Author's Note: Hullo everybody! And thanks for reading! I was feeling musical this week, having gone to a concert and practiced some instruments, so there are a few song references to address in this little Johnlock reunion fic. First, the title is in reference to Alt-J's song of the same name. The below lyrics are from the He's My Brother She's My Sister song "Same Old Ground." And I even snuck in half a line of the Foo Fighters song "Come Alive." But, anyways, I'm a huge Johnlock fan, and generally I like to do kind of an understated thing to their romance, because I can't picture them making big tear filled confessions or drowning in public displays of affection (though those are both fun to read about and some people do them really well). But this is mostly pre slash anyway, with some hints thrown in of the beginnings of something more. Hope you enjoy and please review! P.S. Here's a bonus question, because as I mentioned I'm feeling musical, what's the best concert you ever went to?
We all come back again
To the same old ground
The one where we began
On a foggy Tuesday morning, Molly Hooper awoke to find she had one unread text message from an unfamiliar number. She was not surprised, as these messages she received usually arrived via a different number every week.
One more to go.
-SH
She laid her phone back down on her bedside table, let out a long breath, and prepared herself for a day of autopsies and worry.
m m m
"Have you been sleeping lately?"
"'Sleeping' is a strong word for what I'm doing," he replied grimly, keeping his eyes focused on some spot far away from this place.
"How do you mean, John?"
He took a long time to answer. "I lay in there in the dark in for a while. I sort of nod off after a bit, but the dreams come back, as always."
"The same dreams?"
"Of course," he blinked, keeping his eyes closed for a bit longer than was necessary. "You know."
He glanced at her out of the corner of her vision, careful not to make eye contact, but she's bent over her notes and scribbling furiously. Finally, she looked up again. "Have you thought any further about what I recommended?"
Generally, John thought these sessions were a waste of time. Even before he'd met Sherlock and his life had been going to hell in much the same way, he'd thought she was a waste of time. But inevitably he kept returning to her, because there was something a little comforting about having someone paid to like you. And she had had one shred of good advice in the recent times.
"I have," he said, rubbing at the bridge of his nose again. "And I think you're right. I need to leave. I need to get...elsewhere."
"Baker Street isn't good for your health," she agreed, with just a touch of smugness that John's sure only he could ever register. "It's best, when grieving, to take a bit of a break from a memory filled setting."
"I'm starting to think all of London isn't good for me," he murmured, reaching up to scratch the back of his head. It was at this moment he happened to glance at his watch. "I'm sorry, I've got to head out a bit early."
"Are you meeting someone?" she asked, a little too enthusiastically, in the vain hope he may have some sort of functioning social life.
"Yes, an old friend," he replied, trying to convey exactly how unusual it was for him to meet anyone who didn't barge in his front door and make him do something. He didn't quite understand why he felt such scorn towards her, why he didn't want her to feel any sort of personal victory if she thought he was 'recovering.' Maybe it was because she really wasn't doing much for him. Maybe it was because he thought that his failures were his alone, and so somehow going to her was cheating. His alone protected him from her victory, and her lack of victory protected his alone.
They exchanged the expected departure rituals, good afternoon, think on what we talked about, see you next week. And then he's hailing a cab in front of the building, struggling to remember the name of the cafe he was already late for.
m m m
Molly Hooper, if nothing else, was unfailingly punctual—she'd always thought it one of her finer qualities, along with an uncanny aptitude for spelling, and truly excellent taste in a wide variety of wool socks.
She'd received the second text just after lunch, three days after the first one, and it was a bit longer. As with every other, she did not respond. She never replied, for fear her message would fall into the wrong hands.
The last is proving tricky to find. Invite him to tea Monday at 3. Your usual spot. Be alert.
-SH
The identity of "him" was no mystery. She had been receiving these messages for a year and a half, and still no names were mentioned, but she had long since deduced who she was to be keeping an eye on. Mycroft was never to be dealt with. Lestrade could take care of himself.
And then there was John.
She'd been surveilling him from a distance, on orders, but had a hard time when face to face. She couldn't look him in the eyes, could never have lied outright about her knowledge. And so they danced around the subject and she inevitably began to think that maybe he was onto her, could pick up her nervous ticks and her misdirected joy at things that made no difference at all to someone in his state of mind—the weather, the latest football game, Lestrade's last high profile case. She was always to tell him nothing, to gauge his reaction when she asked how he was doing, on the half dozen times she invited to him to a cafe for the afternoon. He would lie and say "managing" and she would smile sympathetically and feel like the absolute worst person to ever walk this earth, looking at the way his mouth was permanently set in a quivering frown. And, again, she would remind herself that she's saving his life and Lestrade's and Mrs. Hudson's by maintaining the secret.
And now there was one left.
Who knew how long it would take to find them, especially if they were "proving tricky." She'd received updates every time another of Moriarty's men fell. He remained vague on the details of what had brought them down. But she kept an eye on the news, took notice when a well known criminal was finally incarcerated after an anonymous tip, or a suspected assassin had been murdered by one of his former employers. And, when the grand thief was found dead in his own apartment, one bullet in his head, no witnesses and no suspects.
So this final follower would have to be found, have to be destroyed. And she shuddered to think how long the entire process would take. How long the lie would have to continue. She wondered if Sherlock would have to go abroad. She wondered if he'd ever come back.
But John approached then, limping slightly as he swung open the glass door of the cafe. His shoulders were wet, fine little raindrops sticking to the black fabric. He carried no umbrella, in fact he carried nothing at all.
She put on the best smile she could manage, which was not very good at all.
"Hi," she called, beckoning for him to sit across from her. "I got you some tea, I wasn't sure how you like it..."
"That's fine," he replied, settling into a chair with only half a glance at the mug on the table. "Good morning."
"How are you?"
He didn't quite answer, giving her a look that said quite enough. Finally, he spoke again. "How's your Friday going?"
"It's been alright," she said, happy to break the tense silence. "You won't believe what I found in the morgue this morning, I thought autoerotic asphyxiation wasn't...oh, I suppose I shouldn't discuss that in public," she finished awkwardly, horrified that that had come out of her mouth. She stared at her own hands for a bit, swallowing any emotion. When she looked up again, John was smiling at her. Not really cheerily, but with a bit of warmth that she forgot he could possess. It was sympathetic, nonjudgemental. Just a wisp of the John that had been so perfectly counter to Sherlock. A former self.
Not for the first time in his eighteen month escapade, she wondered if Sherlock realized exactly how much he had altered with that one step into open air.
John's eyes flickered away for a moment, as though in indecision. But a moment later, they returned to meet hers, and barely a speck of that residual heat was left. "I have to leave, Molly."
"Oh right, yes, I have to get back to work soon, too," she began to gather her things.
"No, I mean I have to leave London."
She immediately stopped all movement and looked at him with panicked eyes. "Right now?"
"Sometime soon."
"Why?" she asked, trying not to look as distraught as she felt. Why did this have to come now? There's only one left!
"Someone told me it's better to get away from some of these memories. I've begun to think they're right."
"But only for a little bit, though, yes? You'll come back?" she was keeping her voice under control but on the inside her mind was racing. What was she to tell Sherlock if he came back and found John long gone, living a new life, having forgotten all of them?
"I dunno. If I think too hard about returning, I'm afraid I'll never leave."
"Where will you go?"
"Haven't decided. I suppose it doesn't really matter, people need doctors everywhere."
"You can't leave, John!" It was on the tip of her tongue now, just a few words and she knew John would never leave London. But there was a reason she couldn't tell him before, can't tell him now. That little niggling what if? What if the last one is in this very room, waiting for confirmation? What if those few words get John killed? Maybe it was paranoid, but then again maybe not. These were the remnants of Moriarty that Sherlock was dealing with, and this was not the time to cut corners. "We'll miss you! , Lestrade..."
"Not a very long list, is it?"
"And me."
He rose to his feet, grabbing his coat, giving her that grim little smile again. "I appreciate the sentiment, Molly, but I'm supposed to be moving on with my life, or something."
She imagined herself repeating these words to Sherlock, whenever he found his way home again. She imagined the look on his face, and shuddered.
She couldn't think of anything else to say as he plucked out a few bills from his wallet. He met her eyes one last time, with a penetrating look so reminiscent of Sherlock she couldn't break away. As if he was attempting to read her mind. She kept her mouth shut, afraid of what she might let slip through the cracks.
"Good afternoon, Molly."
She only nodded sadly in farewell.
m m m
John stumbled into 221b in the early hours of the morning, having been drinking with Lestrade since eight in the evening. Greg had had much the same reaction to John's decision to leave London as Molly—except the DI's contained less of Molly's sudden, unexplainable, and quite apparent panic at the thought. Afterwards, they had done what men do best; drink, swear, and avoid any topics that really were of personal substance. It had been enjoyable.
He tripped over the coat rack upon entering, and it crashed to the ground with an unfortunate amount of clanking and clattering. He couldn't tell if it had always been that loud in the many times he'd tipped the wobbly thing over, or if it was louder now that he was trying not to wake Mrs. Hudson, who at the slightest noise would come dashing up the stairs to make sure he hadn't done anything rash. She had been under the impression for the last year and a half that he was unstable, that he was a second away from offing himself in the night. He tried to assure her this wouldn't happen, that, if anything, he was the most stable person they knew. The most stagnant, at least. His habits may not have been healthy, but they were pretty damn constant. And though it had occurred to him, he really did not have the energy to kill himself.
And so he contented to eat very little and sleep even less, to working long hours in the hospital and to accepting that his misery was probably going to be a part of him from now on.
Perhaps it could eased, though...at least a little. His laptop beckoned to him from the coffee table.
He spent the next few hours searching travel site after travel site, looking for cheap airfares abroad. He knew he wanted to fly (something about being physically lifted away seemed so liberating), and England wasn't a very large country, so he figured he'd have to leave it behind all together. He didn't want to learn another language, or at least he didn't want the pressure of being forced by necessity to learn one, so he looked for places where English was widespread. Slowly, his list of possible destinations began to dwindle. He ruled out America—too large, overwhelming, geographical decisions would have to be made. Canada, too, held no intrigue. He thought about Hong Kong, and then South Africa, and those seemed impossibly far away. But maybe that was alright?
He skimmed through the closer European countries, France, Germany, Switzerland, even Ireland and Scotland, though they were still in close proximity. But something had caught his eye in Scandinavia, something was beckoning to him amongst all these other choices. Norway, Sweden, Denmark...largely English speaking, modern, still a separate culture and not huge tourist destinations, especially in the winter months. Yes, that seemed manageable. He searched Scandinavian Airlines and flights to Denmark were the first to pop up.
He leaned back in his chair, just as the sun was beginning to rise and sunlight was flooding in the street side windows. He could, in theory, leave this morning, on the next flight. It's not like he had much to pack, many of his goodbyes were already made. He could call in now and say that he's leaving his job on an emergency, find new work once he was in Denmark. It was all so conceivable, so straight forward, and yet he couldn't pull the trigger.
He was contemplating the joint between the wall the ceiling when the hairs on the back of his neck began to rise alarmingly. Instinctually, he sprang from the chair, turning to face the eyes he was sure were on him. But there was no one in the flat, no one staring in the window. At least, not anymore.
His heart was pounding uncomfortably, and he was suddenly aware of the fact he had stayed up the whole night and still had a shift in the afternoon. He glanced at the clock, decided he could probably get about four hours sleep, about as much as he'd get on any given night anyways.
Keeping the flights to Denmark still up on his laptop, he wandered off to bed.
m m m
Since her chat with John, Molly had spent the last few hours locked in a possibly unreasonable amount of anxious distress. She had always considered herself an anxious person. Not quite to a debilitating degree, but she knew that other's found her nervous questions entirely tedious. But a tense silence fell on her as she took the underground home that evening, arriving at her tiny flat just as the sunset was beginning to fade. She hurried in, shedding her coat and locking the door behind her. She then rechecked that all windows were latched with the blinds closed. She had, at some point, admitted to herself that this was a bit paranoid—but she couldn't shake the fact that she was part of Sherlock's life and had been part of Moriarty's, and was fairly sure that that combination put her at a higher risk than most young women.
Satisfied that she had done everything possible to deter break-ins, she dropped her bag and took the deepest breath she could manage, which, incidentally, wasn't very deep. Her eyes darted to the television, but she knew she wouldn't be able to focus. But then again, some white noise to fill the flat couldn't hurt. She switched it on quickly, found BBC news, then ignored it, bounding off to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She leaned against the counter, back to the sitting room, and set her eyes very deliberately on the teapot. She attempted to insulate her mind from all thought, hearing the words of the news anchor in the other room but not absorbing. The kettle began to screech; the tea bag was only half soaked when she abandoned the idea, realizing she needed something stronger. She found the one bottle of wine she had in her possession, a cheap red given to her by some tosser boyfriend from long ago. She hadn't dated much since Sherlock's "death", finding the stress of being his only connection to the living world far too preoccupying, not only in his cryptic updates but in the fact that his palpable worry about John was being transferred to her as well.
Though she was not the type to push such debts, there was no denying that Sherlock owed her big time when he returned.
She sipped hesitantly at the wine, willing her shoulder muscles to unclench. She closed her eyes, once again leaning against the counter and letting the soft, meaningless babble from the television set flow over her. Slowly, she felt the manic, nervous energy that had erupted since her meeting with John begin to subside, clear thought replacing it in her addled mind. She unraveled her worries at a steady, calming pace.
Sherlock was looking for the last man standing. Or woman, she supposed. And they were good at hiding, or running, or however criminals managed to elude capture, from the mysterious and unknown identity that had tracked down all their affiliates. That's probably the reason they were the last one left, they were the most skilled, yet they still couldn't know it was Sherlock hunting them, or they would have gone after his friends. But Sherlock was in danger, of course, and it's possible he wouldn't be home for some time.
She separated out this strand of tension and filed it away for later contemplation.
Second, John was leaving London, and soon. Just as Sherlock was (hopefully) finishing up. She'd have to tell Sherlock when he returned that John was gone. Naturally, he'd want to go bring John back, uproot whatever life he may have settled into. Maybe John would be so happy to see his best friend alive that he could overlook the lies and everything could go back to normal. Or maybe he'd be so angry that he'd lived in grief, oblivious for nearly two years, that he'd want nothing to do with Sherlock or Molly. She didn't like the idea of leaving the two contrasting outcomes to chance, not to mention every possibility in between, but she could see no other choice.
Maybe if she bought John a cat he wouldn't leave.
No, Molly, she reminded herself. You're not mental. John's an adult. This is not how adults solve problems.
But having to find a new home for the sudden gift of a cat would slow him down a bit, she rationalized.
Again, though, this was real life, and it was inevitably more complicated than it seemed. It could not be fixed by cats, no matter how much she wished for that to be so simple. John would have to do whatever he thought was right, and they would have to deal with the consequences as best they could. It seemed that she could only hope and pray that Sherlock would return before John left, because at least that would be slightly less worrying.
m m m
Saturday night, he called Harry. She didn't pick up. It was only seven in the evening, but unfortunately he wouldn't be surprised if she was already out of commission in some sort of alcohol induced haze. He left a message telling her to call him at her first convenience.
He heard Mrs. Hudson shuffling around downstairs a few minutes later. She was bringing in groceries, so he helped her by grabbing half the bags and depositing them next to her microwave.
"Oh, thank you, dear," she warbled, avoiding his eyes. She knew about his depression, of course, his sleeplessness, and had consequently become very careful around him, as though his emotional state was far too delicate to tangle with under normal circumstances.
"Mrs. Hudson," he said, and she straightened from placing milk in her refrigerator. "I'm moving."
"What?"
"In a week," he added impulsively. "I'll have the last rent to you by Monday."
Finally, she turned, meeting his eyes full on. "Why would you do a thing like that?"
"I need to get away from the familiar."
"But you need friends to support you! Being alone somewhere foreign won't help!"
She was making sense, but he was having none of it. "Being with others that knew...him...hasn't done me much good, has it?" he said, and it sounded harsher in the air than it had in his mind.
She looked taken aback. Hurt, as he expected.
"I'm sorry, that's not what I meant. I'm just not sure what else to do to get on with my life."
She was silent for several moments before asking, "Where will you go?"
"Denmark, I'm buying the ticket tonight."
"Oh," she said thickly, suddenly rushing forward to wrap her arms tightly around him. He hugged her back after a moment. "It's unfair," she said quietly, wiser than she had ever sounded. "That this had to happen to you. You don't deserve it, being alone all the time."
What did he deserve? It wasn't a question he thought of much. He spent more time trying to decipher what Sherlock had deserved, and deduced that if there was one piece of cosmic revenge Sherlock didn't have coming it was to die in such a horrific fashion. Sherlock had been great, and he was heading toward good, or so they had all hoped. But John, where did he fit into the notion of karma? What had he done to end up so alone, even among those remaining who cared about him?
Still hugging her, he said to the wall over her head, "I'll be putting his things into storage. Mycroft will take care of it. You'll have to find a new tenant, but...I'll be out of your way."
She pulled back from him, wiping at her eyes. "Dear god, why would I want you out of the way?"
m m m
John bought his ticket an hour later, on a flight scheduled to leave for Copenhagen the morning of Sunday next. He passed out hours later on the sofa, telly blaring. His sleep was fitful, as always, and dreams snapped him from sleep several times. He gave up when he awoke at six in the morning, heart still pounding from his nightmare.
Mycroft sat comfortably, legs crossed, in the chair across from him.
"Morning," Mycroft drawled, lowering his newspaper. His characteristic umbrella leaned against the arm rest.
"How'd you get in here?" John asked, only slightly alarmed by the other man's sudden presence. He figured it was better than being kidnapped, as he rubbed his eyes and sat up stiffly. He knew he must look unbelievably disheveled, as he had observed on his own the aftermath of many nights spent on the couch, and struggled to remember when he'd last changed his pants.
Mycroft didn't reply to his question, but met his eyes with a look that said pretty clearly that it was not difficult.
"Right," John muttered.
"You're moving," Mycroft remarked after a moment, and it wasn't a question, though John had told him nothing directly about his plans to escape London.
"Yes," he replied. "Next week."
They stared each other down for a few seconds, both unsure what to say.
"His things will need to be taken care of, I suppose," Mycroft said, eye flashing around the flat.
"Yes, I was going to call you about that," John agreed, his voice now taxed with a familiar hint of ice that developed as he grew more awake and the conversation progressed. Mycroft was the reason Sherlock's life story had fallen into Moriarty's hands, the reason it could be published and tampered with. It was one of the many things John Watson had not moved on from.
"You're welcome to anything, of course," Mycroft's eyes had surveyed the whole room twice, landing again on John's expressionless face.
"I think it's better if I don't take mementos."
"No?"
"I'm trying to get away from it all."
Mycroft tilted his head slightly, giving a long pause. "You know I'm sorry, don't you?"
"It's a shame, I never got a chance to tell him that, the first time you said it. Too late," John said, his voice light but full of aggression, while he gazed at the ceiling. "Not that it would have made any difference if he'd known."
"I can't change the past, John."
"No shit, Mycroft," John snapped. "I'm sure that makes us all feel a lot better. Not even the British government has a time machine."
"He was my brother. You seem to be under the impression I don't feel any loss, any guilt."
John just made a noise that sounded like a strangled snort, heaving himself to his feet and stalking toward the kitchen without looking back. Mycroft took this as his invitation to leave.
m m m
Molly spent the week worrying, John spent the week packing, and Mycroft spent the week sulking discreetly, which mostly entailed drinking alone in his study while staring forlornly out the window.
And Sherlock, to Molly's distress, was silent.
John was slowly realizing how few material possessions he cared about enough to pack. By Thursday he had only filled one suitcase, and was looking around his room and discovering that there was very little left that couldn't be replaced with something just as meaningless. He began to explore the flat, looking for anything rare and possibly useful in , again, wasn't much—he avoided Sherlock's things, the beakers and the microscopes and the mysterious substances John didn't have the courage to deal with, even after all this time.
He'd knocked over the coat rack again, hadn't bothered to pick it up until now. It was weighed down by overcoats and several dark colored scarves, which he did his best to studiously ignore. He pulled off his own winter items, deciding they'd be useful.
Once he'd worked his thick coats into his suitcase he zipped it close with an err of finality that he wasn't sure was satisfying. He crept back down the stairs, standing in the threshold and looking into the main part of the flat. The familiar furniture, the familiar clutter, greeted him. It really was a charming apartment. And the best years of his life had been spent in it. It haunted him now, that happiness he'd felt amidst the danger and the sleepless nights and Sherlock, as always. Sherlocks managed to haunt his days and his nights.
m m m
Sunday he had enough time throw on clothes and make a pot of tea before Harry pulled up on the curb. She didn't want to park, so he grabbed his backpack and suitcase, wiped down the counter one last time, and headed toward the door.
He stopped though, without really meaning to, at the coat rack. The apartment was still populated by possessions—Mycroft's people would be coming in today restore it to emptiness. Again, his eyes fell on the dark scarves, hanging limply without their master. He didn't think, he just grabbed one, a dark blue cashmere, and continued down the stairs.
He slipped his key and the spare key under Mrs. Hudson's door, than met Harry on the street. She had one wheel of her Fiat up on the sidewalk and her expression was, to say the least, a little haggard. He put his luggage in the back and climbed into the passenger seat, scarf still in hand.
Harry was silent for the drive to Heathrow. At first he thought she was just annoyed that he suggested she drive him to the airport, as she had a car. But as the drive went on it was clear she was focusing on bigger things. At the terminal, she pulled in behind a shuttle bus and turned off the car, even though it was only a drop off zone and the airport was far too busy to tolerate anyone hanging around. They had seconds before an official told them to piss off, John guessed, but Harriet seemed undeterred by this fact. She let out a long breath, and turned to face him.
She was looking a little worse for the wear, even in the cheerful morning light. She had lost weight, down from a healthy plumpness to the beginnings of skeletal outline. Her hair had gone back to it's natural blonde, having been dyed for brown for years, as though she no longer bothered to change it's color. It was in a messy bun that was not quite an intentional style.
It was obvious that her destructive habits had gotten worse. Perhaps Clara had finally made it clear there was no going back, and so Harriet took that as license to drink herself into oblivion on any even more regular basis.
And now she was giving him a vaguely accusatory stare. "So this is it?"
"I have to do this," he wrung the scarf in his hands as he avoided her gaze.
"And leave me behind? You're all that I've got left, John."
The guilt clawed at his gut uncomfortably. "I can't live like this anymore."
"I don't know what to do. We're siblings, supposed to stick together..."
"I can't take care of you and you can't take care of me. Even if we tried, we're too fucked up now."
She looked like she might cry, and he pointed his eyes out the window, at the flood of people preparing for travel. I'm horrible. But the thought of living in the ghost of Sherlock for any longer was impossible to consider.
"I'll walk you in," she said in choked voice, a moment later.
He motioned toward the traffic cops, already headed in their direction. "You'll get towed."
"Who fucking cares?"
Their gazes met one more time, as though each was trying to convey strength to the other.
"Alright," he said, reaching for his things, scarf wrapped around his wrist.
m m m
Molly was elbow deep in the abdomen of an eighty-four year old man when her phone went off on the table, across the room. She considered ignoring it, as usual, then thought of Sherlock and her chest seized with anxiety.
It was Sunday, but she'd had nothing better to do but go to work. She cleaned herself up, which took several long moments, then snatched her phone up and hurried into the next room to make herself a calming cup of tea for whatever aftermath the message might leave her with. It was, indeed, from Sherlock.
Last one trying to go abroad. I will intercept at Heathrow today.
-SH
A second message came as she had been rereading the first.
If all goes well, I will be home this week.
-SH
It was an unusual thing for him to add, to make such a promise. With such few words it conveyed so much longing to be home.
She slurped down what was left of her tea, leaving her mobile next to the empty cup and returning to the pathology lab.
m m m
Harry was sniffling slightly as they entered the cavernous international terminal. The lines were long, as expected, so they didn't get very far in before he would have to say goodbye and join one of them. People brushed by them constantly, heading to their own destinations—a dark skinned man in a suit and talking on a mobile phone, an American family toting massive suitcases, a blonde woman in an abnormally puffy green parka, even though the whether was mild. She smiled at him just before disappearing into a check-in line, and even though she wasn't really his type, he was flattered. It was the first time in many months he'd noticed anyone paying attention to him in such a way, and he realized her gaze was not as exciting as it once might have been.
His mind turned back to Harry, who was scanning the departure boards for him. "Your flight seems to be on time for now."
"That's good," he replied quietly. "I better get in line, though, you know how Heathrow is."
"Right."
He hugged her tightly, for several long seconds. "I'll call you as soon as I get a phone set up, okay? And you can visit me once I get a flat and a job?"
"And you'll visit me in London?"
"After a bit."
"Okay," she said, wrapping her arms around him again. "Okay."
He gave her a grim smile, which he hoped to be reassuring, but didn't quite achieve.
He's just about to turn away when something over her shoulder caught his eye, making him freeze in horror.
Not now.
The familiar head was bobbing amongst the sea of travelers, only the dark curls visible, but it can't be him, it's not him, because this had happened before and goddammit John it's always someone else so just turn away.
So that is what he did. His heart had begun to race uncomfortably, and he let go of Harry to turn towards the other side of the terminal. There, he saw the blonde woman looking at him again from way farther up in the line, very slowly unzipping her coat, her forehead damp with sweat. His eyes narrowed with concern; she did not look well, everything about her body language and expression screamed distress.
He glanced at Harry for half a second, but her eyes were elsewhere, and when his focus returned to the blonde, he could see the wires poking around the fabric just as the parka dropped to the floor.
Suddenly the airport was a combat zone, and John knew combat.
The bomb strapped to her chest wasn't subtle in the slightest. A second after the vest became visible all those nearby ran screaming, but it made no difference. In one hand she held a cell phone, and with one click the world erupted in fire.
Though years had passed and his life had changed, John reacted with as much clarity and skill as if he were still a soldier in the field. In the split second he had to escape or die, he grabbed Harry, smothering her under him, and dove behind a metal bench. His vision was clouded by fire and smoke, time simultaneously dropping into slow motion and then speeding up ten fold. For a few moments he felt as though his life was slipping away and he was losing his grip, that he'd survived Afghanistan only to be exploded in Heathrow airport. Despite his attempts to take some sort of substantial cover they were blown backwards into a wall, and confronted with a wave of heat and sound that he was sure would be the end of all things, until it subsided as suddenly as it had come.
They lay there on the hard floor for a few long moments, deaf and singed and battered, watching the chaos of running bodies float by in dazzling arrays of colors, blending together into meaningless blobs.
Finally, he descended into darkness.
m m m
Sherlock had seen everything, of course, absorbed it all faster than anyone in the building, and was still as powerless as every other individual. It was maddening.
A year and a half, and it all came down to this moment. He was failing. He had chased them to the ends of the earth, destroyed each before they could destroy him and all that he cared for. But she had discovered his identity, eluded his hand until the right moment. She was not going abroad, but she knew John was (likely by what was left of the means she had used in her profession under Moriarty), even when Sherlock didn't. She took herself out in the hope she could take John with her, finally bringing the web and the chase to a close.
For a few long moments he was left to wonder if she succeeded.
Having hurled himself behind a cluster of self check-in kiosks, he was spared the worst of the blast. The ground shook like nothing else, but explosions had slowly become more common place for him, so he recovered quickly once the heat subsided. His ears rang familiarly, and though a little bashed around from the rocking of the building, he could stand without too much trouble.
The scene was as chaotic and hellish as expected.
His assessment was that the terminal was still structurally sound, though a fair chunk of the front of it had been blown apart as well as the baggage check counters and kiosks. Fires burned, bodies were strewn about, some dead and some moaning for help. All remaining walls were blackened and had taken on the appearance of decay. Sirens were already screaming, and all around him there was movement, people running towards and away from the disaster. He saw all of this but didn't take it in, simply picking his way hurriedly around the remains of suitcases and unconscious or injured persons to the place he had last seen John.
Only when he had located John did Sherlock feel, for the first time in his life, genuinely lucky.
Of course, though, the feeling wore off quickly. He had to remind himself that the fact that John was alive was not luck. John was a soldier, and his instincts could be expected to, and had already, saved lives. It had been a close call, uncomfortably close. Sherlock observed the blast radius, noting with a horrible twinge in his stomach that only a few feet from John was where the majority of victims had been killed immediately by the blast.
He closed his eyes, taking a steadying breath, before kneeling next to him as close as he could get. He checked his pulse, even though he could see the other man's chest moving, than peeled him off Harry, who was unconscious but had barely a scratch on her. Noble John, as always. John himself was a little worse for the wear, bruises and cuts mostly, with a few singe marks on his clothes and minor burns on his hands. But he had leaped out of the danger zone just in time, and then was shoved backward a few feet.
He let out a long sigh, shifting to his knees and placing a hand on John's forehead. He wasn't checking for any injury, simply relishing in the touch after a year and a half of distance. To see the face he knew so well...he realized he'd never missed anyone more. He looked down the length of John's body, checking once again for any injuries he might have missed in his initial examination. What he did find, though, half buried under John's thigh, was a blue scarf, his blue scarf clutched tightly in between John's fingers.
An uncomfortable feeling had begun to niggle in his stomach, one that he had experienced on so few occasions that it had taken him several long moments to distinguish it from his body's adrenaline reaction to the stimuli of the explosion and it's aftermath. As he looked out at the spread of casualties around him and the unconscious John beneath his hands, the emotion twinged him again.
Guilt.
m m m
His eyes were having trouble focusing, his ears still a little weak. But he was sitting up, only swaying a bit in the breeze kicked up by the flurry of activity, and of that he's pretty proud because all he wanted to do right now was curl up and sleep for a decade.
Maybe when he woke up his mind would be able to decide if it's hallucinating or not.
It's a miracle, he thinks, and pictures the sneer that would earn if he said it out loud.
Can a hallucination sneer?
Currently the figment of his imagination and Harry were conversing with a paramedic over his condition. The paramedic seemed to be reassuring them, his body language punctuating through John's haze, though he couldn't hear any of the dialogue. Harry looked away for a moment and the paramedic slipped away, clearly impatient to get to others who needed more help and away from someone's helicopter sister.
John looked around him, mouth slightly agape, as stretcher after stretcher was wheeled out of the terminal, some hoisting bloodied human forms and others burdened by body bags. He hadn't seen this sort of carnage in years, and it's as stomach churning and shocking as he remembered it. But he was feeling a little shaky for a number of reasons, beyond dead bodies and his scrape with death and his slightly battered physical form.
"Harriet," he called to her, barely able to hear his own voice, to where she was perching worriedly. "I think I'm hallucinating."
"What?!" she rushed toward him, head already swiveling for a doctor or paramedic of some sort.
The imagined man, though, didn't seem alarmed, following Harry at a relaxed pace. "He's not hallucinating."
"You would say that," John replied haughtily. "You're dead, and still insufferable," he looked to Harry again. "I look psychotic, don't I? I'm talking to thin air."
She met his eyes steadily. "He's real, John. I don't know how...you said you were sure..."
"I was sure. I was absolutely sure," he glared into gray eyes that betrayed no emotion. Sherlock's curls had gotten wilder, his body even thinner, his coat tattered and dirty. Five o'clock shadow covered his chin. "You had no pulse!"
His incredulity began to dissipate, though, and it was replaced with a fiery anger. He had been lied to, left to live in misery, so Sherlock could disappear in peace. And all this time he'd believed in him, even when so few others had. "You let me live in grief! You couldn't have told me anything, not a single thing? I always knew you were self centered, but this, this is beyond selfish. You have no idea what it's been like," his lucid tongue and mind was quickly failing him though, as he descended into anger and shock once more.
There was a long silence where they simply stared at each other, with gazes too complicated for any onlooker to understand. Neither could quite accept that the other was alive and in front of them.
"I did it for you."
John just shook his head in disbelief, not comprehending.
"I did it for you, John," and he explained nothing more. All he could do was put his hand on John's shoulder, fingers brushing his neck.
m m m
At home, they fell into an old routine. How this happened, John had no idea, as they had so much to discuss. But for the first twenty four hours after returning from the wreckage of Heathrow, neither of them spoke. Granted, John had crawled into bed an slept for two thirds of that time, waking up every few hours from all matter of gruesome images. One time, in his half asleep fog, he could sworn Sherlock was by his bedside, but he forgot about it a second later as he disappeared into sleep again.
Finally, he rose from bed, his entire body aching. He passed the bathroom to see Sherlock in his characteristic dressing gown, shaving in the sink. John's eyes lingered but he moved forward into the kitchen, struggling to find what he needed for tea. Mycroft's people, thankfully, hadn't had time to take out all the furniture yet when he thought he would be leaving, but he himself had cleaned out most of the kitchen cabinets. Not to mention all his most important belongings had been in a suitcase that had been burned beyond recognition in the explosion of the day before.
Mostly, he had what he was wearing, sooty and slightly blood stained as it was. He managed to scrounge up a tea bag and put the kettle on before collapsing into an arm chair.
Sherlock appeared a few moments later, fully dressed, neither of them making eye contact. He settled into the couch and picked up a newspaper, which before would have had him frustrated in about thirty seconds. Ten minutes later, he was still reading calmly, face hidden behind the paper.
It was all so disorienting, the last few hours, and the fact that neither knew what to say. John, even in his state of exhaustion and stunned disbelief, was having none of this silence. Not anymore.
"Sherlock," and it felt strange to say his name so directly again.
Sherlock looked up, and it was obvious that he had been expecting this.
"Tell me."
"Tell you what?"
John's hands balled into fists, but he contained the urge to leap across the room and beat the other man to a bloody pulp.
"Why, how, and what happened at the airport. Start with your 'death', I guess it was, and work up till now," he paused. "I have to know."
Sherlock met his eyes. They saw in each other everything, but also something new, that neither quite understood.
He let out a long sigh. "I'm sorry, John."
Though with these three words John had lost all animosity and ill thought, Sherlock continued. He went through every event, every detail. Largely it remained technical and matter-of-fact, but every now and then his voice would drop and he would avert his eyes when speaking of the end of a member of Moriarty's web, or when he talked about his thoughts of John when in foreign places. He trailed off when the conversation turned to the airport, as though he did not want to think about the what had ensued because of his pursuit of the final operative.
At some point Lestrade had appeared in the flat to collect a statement about Heathrow; he got more than he bargained for, not only in confirming that Sherlock was indeed back from the dead but that the bombing was a result of his crusade against the remnants of Moriarty's empire. Sherlock told him straight out that the bombing was his fault, but Lestrade waved him off.
"You are not to blame for this," Greg growled. "Do you have any idea of the name of this last woman?"
Sherlock knew everything about her, except that she had been willing to kill herself to finish Moriarty's assignment. "I should have known," he murmured, rubbing at his temples agitatedly.
Lestrade left not long after, and John was thankful. He didn't hesitate in crossing the room until he was standing directly in front of Sherlock, who was still hunched over on the sofa.
"Stand up," John commanded, and was only half surprised when Sherlock obeyed.
They made eye contact for a few moments, and it was just as it had been a year and a half ago, with maybe something different thrown in too.
"I owe you so much," John whispered, and flung his arms around Sherlock, pulling him into a close hug. A few seconds passed before Sherlock's arms coiled around him in reciprocation. Even after all this time, he was still so familiar, and together he could already feel their harmony returning, after those agonizing hours . "You came back," John murmured into the other man's shoulder. "Oh God, you came back."
"Of course," Sherlock replied, but it didn't sound as arrogant as he thought he intended.
"Oh my god," John could barely speak—he thought of how many times in the last year and a half he hadn't let himself even fantasize of this impossibility, because it would leave him worse than before. He struggled to keep his legs from buckling, grasping the back of Sherlock's shirt for dear life.
m m m
The sound penetrated his mind before he realized what it was, pulling him from sleep. He laid under the warm covers for a time, deciphering once again that this was real and not a dream. Finally, he was sure enough that he wouldn't find the flat empty, and crawled out from under the duvet, feet silent against the cool floor.
He was drawn toward the light emanating from the front room like a moth. It was bluish, stark against the dark of the apartment, the reflection of the images against the wallpaper changing every few moments. The sound, low but still audible, slowly arrived at his ears. He didn't bother to decipher it into words and sentences, but let the white noise flow under him.
He was sprawled on the couch, ignoring the telly, staring intently and blindly at the ceiling. His limbs appeared fluid, but John could tell from just his breathing, the twitch of his eyelids and the position of his left hand that he was far from at ease. And John knew why too.
How many nights had he, too, spent on that sofa, perilously alone?
How many nights had the light of the television flickered in his own pupils? How many nights had he wished that there was someone to crawl out of bed and acknowledge his existence?
John watched the other man for a few long moments. Sherlock, of course, was aware of his presence, and the air was charged with anticipation. John did, eventually, move, taking small steps and pulling his dressing gown closer to him against a slight chill in the flat. He nudged Sherlock across the sofa until he could sit down next to him, one thigh pressing into dark curls. Their hands found each other of their own volition—John's left and Sherlock's right—fingers interlocking, as the should, and settling down again. Intertwined, against Sherlock's exposed neck and jaw bone.
How many nights had he spent, oblivious to what was truly essential?
He was not sure where it had come from, or where it was going. But something was growing, achieving it's potential between them. A piece of something that was finally getting the attention it deserved.