The room was unfamiliar. The walls were covered in hideous beige wallpaper and every surface was cluttered with papers and brickabrack. On one wall loomed a cracked mirror, pockmarked with bullet holes.
John tenderly picked himself up from the floor, rubbing his bruised hip and cursing. His head swivelled around, looking for anything familiar.
"Why can't there be a fucking guidebook?" he hissed under his breath. The wanton piles of misused paper and scientific equipment reminded him vaguely of home, but it wasn't until he spotted a familiar violin perched carefully on the mantelpiece, away from the general chaos, that he relaxed.
"Sherlock," he whispered.
The unfamiliar flat was deserted. John picked his way towards the door leading out of the room, listening carefully to make sure he was alone. His hands hovered in front of his crotch in habitual modesty, though at this point he was long since used to surprise nudity. Hearing no sounds from the staircase, he ducked through to the door at the end, hoping against hope that it was his own bedroom.
He was disappointed. The room was almost entirely bare, save for a scattering of medical journals and books that could only belong to a psychologist.
John cocked his head to the side. When did Sherlock adopt a shrink?
Shaking his head, he slipped back onto the staircase and made his way to the second door, sliding in and almost tripping on a disassembled grandfather clock lain across the floor. Definitely Sherlock's room.
He tiptoed through the maelstrom of unrelated paraphernalia, swinging the closet open with a sigh.
"Come on, where's all my stuff?" he whispered to himself. The closet housed a familiar pastiche of fine men's clothing – silken shirts, pressed black trousers and long coats – but nothing recognisably John's.
"Dammit, Sherlock, what have you done?"
John quickly assessed his options. He plucked out a tailored black jacket that fell below his knees, tying it around his waist until he could find any of his own clothing. Properly covered, he made his way back into the living space, switching a light on and scanning for a newspaper, or a letter – anything that could give him the date. His eyes fell on a familiar, and very hated, skull.
"We meet again, sir," he said, glaring at the skull's naked grin. Trust Sherlock to keep that thing when they moved. One of these days he was going to smash it while the detective was out.
Except he knew he wouldn't, because there it was. Time travel really undermined his favourite fantasies. It was infuriating.
A scratching sound came from downstairs, and John whirled around as the outer door swung open. He carefully navigated to the far end of the room as footsteps made their way up the stairs, to appear as unthreatening as possible. Lord knows, a startled Sherlock was never a safe Sherlock, no matter how many times he'd popped into his life unannounced.
However, the man who walked through the door was not Sherlock. For starters, he was a good foot shorter, with red hair and a willowy build, and the way he looked at John was not the welcoming expression he'd been hoping for.
"How did you get in here?" asked the newcomer, his face devoid of emotion. His voice was low, determinedly even, assessing the threat without provoking it or appearing rattled.
Police, supplied John's mind.
"I didn't break in," he said, wondering if there was ever going to be a way of explaining this that didn't sound batshit crazy. "Sorry, I really didn't mean to turn up here."
The man didn't react. "Are you a… client?" he asked, looking him up and down.
John's face crinkled in surprise. He looked pointedly down. "A client who breaks into your house, strips and steals a man's coat? Seriously? What kind of business do you run?"
The man seemed to have no reply to that, waiting cautiously for an explanation. John sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"Look, sorry, this is Sherlock's apartment, right? I recognise the violin. And the skull. God, why does he always keep the skull?"
"You know Sherlock?"
"Of course I – dammit, where is he?" John snapped in frustration.
"He's on his way back from a meeting. With a client," replied the man, studying John. Suddenly, his features softened and his mouth turned up in amusement. "Let me guess, Chrono Displacement Disorder?"
John stared. "You know about CDD?"
The man chuckled. "I'm a doctor. Well, criminal psychologist, technically, but it's been the trendy disease to study for the last five years."
John relaxed. "Holy crap, that makes this so much easier."
"I'll bet," chuckled the man. "You better take care of that coat. Sherlock loves it like his own child, it's almost indecent."
John clutched the material around himself. "I'll keep that in mind," he said. "I'm John, by the way." He automatically held out a hand to shake.
"Kevin. Kevin James," he said, stepping forward and pointedly keeping his eyes on John's face as he took his hand.
"Oh, right," said John, cringing a little. "I need to stop initiating physical contact with strangers while mostly naked."
Kevin visibly tried to hide an amused smirk. "You have pretty unique problems, you know that?"
John snickered a little. This guy had no idea.
"So, you're the doctor in the first bedroom?"
"That's me," confirmed Kevin, seemingly unperturbed by John's snooping. "I take care of Sherlock."
John's lips pursed. "What do you mean, you take care of him?"
Kevin chuckled. "Well, if he ever knew how to eat, sleep and clean, he's forgotten now."
"But," began John, becoming very tense, "why are you the one doing it?"
Kevin shrugged. "Beats me. He helped me catch the bastard who killed one of my colleagues, so when Lestrade said he needed someone to help out and he didn't immediately shoot me with that bloody Browning of his, I moved in."
John was feeling very cold.
"Sorry, but what year is it?" he asked.
"2021," Kevin answered easily. John's feeling of unease deepened. "When are you from?"
"2013," he said, brow knitting in discontent. "You and Sherlock live here together?"
"Yes," said Kevin, watching his growing unease in confusion.
"But you have no idea who I am," John said it as a statement.
Kevin paused, gazing at John carefully.
"No, I'm sorry. But you know Sherlock. Sentiment and all that. If you're coming here, he must be important to you, but he's not exactly a great communicator. I wouldn't worry."
John let out a huff of pained laughter, clenching his hands around the coat and trying to control his breathing.
"Sentiment," he whispered. "Eight years."
Kevin placed a hand on his shoulder, clearly trying to calm him.
"Are you okay? It doesn't mean anything that he hasn't mentioned you, honestly. You know he's a berk," he leaned across, trying to look into his eyes. "Don't panic."
John refused to look at him, trying to swallow down the lump in his throat.
"Not panicking. Just trying to work out what went wrong. How long have you known him?"
Kevin winced a little. "Three years."
Kevin and Sherlock were living together. Kevin didn't know John's face. Sherlock had never even mentioned him. He wasn't in his life.
What the hell happened?
The handle downstairs gave a distinct rattle, and more footsteps bounded up the stairs.
"Kevin!" came an oh-so-familiar shout. The living room door swung open. "It was the barmaid! Didn't anyone see her nails? Honestly, how has nobody noticed…" Sherlock's words ground to an abrupt halt as he caught sight of John's face. He froze, all colour draining from his cheeks, and his lips parted soundlessly.
"Hello Sherlock," said John, his voice soft and fragile.
"John," breathed Sherlock, and abruptly he was all movement, striding to him and crushing the doctor in his arms. John curled his arms around Sherlock's back, trying to stay calm.
"So," John began, keeping his voice steady. "It wasn't divorce then."
Sherlock's hands flexed where they were fisted in John's coat. He pulled him back by the shoulders. "When?" he asked, voice shaking.
"2013," said John, softly. "We just finished that case with the contortionist and the umbrella."
"2013," he breathed. "I knew it. I knew you saw it coming! Why didn't you say?" His face crumpled. "Why didn't you stop it?"
"Sherlock, I've never been able to stop anything. I can't… Fuck! I'm going to…"
"I'm so sorry," said Sherlock, clutching at him. "I should have protected you. I should have kept you safe."
"It's soon, isn't it?" asked John, trying to keep his breathing steady.
"2014," said Sherlock, voice devoid of inflection. "November."
John nodded, feeling tears slipping down his cheeks.
"Okay," he said, his voice breathy. He forced himself to unfist his hands from Sherlock's shirt, clasping them on either side of his long neck. Sherlock automatically leaned forward, until they were breathing each other's air.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John whispered. "I'm so, so sorry. I never wanted to do this to you."
"I know," said Sherlock. "I know."
Sherlock closed the distance between them. For a moment it was as if all the air had gone from the world, and they could only breathe through one another. Their kiss was long, and desperate. Both could taste tears on the other's lips.
They finally parted and John held Sherlock's face in his hands.
"But you kept going," he said, a small, incredulous smile on his face. "You're still consulting. And with a partner!"
"We're not…" he began, but John cut him off.
"Shut up, I know. But you found someone. Something real." He grinned at him through his tears.
"I'm so proud of you," he said, resting their foreheads together. "You survived me."
Sherlock's brows drew together. "You were not a trial to be endured," he said, sounding angry.
John looked sad. "Maybe not, but I stole you when you were six and I never gave you back." He closed his eyes. "I was so scared I'd destroyed you."
Sherlock shook his head, looking bemused. "Idiot," he said, pressing a kiss to John's forehead. John grinned at him, his expression all sharp angles and brittle satisfaction. He felt a familiar tug in his abdomen.
"No," he said, clutching harder at his husband.
Sherlock's face grew taught. "It's starting," he said. It wasn't a question.
John felt his throat clench in despair. "I don't want to go. I don't want to leave you!"
"You already have," said Sherlock, staring at him. He ran his fingers through John's hair, memorising its feel one last time.
"Please be okay," John begged. "Be happy."
Sherlock stared sadly. "You have a year," he said, cupping his face reverently in his hands. "Don't waste it."
John held Sherlock's hands against his face. "I love you." A familiar tingling sensation spread through his limbs.
"I will always love you," declared Sherlock. He held John's gaze and they drank each other in, not daring to blink as John silently faded from existence. Sherlock caught his coat before it dropped to the floor, holding it listlessly between his hands.
His flatmate watched in shocked silence, unable to move, unable to process this vision of the great Sherlock Holmes so utterly destroyed. After an agonising minute of torturous stillness, Sherlock turned and floated away, shutting himself silently in his room. He did not emerge for two days.
Eight years earlier, in a very different flat, John fell to the floor in a shuddering, naked heap. The lights were out, but his soft thud cause a stirring in the next room. The bedroom door swung open with a creak to reveal the very dishevelled form of his husband in a silken dressing gown.
"I had wondered when you'd be back," said Sherlock as he entered, stopping short when he spotted him on the floor.
"John? What's happened?"
John let out a shaking sob, and Sherlock was immediately by his side, checking him over for injuries.
"What's wrong?" he asked, desperate concern creeping into his tone.
John reached out a hand and traced it along Sherlock's tired face. "I'm not hurt," he managed, fingers memorising every inch of skin.
Sherlock watched on in confusion.
"Then what happened?"
John closed his eyes, forcing back his tears and trying to ignore the lead weight that had settled in his heart.
"Just a bad trip," he said, calming himself. He pulled Sherlock to him, and the taller man wrapped his arms around John protectively.
"Will you tell me about it?"
"You don't need to worry," said John, holding him. "It just scared me. I'll be okay."
Sherlock was tense, clearly wanting to push further, but unsure if it would make his husband shatter.
"You would tell me, if it were something important?"
John breathed deep. "Yes. Yes, I would." He composed himself. "It was just another thing I really wish I could change."
Sherlock held him tighter. "Whatever it was you saw, it's over now. And it brought the two of us here." He smiled. "I can scarcely be angry at a past that grants me this." He tucked John's head under his chin, holding him close.
John said nothing, curling into his husband. He slowly breathed in his scent, memorising everything about him – his skin, his hands, his deep, melodious voice. He held onto him like a life raft in a storm. His brilliant madman. His idiot.
His Sherlock.
For the moment.
A/N: My first attempt at a Sherlock fic. The way I see it, John would remain a presence in Sherlock's life forever, but never acknowledged out loud. Someone like him would never broadcast his greatest vulnerability like that.
I have some other scenes in mind (mostly angst, of course). I shall see if they end up amounting to anything. Let me know what you think!