feet and stifling giggles as they tried not to wake Mrs Hudson, the night being late enough as it was.
Once they were through the giggling died down, as the reality of what they were doing hit home. Wordlessly John took Sherlock's arm and tugged him along to his own bedroom. When Sherlock just stood there, looking both as blank and white as a sheet, John rolled his eyes.
"You need sleep, Sherlock. You've been running on tea and coffee for the past fifty-six hours – don't give me that look, you were sawing away on your violin the whole night."
Acquiescing with an eye-roll of his own, Sherlock allowed John to (gently) manhandle him into bed, before getting in bedside him and tugging the covers up over both of them.
Sleep hit him hard and surprisingly fast. His last thought before unconsciousness took him over was of John's lips on his own.
That was the first night he and John spent together.
xxx x xxx
– Two years and nine months ago –
"You're angry with me."
"What? No, I'm not."
"Come now, John. Lying doesn't become you. You've been mad at me since we left Scotland Yard –" Sherlock paused to check his watch "– five hours ago. Why?"
John fidgeted uncomfortably in his armchair, opting to continue his faked perusal of the day's newspaper instead of replying.
Sherlock continued, undeterred. "I haven't insulted anyone, not even Anderson. In fact, he was the one who so eloquently, I might add, called me 'a blood pillock'. So it must have been something to do with the witness statements. There was nothing especially notable about Mr. Wilson, as I recall, other than the fact that he required a fair bit of persuasion before ratting out his colleagues – oh!"
Sherlock paused, sitting up from where he had been slouching inelegantly on the sofa, and looked John over with marked interest. John, who was now doing his best to hide behind the day's crossword, staring intently at it as though it contained all the secrets of the universe.
"You're angry with me because I charmed him into revealing the identities of his fellow conspirators," Sherlock continued, "You're jealous."
That finally garnered a reaction. "Yes, I'm bloody jealous!" John snapped, flinging the newspaper aside to reveal his flushed face. "What else was I supposed to feel when he was practically drooling all over you and your gorgeous arse for half the duration of the interrogation?"
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "I simply took note of his sexuality and current lack of a partner and used it to our advantage to get what we need. Doing my job, if you will. I've done it in the past and you've never had a problem with it."
John's gaze skittered away. "Yes, but that was with women and anyway I know you don't go for that sort of thing but Wilson's a bloke and you definitely looked interested enough just now."
"That was acting," Sherlock said, voice uncharacteristically soft, causing John to look back at him. "John, I…" he clasped his hands together tightly, before strengthening his resolve enough to say, "It's just you. It's always been you, John."
John was across the room and Sherlock was flat on his back on the sofa before his brain had quite caught up with what was happening. Then John's tongue was down his throat and a leg was inserted between his thighs and hands were in his hair and Sherlock managed to stop thinking all together (an impressive feat for him).
Their coupling that night had none of the usual ferocity and unbridled lust that usually came with post-case adrenaline highs and an outlet for pent-up energy. Instead it was slow and unhurried, sweet and intimate, but no less intense, and as Sherlock gave himself over to the sensations and his mind was wiped blissfully blank, the one thing that kept him from being swept away by the tide of endorphins he was riding high on was of John, his – flatmatefriendpartnerlover.
That was the first night Sherlock acknowledged that maybe he was in a bit over his head, because John made him incredibly happy, and from past experience, anything that made Sherlock incredibly happy tended to end badly.
xxx x xxx
– two years and three months ago –
"You and the Freak? Seriously?"
Sgt. Donovan's extremely obnoxious voice drifted over to where Sherlock knelt next to the mutilated body, examining it closely. She and John were standing just outside the perimeter of yellow crime scene tape surrounding the three-quarters of street where the body had been discovered.
Keeping his back to them, Sherlock continued his examination of the corpse and his eavesdropping. Multi-tasking was a gift that came naturally to him.
"I could be wrong, but I think that's none of your business," was John's short reply. Sherlock couldn't help the small smile that crossed his face; John sounded like he was seconds away from punching her.
Sally snorted. "Well, it's not exactly rocket science. Half the Yard's probably figured it out by now – hard not to, with how you two are always finding excuses to touch each other and how even now you can hardly keep your eyes off his arse. For God's sake, Watson, at least be discreet about it!"
Sherlock glanced back at the two of them in time to see John hurriedly averting his gaze and Sally smirking good-naturedly. Sherlock winked at her.
By the time Detective Inspector Lestrade came back to check on Sherlock's progress, it was to find both John and Sally stifling uncontrollable giggles, and an unimpressed Sherlock.
Lestrade's long-suffering exclamation of, 'You can't giggle, it's a crime scene', however, only made the pair laugh harder.
Sherlock couldn't quite hide his grin either, an emotion he could only describe as elation bubbling in his chest.
That was the first time he and John had made their – whatever they had between them – known to anyone else. Sherlock decided he rather liked other people knowing that John was taken.
xxx x xxx
– two years ago –
"This phone call, it's… it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."
"Leave a note when?"
"Goodbye, John."
Sherlock was quite aware of the repercussions of what he was about to do. In order to take down Moriarty's vast network he would have to die and stay dead. Not even John could know.
In essence, what he and John had had between them for the past year – that was all going to end. There would be absolutely no going back. John would move on with his life, and Sherlock would stay dead until he had dismantled the entirety of Moriarty's organization. Even when (if) he returned, things would never be the same.
John would never forgive him. He would never forgive himself for doing that to John.
John, I'm sorry.
Tossing the phone and leaving to clatter to the rooftop, Sherlock closed his eyes, lifted his arms and fell.
xxx x xxx
– now –
"I suppose congratulations are in order," Sherlock tells the happy couple, forcing humour into his voice and a smile onto his face, as he leans forward to shake first Mary's, then John's hand.
"Thank you, yes," John grins back, a light in his eyes that Sherlock knows hasn't been there after his fall. It's Mary he has to thank for breathing life back into the broken shell of a man John Watson had been.
That doesn't make it hurt any less.
He quickly moves out of the way, so others can get close enough to congratulate John and Mary. Weaving his way through the crowd with the practiced ease of a man who despises physical contact with other human beings, Sherlock makes his way over to a side-room, where he leans heavily against a wall and slides down until he's sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him on the cool marble floor.
Closing his eyes and resting his head on the wall behind him, Sherlock retreats into the comfort of his mind palace.
That is how John finds him, hours later. He's barely moved an inch.
Wordlessly John comes and sits beside him. They don't talk, they just sit there in companionable silence, and Sherlock is abruptly reminded of just how many afternoons the two of them have spent like this – him ensconced in his mind palace, John doing something inane beside him, neither of them talking. Neither of them needing to.
But that was before – Before. Those two years he had been gone (dead) are an insurmountable barrier between the two of them.
John finally decides to break the silence. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Sherlock shakes his head mutely. Of course he doesn't. It's like John doesn't know anything about him at all.
Beside him, John chuckles, and it's a testament to how close the two of them are sitting next to each other that Sherlock feels the reverberations in his own chest. "You're yelling at me in your head, aren't you."
It's not even a question.
Sherlock smiles, just the barest twitch of his lips.
"Sherlock, I…" John trails off, seemingly at a loss as to how he should proceed, "Things are going to be very different, but some things don't have to change. You can still drag my arse all around London at some godforsaken time at night on a case. We can still do dinner, a movie and then your no-doubt extensive critique of said movie on Saturdays. We can still –"
"John."
John stops babbling, and looks over at Sherlock half-fearfully, half-expectantly.
"I –" Sherlock starts to say, then stops. He does like the sound of nothing changing in terms of their friendship. He painstakingly tries not to think about what he and John used to do after almost every single case. "– yes," he finally settles on saying, "That sounds, uh, good."
He's more than painfully aware of the tightness in his throat and his lack of conviction in those words, of the sudden blurring of his vision and the stinging hotness in his eyes.
He's certain John's aware of it, too.
Perhaps that is what causes John to pull him into an awkward one-armed embrace, and they stay like that for as long as it takes for Sherlock to stop the tears streaming down his face, his chest heaving with the force of the sobs he can't quite manage to stifle.
It's at least a quarter of an hour later before they pull back, although John keeps an arm around Sherlock's shoulders.
"I never got round to doing this properly," Sherlock mutters into the sudden stillness of the room, still hiccupping slightly, "John, I am truly sorry, for all the hurt that I caused you."
"You're forgiven," John murmurs, no hesitation in his voice. Sherlock pulls back to eye him skeptically, and John huffs out a laugh, before sobering and saying quietly, "No, really. I have. I never could stay mad at you."
Sherlock almost smiles at that, because John's right; he never could. He remembers the various methods of persuasion he'd employed to appease John back then, and can't decide if the noise he makes is a self-deprecating laugh or a choked-off sob.
John looks almost like he's about to hug him again, so suffice it to say, Sherlock is more than surprised when suddenly John's mouth is on his and they're kissing. It's tentative and gentle and no tongues are involved, just a simple press of lips on lips, and Sherlock registers it for what it is.
Goodbye, John.