WARNINGS!: Slash, AU, and OOC - ye have been warned people! I will happily take criticisims, but flames will be used to toast marshmallows for s'mores.
DISCLAIMER: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mary Morstan, and 221 Baker St. are all owned by the venerable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
A/N: I finally decided to read the Sherlock Holmes stories after seeing the most recent Sherlock movie, and have since fallen in love with the books. This particular little plot bunny invaded my life a few weeks and and simply would not shut up, so here it is! It doesn't take place in either book or film cannon or in either timeline. It's worth noting, however, that whenever I read Holmes stories, he looks like Robert Downey Jr. :-) Enjoy!
COMING HOME
The bottle of morphine sits there. Silent. Motionless. An inanimate object. But it mocks him all the same. He wants it, needs it. Hates it. Wants to throw it into the fire and away from him forever. Wants to push it into his bloodstream by the needle full.
He sits there, staring at it, hating it, because it's easier to hate the bottle than it is to hate John. He hates John Watson. Worse still, he loves him.
He loves John Watson, loves him and hates him and wants him and needs him and because he does he's sitting here staring at a morphine bottle contemplating throwing it or using it to bring death, and both seem like viable options. Because John is getting married.
Married.
To Miss Mary Morstan, a woman Sherlock actually likes. Rather, a woman he would like if she weren't marrying his John. And John...
He hates John. Hates him and loves him and wants him to fall off a bridge and die, because John loves him too. Or loved. (Does it matter?) John had loved Sherlock (or said he had, and Sherlock had believed him), but then Miss Mary came waltzing into the picture with her elegant dresses and perfect hair and pretty words and John was lost. Gone. Away from Sherlock.
And he understands. He truly does. He and John can't be together, not the way they want to be. Not in this time, in this city. Not in any place he's ever heard of. Mary, by virtue of being a woman, solves many of John's problems. No more whispers about the nocturnal activities of the two strange men who inhabit 221 Baker St. No more jokes about when John will settle down and start a family. No one really expects Sherlock to take a wife. He's too strange, too brilliant, to adept at making people uncomfortable. But John, they expect John to be normal. He's a doctor after all, handsome (more than handsome, if Sherlock tells the truth), a veteran of the Queen's Army. And Mary makes him normal. None of which means Sherlock has to like what's happening. Much less be happy for them.
Sherlock's thoughts go round and round, love and hate, anger and resignation, understanding and fury. Fear, lust, loathing. There's hardly an (negative) emotion that he's missed. And he stares at the morphine bottle on the fireplace mantle.
A moment later (an hour? Two hours? Does it really matter?) the object of his thoughts (obsession?) arrives, Mary in tow. And with them a third. A small, dark haired woman who is classically pretty, and Sherlock wonders just what in hell is going on.
"Sherlock!" Watson calls out (and a shiver runs down Sherlock's spine and his head starts spinning, but he hides it all by standing to greet his visitors even though his knees have gone week and he feels as though he could faint at any moment), "Meet Miss Elizabeth Morland."
Sherlock bows to the lady with a "Pleasure to meet you" on his lips. It almost sounds genuine, even to himself.
"The three of us," John says quietly "have a proposition for you."
Sherlock looks at John, really Looks at him, for the first time in days. For the first time since that terrible fight when John said he was going to marry Mary (funny how the words sound, even now), and there was nothing Sherlock could do about it. The night he begged and pleaded and threatened and cajoled. The night John stated simply, "I love you Sherlock. I always will." and walked out the door. The night Sherlock had taken up permanent residence in front of the morphine bottle.
John looks terrible. Dark circles under bloodshot eyes, his skin pasty. He looks the way Sherlock feels, and it is wrong. John is getting married to the Woman (as Sherlock has dubbed her in his mind). He loves her. He shouldn't look like this. Like he spends every night awake and worrying. As if he can't let go of something. As though he's being haunted.
And John's looking right back at him, taking in the rumpled shirt with soot and ink stains on the sleeves. The wild hair that Sherlock hasn't even tried to tame. The pasty gray skin, the dull, red-rimmed eyes that used to glow with so much fire. John is looking at a wraith, and both men know it. They see each other and it's like looking in a mirror.
The women see it too, and they move close together for comfort. Then Sherlock's brain catches up with what his eyes are seeing. The women are holding hands. Holding hands. Fingers intertwined.
"Sherlock" John whispers, "you must hear our idea." So Sherlock invites them all to sit (it's a wonder his voice isn't shaking), calls for tea, and waits.
Once tea has been poured, Sherlock begins to listen. It is not an idea, but a story. And what a tale it is. He hears of how John and Mary became fast friends with a common problem. How they bonded over society's rules and how they conflicted with hearts and desires. So the friends developed a plan, a plan to suit all parties involved. A plan involving a double wedding. John and Mary. Sherlock and Elizabeth.
His mind in a whirl, it is all he can do to stay upright. John, his John, was all this time planning a life for them. A life that, while not perfect, was more than acceptable. A life together. And his heart begins to race, and he desperately needs to breathe, but the air's been sucked out of the room and he's shaking like a leaf and....
And John's holding him. Suddenly, without warning, John's holding him against his chest and kissing his hair and telling him that it'll all be alright. That they'll work it out. That he loves him. That he's sorry for making this all so difficult. And he keeps saying it, over and over, until Sherlock finally feels that it might be true, that it might be real.
Slowly, he sits up, and is surprised to see that the women (Mary and Elizabeth, his brain supplies. Must call them Mary and Elizabeth) have disappeared. He turns to John (his John), and he's met with the most beautiful eyes he's ever seen, eyes that he's missed so terribly. And slowly, very very slowly, John leans in and their lips touch. Suddenly, Sherlock knows he's come home, and everything will be just fine.
John stares at the dark haired man next to him, and smiles in the gloom of their dimly lit bedroom. Sherlock is curled up against him, fast asleep, and beautiful. So wonderfully, unbelievably beautiful.
The wedding was two weeks ago, and everyone is settling in nicely. They found a house in a decent part of London. A house that had long ago been converted into two smaller homes within the framework of the larger one. With a few modifications it proved to be perfect. A door here, a hallway there, and each couple could spend their nights together without the servants knowing. While London wondered a bit at the situation, society was far from scandalized. After all, it was well known that the detective duo of Holmes and Watson had married a pair of girls who were the best of friends. All of which allowed them to live in peace.
And peaceful it was, at least at this moment. John lay there watching his Sherlock sleep, and marveled at the situation. It was truly wonderful, he knew, to be able to live so freely. And he knew the others felt the same. He pulled Sherlock closer, and nuzzled his face into his lover's neck. Then John contentedly drifted off to sleep.