His Epitaph
Three years, ten months, eighteen days and seven hours. That's how long it'd been since the last time Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had exchanged words. Nearly four years. It was painful, the detective decided, cruel and unusual punishment to the umpteenth degree.
"You have everything." He thought, watching from his lonesome hiding place, the world-weary man staring down at the grave meant to be Sherlock's own.
"You've been given a chance at a normal life. You have it. All the trimmings and trappings of that childhood dream most Mundanes' possess as children. And yet despite the marriage to a good woman, whom I have begrudgingly found to be a vibrantly intelligent person and probably your emotional and intellectual equal, the home, the dog, the family… Despite it all you still cling to my memory! John why won't you just let me die so you can be happy?" The thoughts continued to rage on inside the detective's head.
John visited this spot like clockwork, weekly. Sherlock, if he could spare the time, rarely missed his chance to creep and listen to John talk to that loathsome black stone about all the fabulously mundane things he'd been up to in the week. Fabulously mundane things that carved a hole in Sherlock's chest because, for once, he wished he could have been there to be a part of them. He wished he could have witnessed them first hand; been there to share in the joy or sorrow that they had given John in that seven day span. Things he would once have admonished as boring now held his apt attention.
His attention had become especially sharp when John started bringing company to this honored spot and the tone of the conversation had changed away from what John had done in the week to things that had been done in years prior; things that had been done with Sherlock. It filled him with pride while also trying to claw at him and rend him open to deflate him and leave him raw.
"And that's how we ended up dressed as ninjas fighting bad guys in Soho." John finished his story, sitting beside the grave with his little companion pressing his back up against the dark, cool stone.
"Was it fun?" The voice asked, misshaping the sounds.
"I think Sherlock, secretly, had more fun than he was letting on." John smiled, wrapping his arm around the small shoulder squeezing his companion to his side.
"No, Daddy, did you have fun?" Chirped the two year old, very articulate for his age and trying to convey what he really meant.
"Well, JayJay, sometimes I wouldn't say it. But I always had fun with your uncle. Everything we did together was fun. Even when we were fighting it was fun. Even when I was mad at him and I wanted to punch him in the face it was so much fun. By the way, never, ever, ever punch someone in the face; it's not nice."
"Even if they ask me to? Or if they punch me first?"
That sigh, that resignation and belief that Sherlock's selfishness and vanity had driven him to suicide. The detective could always hear it, and it was always followed by some vague statement. The boy obviously hadn't been educated about suicide and therefore the content of the reply had to be laid out in a specific manner. "Yes, even if they ask you to. I punched Uncle Sherlock and it wasn't very nice of me. And I should have been more grown up about it. Even if he got what he wanted in the end… He always got what he wanted in the end."
From his hiding place Sherlock took a gulp of breath. He both hated and loved when John brought his offspring. It was more painful than the mundane conversation because it reminded him of how deliriously happy he'd been in his eighteen months with John that he hadn't been aware of. If he'd known then what he knew now he would never have had any boredom tantrums, would have listened more to John, he would have told the smaller man everything! He would have laid bare his secret feelings for the doctor to do with as he pleased. And he was still so resentful that he hadn't been there, couldn't be there, to stand beside John when he thought he'd lost his best friend forever. Resentful that to feel a comfort John had to be bound in holy matrimony to Mary Marsden.
###
As far as women went, Sherlock had conflictions over Mary Marsden. He despised her in all she stood for, but for the life of him he could not hate her as a person. He hated her because she was for John what he couldn't be. (He was dead, after all.) But he also paid her the greatest gratitude for what she did for John in his stead. She was warm and gentle and patient and she had been there for John the entire time the army doctor had been falling to pieces over Sherlock. She didn't let John's pain signal her to leave. And she had even made it clear that she was staying for her and for him, not simply because, three weeks after Sherlock's death, she discovered that taking an antibiotic for strep throat had rendered her birth control ineffective. John had told the grave stone all about it. That he had cried, that he'd apologized to Mary, but she had proved to be nothing short of his saving angel. She'd offered him an out. If he'd not been ready to be a father he could elect not to be, the baby could simply be hers. She was comfortable enough to be a single mother, strong enough in personality, and there were just so many reasons why John might not be ready; his emotions were running havoc after all. She would keep the baby, but John could leave if he wanted. Sherlock had known before his doctor had even said it that John would not leave. It was not in his moral fiber to do something like that. If there was a child out there that he'd created he'd want his name on it. But her strength and understanding? Sherlock knew John was in love with her, and for that Sherlock found himself with an appreciation and love for Mary Marsden, the keeper of his John.
For thirty weeks John returned to the grave yard to tell the empty plot all about the progress. That he and Mary decided they would wed after the baby was born, that they were still deciding on names, about how ridiculous the price of cribs and strollers were, about diapers and baby bottles and blankets. And then finally about the baby.
"His name is Jeremiah, Jeremy Hamish Watson. Mary wanted to name him Hamish but I was adamantly against it. My grandfather's name is terrible enough as a middle name thank you very much. Jeremiah was her grandfather's name so we kind of went with that. You're probably rolling your eyes at me-" Sherlock bit his lip, he had been rolling his eyes at how perfectly John it was to be so mundane in naming his son.
"But he's amazing Sherlock. Everything went well, perfectly ordinary. He's three and a half kilos. All ten fingers and toes, counted them. Sorry mate, but he didn't have a tail or anything so I'm sure some of your fun's been spoiled. He's beautiful. I would have never thought that I could love anything this much. Sherlock, I would have gladly died for you any day, but this is- this is even beyond that. I don't know what I'd do for Jeremy. I want to do everything for him. I want to give him the world... But I can't give him the best thing of the world because he's never going to meet you." It'd been a choke, a sob that didn't spill over. John hadn't cried at the stone in a long while. He continued in that choked voice. "Mary had told me that, if I wanted, I could have named him Sherlock. My god there was a split second where I wanted to. It would have sounded like utter crap though, Sherlock Hamish Watson? Oh what a terrible sounding name and I almost said yes. But I couldn't. There's only one Sherlock and that's you...
"It'd be too painful, don't you think, if I had to say your name every time I wanted my son? It would remind me too much. Not that I still don't think of it constantly. It's almost been a year, my god, but it doesn't much feel like it's gone away at all. Some people asked me if the baby's taken up your place, because I seem happier lately and such, but it's not really the case. It's kind of like the hole in my heart you left is still there, my heart just grew a little to make room for Jeremy too. But you're still missing and Jeremy is my world and I can smile because I can focus on him needing me instead of how terrible I feel that you're not there.
"God Sherlock, if I'd ever have imagined being a father, and let me tell you I've not imagined anything like this since before basic training, than I would have wanted him to know you. It kills me enough that my son is going to grow up in a world where people are going to say such horrible things about you. He's going to hear it at school, out and about, about how Sherlock Holmes was a fraud. I can't bear that idea. I promise you, he's going to grow up hearing about how amazing you were! I just wish he could have seen it, seen you.
"W-We're going to be getting married, Mary and I, in a few months. God Sherlock why aren't you here? Why aren't you going to be my best man? Why aren't you going to be there to hold my son? Sherlock would you like him? I want him to know you. I want him to love you. God Sherlock I miss you so much, why couldn't you be here for all of this?" John cried, not blubbering, but the tears did drip down his world-worn face in a steady stream. It'd been so long but he cried there, one hand clutched the top of the stone as though to hold onto Sherlock for support.
It'd been so hard. Sherlock had wanted to burst from the foliage and run over to John and collapse onto him. But he couldn't. Especially not now, as it were, it wouldn't have been safe to return to John, not until Moriarty's web had been fully dismantled. Moran was still out, still untouched, and now it was not just John's life Sherlock would be risking. There was Mary, and a three point five kilo little proto-human that would also be endangered. John had effectively gone and created another human life to be endangered by Sherlock's very existence. He bit his knuckle and took leave. He couldn't watch this anymore.
###
John had made a personal family blog affiliated with the blog in which he wrote about the cases Lestrade asked him to occasionally help with. The family blog was made because Mary's family had moved to America, and John's had returned to southern Scotland when he'd been in Uni. It was to keep the family connected, and technically only family had access to the pages. They were supposed to be locked. But what was a more predictable password than JHWatson2? Of course it would be JHWatson2, because there were now two J. H. Watsons.
Sherlock made use of the family blog to follow John's private life. He watched Jeremy grow up in photographs and video snippets on youtube. He read about JayJay's first steps, his first word ('jam' oh how predictably Watson of him), about potty training and first teeth and the first time those precious strawberry blond curls he'd inherited from Mary were snipped and saved in a little baby book, about late night stories and drawings and sentences and nursery rhymes and Sherlock was dying inside because he was missing it. Every day he missed another moment of it all!
JayJay was not his son, he had no claim to the boy, so why did he feel hallowed out whenever he looked at all the pictures and felt disappointed that there was not a single one of himself holding the child? Why did he feel glum that he'd missed out on being spit up on? Or was missing bed-time stories? He was almost resentful that he wouldn't get to change a diaper. He was smitten with his best friend's child. He was Uncle Sherlock, and he was an absentee uncle.
###
And now Jeremy (who was called JayJay simply because for some reason the tot butchered his own name and found it easier to repeat his first initial twice) came nearly weekly with his father and Sherlock stayed hidden. They shared stories about Sherlock, and as it became a ritual the conversation morphed into a combination of weekly news and story of the past. One for Sherlock's benefit, one for JayJay's.
One week John came without JayJay. He seemed sunken and sullen. "Sherlock. Why is it like this?" He asked the stone. "Mary's been… she's been unwell as I've told you… and I finally got her to see a doctor, I mean, well, other than me. I mean a specialist with tools and equipment that I don't have, and…" His jaw shivered, he was trying not to cry. "Sherlock, it's a brain tumor. She-… she's only got about a month. A-and I never even saw the signs. Not until it was too late. It's inoperable and the specialist estimates only a month. Oh my god."
He sobbed, going to his knees and planting his face in his hands and doubling over, his head to the grass. He was falling apart all over. The detective clutched at his own chest watching it happen. "I can't do this again." John wailed into the soil. "I can't do this alone. JayJay's with Harry right now, I had to- I needed to talk to someone- but I can't bear the sad stares and I can't do this in front of him. I have to be strong for JayJay, I have to be strong for Mary. I can't… I can't let her last month be one where she'd worried about me. I- I won't be coming for a few weeks. I'm taking some time off from the surgery too. We're going to spend all our time with her. I- Sherlock, first you then Mary... What have I done? What didn't I do? God, Sherlock. What am I being punished for?" He sobbed into the grass. "What do I do?"
The detective had to hold himself to the blades of green beneath his fingers, he couldn't come out. He could barely stand to watch, but he couldn't leave John. He couldn't leave but he couldn't rush out there either. He was suffering. This was terrible! Mary couldn't die! Sherlock relied on her to keep his John happy and supported and sane. And it was all falling apart!
"You'd tell me what to do. You'd say something heart achingly distant and I would get mad at you and I would punch you in the face as hard as I could." John released a hollow laugh. "God why does everyone I love leave me?" He sobbed to the earth and that was the end of it. John would not be to the cemetery for a month, so neither would Sherlock. It gave him a month of undistracted determination.
###
It was a lovely service. Mary had been a wonderful person and children whom she'd looked after since she was a teenager, now teenagers themselves, came to pay respects to her. She was a marvelous governess, but even more marvelous a woman.
JayJay had been left with Harriet as John took hands, received condolences, and more or less tried to keep it together. Finally, he was tired of it all, and he just wanted to hold his son and find out if he was okay. This would be the hardest part for John, particularly. Two is too young to lose a mother, to not really remember how wonderful she was. That was the worst of it. Jeremy would barely remember his mother; he didn't even understand enough to be devastated. He was a little glum and he threw a few tantrums already about wanting his Mum. But all in all he didn't seem to understand the permanence of death. It would be hard being a single father, but if John was anything he was determination in concentrate. He would figure it out, and JayJay would never be for want of love. John would just love him twice as much to make up for it.
He found his sister crying, leaning against the car. She was sensitive; especially more so now that she was sober permanently. It was like she was the weepy twelve hear old he remembered. "Hey Harry." He tried to smile, but it was so fake and she could tell.
"Hey baby brother. I'm so sorry."
"It's okay."
"No it's not."
"You're right, God. I just want to collect JayJay and go home. He needs a nap anyway and I think we just need some time together."
"He's in the back seat. I didn't want him to see me fall to pieces." She explained, wiping her eyes in her grief at losing a sister in law and seeing her brother fall to pieces again.
"Thanks." He smiled, opening the door and his face drawing into panic and shock when all he was faced with was an empty back seat and the door on the other side wide open.
"He's gone!" John shrieked.
Harry whipped around and yelped, "Where'd he go! He was right in there, I swear! He must have snuck out the other side!"
"Help me find him, oh my god!"
They split up, dashing about the graveyard, asking everyone if they'd seen a toddler wandering around. No one had. He ran around, looking behind every shrub and bush until a thought came to him. Oh! He didn't bother telling anyone as he dashed, beating a break neck pace in hopes of making it to the other side of the cemetery five minutes ago. It had to be it. The only place John could think of! JayJay would have never gone off anywhere on his own unless-
Sure enough, JayJay had taken himself on a walk to go to the place his daddy took him to every week. John had been hopeful to see his son there, but nowhere in his wildest dreams would he have been prepared for what he found there with JayJay.
"Baa baa black sheep have you any wool?" JayJay sat on a bony knee, singing as he twisted his fingers into dark curls that had lengthened down to sharp shoulders.
"Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full. One for my master, one for the dame, and one for the little boy who lives down the lane." The baritone voice rang over the narrow chin as cupid bow lips bent to press into strawberry blond locks.
"Baa baa black sheep have you any wool?" JayJay sang again. It was the only line he knew, but the sound that involuntarily came out of John's throat brought both their attention up to him.
"Daddy!" JayJay cheered. "Uncle Sherlock came out." He was hugging the thin neck, looking all the thinner."Mommy said Uncle Sherlock lived underground and he didn't like to come up, but he said that he doesn't want to live down there anymore so he came up to wait with me 'til you got here."
John couldn't breathe. This wasn't real. He'd fallen asleep during his wife's funeral, how rude, and was dreaming that Sherlock wasn't dead… like how he had dreamed he was still alive three years ago too.
He looked around himself, almost expecting Mary to join this dream. Where was she? He couldn't… he couldn't…
"I don't want to be underground anymore John. Moran is underground instead of me now." Sherlock mused, "It's safe now. You're safe. Jeremy's safe. No more running no more hiding. I can finally rest."
John didn't know how he could hear him; it was like the sound was disjointed from the movements of his lips: out of sync. The sky was such a dull grey and threatening to rain. The gravel of the walk felt harsh against the back of his head, the air pushed from his lungs, and the last thing he remembered for a second was the sound of JayJay and Sherlock's combined voices calling out to him. The word 'daddy' overlaying harsh against 'John.'
###
He was probably only out for a moment. But a moment is long enough to send a near-three year old into a sobbing panic. John focused his vision on JayJay, sitting on Sherlock's hip as the taller man kneeled beside him, loosening his tie with his one free hand and then trying to prop his head up.
"Really John." Sherlock tsked. "He won't stop crying; I don't know what to do!"
"Oh." John sighed, still somewhat discombobulated, but paternal instincts took over and he reached out a hand and brushed his boy's knee. "Shhh. Shhh. Daddy's alright." He soothed. He was the one in pain, in delirium, but he was a father and that meant his child's need for comfort won in his need to collect himself. "Daddy's alright. Just took a spill. I'll be up in a minute." He promised.
He ran a hand over the back of his own head, no blood, good. He allowed Sherlock to check him for a concussion. None. Also good.
He stood up and brushed off his suit jacket. "Okay you can put JayJay down, he'll be okay." He motioned to his son, who Sherlock was practically clawing against his hip. As though if he were to set the child down both he and John would disappear forever. But he slowly obeyed, prying the little fingers off of his lapel. "Go see your Daddy." The detective whispered.
John scooped his son into a hug and kissed him. "Don't you ever, ever run away like that without telling anyone ever again. I couldn't live if something happened to you, do you understand?" The doctor gently scolded his son, (Sherlock winced, particularly aware of how literally that statement could be interpreted) set him down, and out of nowhere wound up and slammed his knuckled, raw and hard, into Sherlock's cheekbone. There was a strange sound, and the brunette was laid out on the ground.
"And don't ever do that to anyone either Jeremy! Daddy shouldn't have done it." He saved. "Get up Sherlock before I strangle you in front of my child." He whispered through his teeth dangerously.
Abashed the detective scrambled clumsily up and faced John, ready for another punch or a strangling choke hold, but it never came. All that he received for all his cruelty was fingers pressed into the veins of his neck and wrist. His pulse. John was checking his pulse… and then his own pulse. 'He's determining if he's dreaming me.'
"I see. Sherlock." John began, suddenly he looked so much older, so world-worn. "I'm taking my son and going home. We… we have some things we need to talk about. And… and we have some things we need to talk about too." The first 'we' implied John and JayJay, the second 'we' implied himself. The tone was dangerous. But Sherlock would take it. He'd accept anything John would give him right now. They would speak. They would settle. He still had a chance to get John to understand what he did, why he did it, and most importantly to seek forgiveness and bear his own soul about the pain of knowing what he's missed.
"Uncle Sherlock's not coming home with us?" JayJay asked as John snatched him up and held him tight.
"No. Not tonight. You can maybe play with him again some other time."
"If I'm good?"
"If he's good." John said, loud enough for Sherlock to hear as they walked away from him. The detective's chest tightened painfully. Maybe John wasn't going to forgive him after all. Maybe he couldn't. Maybe this was all for nothing and-
And then JayJay smiled and waved at him over John's shoulder. "Bye-bye, Uncle Sherlock. Be good!" He commanded.
He felt himself involuntarily waving back, there was hope. There was always a shred of hope, even if it was spider-silk thin. He watched as John and Jeremy retreated from him, not at a run, but at a steady, confident walk. There was hope and he was in love. He wanted it. Wanted John, wanted John's boy. He wanted Baker Street and jam and toast for breakfast. He wanted John's tea and the smell of his jumpers. He wanted to trip over legos and toy trains and shuffle around play pens and he never expected he'd want something so dully domestic so badly.
Alone was just so lonely after John. Returning to John and getting to hold that boy was what motivated him to continue on his path. He could have just jumped off a bridge, the danger to John leaving, but in his selfishness he couldn't bear the idea of never getting to kiss Jeremiah Hamish Watson's hair and feel the pudgy fingers clutched to his lapel or get to feel John wind up and punch him again. "I will." He called, without even knowing it. "I will. If your dad will let me, I want to make up for all of it."
JayJay seemed satisfied, though he didn't really understand it. John's shoulders became less tense. He didn't say anything. But then again he didn't need to. Sherlock could always read John like an open book…
###
221B looked nothing like it had the last time Sherlock had set foot into it. The documents and photos of crime scenes pinned to the wall had been replaced with family portraits; John and Mary's wedding photo, JayJay's first birthday, pictures of them on weekend holidays, their first Christmas as a family, ect. However what choked the detective up the most was a photo in a large frame situated above the sofa. It was a black and white, obviously blown up, of himself. It was a candid, had to be, he didn't remember anyone ever taking it of him. He must have been in his mind palace and unaware of his surroundings. His profile was lit by a nearby lamp and he stared ahead into nothingness as the gears whirled and whipped in his mind. He'd not known John could have ever taken a picture of him that made him both look human and other-worldly at the same time.
Curiosity getting the better of him he stepped up on the sofa and tilted the frame. The smiley face and the bullet holes he'd wreaked on the wall years ago were still there, hidden from view by the portrait. "His way of using me to clean up my own messes." He smiled gently, hopping back down to take more inventory of this foreign, clean space.
The kitchen looked like a magazine cover, it was sparkling clean and organized. There was a spice rack that served its intended purpose instead of housing bottles of chemicals. The fridge was devoid of body parts, though John should probably bin the three-week-old kung-pao chicken in the back.
He noticed his skull was still on the mantle, however, and with a small smile he pranced over to collect it. At least there were a few familiar things, a few little pieces of Sherlock that still resided in the flat. It was a scrap more of hope that John would forgive him and maybe allow him back. He set the skull back where it belonged with a sigh.
Despite all the many things Sherlock catalogued about the flat it still felt so impossibly empty. The entire flat screamed of emptiness and loss. It was as though even the colors had been desaturated with it. It was as though grief was a post-mortem odor that clung to the walls and carpets and drapes. Mary had died in the hospital but her home bore the evidence of her death.
He contemplated this in a kitchen chair for several moments before the sound of the doorknob turning brought him back to reality.
"Oh, you're getting so big." John's voice grunted, the sound of him hefting something weighty.
"Dun wanna go down." Murmured a small voice, completely unabashed with his slurred speech.
"I know, but its bed time and you've had a long week. You've not had a decent nap now in three days and your mother is very sore with me. She'll be extra sore with me if she finds out you're not going to bed on time."
Sherlock's chest tightened. There was so much love in John's voice, so much love in his face and in his body language as he passed the kitchen door on his way to the stairs. The doctor walked right past him and didn't even seem to notice the intruder skulking like a boney black gargoyle at his table. Sherlock slowly crept out of the kitchen, his mouth opening to say something, but before he could get the strangled words out they were already heading up the stairs to put JayJay down for the night. He'd wait. He wouldn't interrupt this ritual. He quietly paced out into the living room. Walking in a circle; thinking. What would he say? Where would he start? John had to be made to understand!
Oh now there was singing coming from up the stairs.
"'Go to sleep, now dear love, 'neath roses above. Sweet blossoms of red shall bloom by thy bed. When the dawn lights the sky open wide thy dear eyes. When the dawn lights the sky open wide thy dear eyes.' Sleep tight, I know I don't sing it as well as Mummy. I'll keep trying though. I love you." There was a soft murmur of reciprocation and the over-exaggerated sound of a kiss.
Sherlock threw himself down into his old chair. Each sound of John's heavy footfalls on the stairs made his heart beat in time. He could do this. It was going to work.
The doctor came into view and it seemed as though he'd been paused mid-frame of a movie. He didn't flinch an inch, and it was almost like his heart wasn't beating. "Sherlock." He murmured, then moving to twist his head to look to the kitchen, striding over and staring at the chair Sherlock hadn't bothered to push back in. Robotically he pushed it back in himself, stared at it for a minute more, and then marched back into the living room to stare at the intruder in the chair across from him.
"You're real. You're really really real?" He asked, his voice cracking as he pushed his knuckles against his lips as though he were afraid of the sound that might come out if he didn't.
"I'm very much real." Sherlock stated. Of all the phrases he'd planned to start this conversation with, that had not been one of them.
"You're real. You're real." John continued chanting, approaching hesitantly, backing off a few steps, his expression screaming 'what am I doing!' before he approached again and placed a hand on Sherlock's cheek. "You're real. Are you sure? Oh god you can't be. I'm cracking up. Oh my god." The doctor paced back and forth a bit. "I was so certain you had been real in the graveyard earlier, and then I wasn't so sure- and now- and then- and- and- Oh my god I can't be losing it. Mary's dead. She's dead, if I'm cracking up it should be her, shouldn't it? It should be Mary and I should be having hallucinations of her and yet it's you. It's always, always you. I can't be cracking up. They'll take JayJay away from me, Mary's parents already want him. Want him to live with them in America. I can't. I can't do this." He deflated into his chair, pressing his face into his palms and rocking himself back and forth slightly.
He was self soothing to bring himself back down.
Sherlock, who had been sitting still and listening to John's rant, chose now to stand and place a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You're not cracking up John. I am real. I was always real."
"You were dead!" John nearly screamed, suddenly shooting up from his chair. There it was. The Watson anger and fire back in him, his face twisted in rage and hurt.
"I watched you jump off a bloody building! I took your pulse! I held- I held your dead, lifeless, hand until I was pulled away from you and you are telling me that it never, bloody happened!"
Sherlock immediately back away, only just enough to be outside of swinging rang. "Oh John, it happened and it happened exactly how it was meant to look but it wasn't what it looked like. I am sorry John. But there were snipers trained on Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and you. I had to. It was the only way, can't you see, the only way that I could have spared your life and keep you safe while I tore down Moriarty's network!"
"Only way. Fine. I thought we were friends." He huffed dangerously. Sherlock briefly remembered scenes from an Internet viral video of the honey badger and in that moment John distinctly resembled one in his movements around the flat. "You could have told me, you could have come and we could have figured it out together! We could have- Together we could have done it and- Sherlock it's been more than three bloody years!"
"I knew that's exactly what you'd do. I couldn't endanger you further."
"I thought you trusted me! I thought- I thought that- Bloody HELL you could have told me so I didn't spend the past three years trying to wave away your ghost and try to live a normal life."
"If you didn't, the enemies behind you would notice. John, I've never known you to be a brilliant actor and… and there was more than just your life at stake. Really, John, don't be so incredibly selfish! I know you would have chosen me, to come with me and fight beside me had you even but known the chance you could was there. You showed me and told me you'd been willing to die for me but could you ask the same of your son? Because that's what would have happened." Sherlock hadn't noticed that he'd raised his voice as well and was circling around John. God, why couldn't he just understand!
And there came the honey badger, charging him, ripping claws into his lapels and dragging him down to his own height. "Don't you dare even bring Jeremy into this, you pompous self-righteous windbag! My son has nothing to do with this! You have no idea what I'd do for my son."
Sherlock stood his ground. "I do. You told me. 'I would have died for you any day but this is even beyond that. I don't know what I'd do for Jeremy. I want to do everything for him. I want to give him the world.' John. I did what I could to help you give everything to Jeremy. By remaining dead as long as I did, as long as it took, he got to live with a father there who could love and hold him. John, if you'd known about me Jeremy wouldn't have known his father."
John was just too angry and couldn't fight that Sherlock was right. He stomped around a few more seconds, trying to find something to say before just collapsing down into the sofa and letting the wall fall apart. He cried. He moaned out names, Sherlock, Mary, Jeremy. His three greatest loves. "I'm still mad you didn't tell me." He choked at last.
"I couldn't."
"Why?" He begged, no longer possessing the strength to be angry.
"Because friends protect each other. And you are my greatest, most loyal, most appreciated friend. You would have tried to protect me, and I couldn't allow it. It was you who needed protection and I wasn't going to prove to fail you as a friend. You gave me everything and I owed you too much." Sherlock puffed and collapsed into his own chair across from where John lay prone and prostrated on the sofa. He motioned with his hands all round him, as though the ghost of the old Baker Street was still within. The everything John had given him.
"You're a raving idiot." And they fell into silence. Sherlock stared at him for a moment longer before he saw a shaking sigh exit John's chest. "You must be real, there's no reason I'd create a hallucination that was such an utterly annoying douche canoe."
Sherlock smiled. He could always read John just like his favorite book.
###
"-And the troll prince sought redemption from the king's knight who, instead of cutting off the troll's head as he would have been within his complete right to do, he collected his squire and dog and returned to the cave after the troll had proven he wouldn't eat the boy or experiment on the dog… again… the end." Was told, too quickly and with words that were too big for the audience.
"Sherlock, that story was rubbish." John mused, pulling the blanket up to the chin of the three year old that had no doubt been vocabularied into a coma.
"I thought it was rather imaginative, for one, and two it served its intended purpose, didn't it?" He motioned to the sleeping tot.
"Next time don't chuck the book at the door and go half cocked. What's wrong with Little Red Riding Hood anyway?"
"It's an analogy for pedophilic predators, Hansel and Gretel encourage vandalism and childhood obesity, Snow White implies necrophilia, Beauty and the Beast implies bestiality more so Stockholm Syndrome, the Little Mermaid is-"
"Okay okay I get it enough. I take it back, your story was fine. I guess I did like the part about the faery queen, when she kissed the knight and he was brought back to life? Thanks. I think she was JayJay's favorite character too. Though it's interesting, how humbled the troll was to her."
"She was a faery queen. She saved the knight's life when the troll left him for dead. I think the troll owes her even more… still."
"Thank you, Sherlock."
"You're welcome."
He didn't kiss John. Knew John wasn't ready for that. But one day, some day, when John was ready again… he would.