(A/N: Welcome to another story that I shouldn't be writing till I've finished others but am going to anyways! :D This common theme will probably continue indefinitely. Anyways, this story was prompted by a list of things a person loves to see in Johnlock stories. All the ideas were along the same line of "Sherlock being a sad baby idiot", to quote the list directly, and cohesive enough to be built into one glorious story of love and insecurity. And so here you go! :D
And, yes, the fact that this is Clom means there is going to be sexy times and frickle fracking and doing of the do.)
It really only took a month. Just one month for John to realise that after the baby came, Mary would have to go. The forgiveness John had extended towards her that Christmas day was an olive branch and Mary grabbed at it like a drowning man. But she seemed to think that things would return to how they were before, domestic bliss, but with less secrets. So when Mary had information or tips that ran along her expertise, she had no qualms about speaking up whereas before she would hold her tongue to continue the ruse. And so each time she opened her mouth, Mary reminded John about the life she had previous.
About the countless jobs she completed. The lives she took. The lies she told. None of which helped solidify the trust John had initially placed in his wife and was trying to give back. So after just one month of trying to revert back to what they had before, it became clear that that was impossible. And John moved out.
He returned to 221B Baker Street, much to Mrs. Hudson's delight, but made sure to check in with Mary daily and still take her to the necessary exams and checkups. Mary understood John's decision well enough, but still made an effort to convince him to return, to win him back. Nothing worked and John remained at 221B, juggling his job at the A&E, Mary's appointments, and the occasional case. And all was well, all things considered.
But then Mary had an accident. When John asked the hospital doctors, they hypothesized that some stranger must have accidentally bumped into her, causing the fall. The fact the person, whoever they were, didn't stick around to face the damage they had caused infuriated John. His wife, albeit soon to be ex-wife, was seven and a half months pregnant and they didn't have the decency to check to see if she was okay after pushing her down two flights of steps. Mary had been headed for the tube and those sort of things happen in crowded stairwells, but this was worst-case-scenario results: three fractured ribs, punctured lung, concussion, swelling in the brain, and a heavy blow to the embryo. Thankfully there was still a heartbeat, but the baby had been very still. Scarily still.
And if Mary didn't wake…
John wasn't sure if he could handle losing one of them, much less both. Mary may have lied to him, but he did love her and their child. And John had experienced too much loss in his life already. This would just be too much too soon. So, despite him not being a very religious man, John made a point to hold Mary's hand and pray to God or whoever was out there to please help his family, his wife and unborn daughter, every night before going to sleep and every morning before going to work. Unfortunately, not everything is fixed with a little prayer.
Mary remained in a coma for another two weeks before her body just stopped. The child had lost its heartbeat two days before her mother. For the fourth time in three years, John felt his heart break and fall apart. The hollow that remained ached and throbbed every second of every day that followed and he quickly had to build a wall to keep the pain in and hidden. He needn't burden others with his sorrow; it was his alone to bear. His job gave him a month to mourn and arrange everything. They held a funeral two days later. Despite the short notice, everything was beautiful and meticulously planned. Mycroft's doing, John expects.
John was back at work a week later. He threw himself into his job and the cases the occurred. He found himself following the same patterns as after The Fall, but with less severity. And with twice as much loss, John couldn't fathom why it didn't affect him half as much.
Sherlock watched John shuffle into the kitchen. A month had passed since Mary's death and for all intents and purposes, John was fine. But Sherlock knew better. The man still threw himself into his work, remained emotionally closed off, and continued to avoid the subject of both Mary and their child like the plague. It didn't take a genius to see that John was struggling with deep depression. And it absolutely killed Sherlock that he didn't know how to help.
He had done his best to be supportive and understanding of John's decisions and feelings. He understood that John had moved on in those two years and that Mary was better for him. Sherlock readily accepted that while John was no genius, he wasn't an idiot either and knew what he was doing and how his choices would affect him in the long run. Sherlock quietly stood by as his best friend decided to forgive his almost-murderer and tried so hard to make things right even when he had done nothing wrong.
Sherlock remained stoic as he watched John's and Mary's relationship fall apart.
Sherlock said nothing when John moved back in with him and yet continued to visit and interact with Mary.
Sherlock held his tongue when he first walked into that hospital room where Mary was hooked up to a myriad of machines and John just sat there, clutching at his wife's hand.
Sherlock lent his shoulder when neither Mary nor the child made it.
In the weeks that followed, Sherlock became the flatmate John always wanted. He cleaned up after himself, made sure the two of them ate, and played only soothing pieces to help John sleep on those nights were memories became nightmares. Sherlock almost felt discouraged and stopped a few times, but one day Sherlock saw John smile for the first time in months and he realised that that was enough thanks. That was what it was all for: John's smile.
Sherlock blinked, realising he had been watching John from the kitchen again. It was a habit he had always had, John was just so fascinating, but his tendency to do so increased exponentially after his time… away. Refocusing on his experiment at hand, Sherlock frowned then hissed in anger. The reaction he was waiting for had passed whilst he was ogling John from afar. This little infatuation was going too far.
Sighing heavily, Sherlock leaned back in his chair. He had known for a while that he loved John. Initially, he had believed it was a platonic love, one brothers might share, not that he and Mycroft ever experienced anything of the sort. The existence of such feelings in general were annoying, hindering to the work, and Sherlock had tried to simply ignore it until it went away. But the opposite occurred.
Instead of fizzling out, this attraction seemed to increase the longer he spent time with John. The tipping point had been Moriarty. Sherlock had been more than ready to face the madman himself. No one was to be at risk. But then Jim broke the rules and stole John and used him as leverage. Seeing John, his steady and calm and perfect John, weighed down with bombs and trembling was more than enough to send Sherlock into a spiraling rage. Cool calm settled instead. Sherlock later supposed it was a mixture of shock and adrenaline that kept his hand steady as he aimed the nicked gun at the armed explosives on the floor, more than ready to risk their lives if it took the man who harmed John as well.
During the aftermath, after walking away scot-free, Sherlock felt his heart stop and startup again as John smiled up at him and gave a breathless laugh. Everything became clear in that moment. John was precious and perfect and needed to be protected at all costs. Nothing was more important.
Sherlock frowned as he readied a new slide. He had almost failed. Twice. Unacceptable. He glanced over to where John was focused on the computer screen, his mouth pursed and brow furrowed as he thought. A soft smile grew as Sherlock watched him slowly type a few words in with two fingers before pausing and erasing it all over again. It was a cycle that John had be repeating for the last hour or so and Sherlock just loved watching him.
It was obvious that Sherlock would never grow bored of John. There was so much to see: the way John's eyes could go from soft, deep blue to a hard, cold grey in no time flat; how John's lips could twist with irritation, anger, confusion, and amusement (Sherlock himself favoured the latter); the countless shades of gold and silver that shone when the light hit John's hair. Even beyond that, John continuously surprised Sherlock with questions and insight that Sherlock had learned never to expect from the common wealth. An intelligence and hunger for knowledge, much like Sherlock's own, dwelled in John, showing itself in small bursts.
Sherlock saw John as an equal, his conductor of light, forever pushing him to be a better person.
A better person… Sherlock sighed, turning away from John and closing his eyes. For all of John's effort Sherlock was not a good man and probably never would be. A better person would have warned John when he began suspecting something was off with Mary. A better person would have told John the truth about the shooting. A good man would have kept Mary away from him. But Sherlock was none of those things.
Sherlock kept quiet about those unexplained deductions, the words "Liar" and "Secret" screaming at him with no explanation. Sherlock initially didn't tell John, letting him hear for himself instead because Sherlock couldn't stand even the idea of the pain that would contort John's face. Later Sherlock didn't even tell the whole truth, insisting that Mary saved his life when in reality she just prolonged his death to ensure her escape. A better person wouldn't have lied. A good man would have told the truth.
As John's best friend, Sherlock should have left them well enough alone. John was happy with Mary. He was happy without Sherlock. He shouldn't have come back to disrupt that calm. But ultimately he did because he is selfish, the most selfish man on earth probably.
Truth is Sherlock came back because he missed his John and had spent enough time away. Truth is Sherlock didn't come back; he came home. But his home had found a new home; a home that wouldn't lead him into dangerous, possibly life-threatening, situations. But Sherlock was too selfish to simply let him go.
Sherlock turned from the microscope he had mindlessly been staring into the last few minutes and buried his head into his hands.
I should've turned and left the restaurant the second I deduced his intentions, Sherlock lamented. He and Mary would have been happy. I wouldn't have come between them. None of this would have happened. Sherlock inhaled sharply, sitting upright again before John could notice. John would have been happier without me. The final thought physically hurt Sherlock and he pushed himself away from the table, hissing.
John looked up from the laptop and smiled. Sherlock, of course, didn't see as his back was turned, but the smile was soft and his eyes were warm with open affection. General consensus was that John Watson was still in dire need of healing, but in reality he was well on his way to being completely fine. Falling in love tends to help.
(A/N: And I want to make something very clear. This is not a Mary-bashing story. I actually like Mary (I don't like what she did, but I like her character [it's my opinion and very difficult to explain in few words so please don't hate me]), but she needed to be subtracted so their relationship could multiply. I'm not going to write an adulterous relationship; especially not with John Watson. He's too good of a man. I hope this first chapter didn't bore you and you enjoy what follows. Thanks for reading and review if you wanna.)