His nose was bleeding. Standing on the pavement, feeling like a beaten teen again, he looked with unbelief at the cab that drove John away. Slowly turning the world's only consulting detective started to move in the other direction. One side of him still wondering what the hell just happened, the other side searching for a way out to proceed.
This morning Sherlock was all joy, with a clear idea how the day would run, bruises and scars almost forgotten, thrilled of anticipation of seeing John again, finally.
Now all good feelings were just fading memories. But he didn't allow the emptiness to grow. Well, it wasn't the first time he got hurt, beaten inside and outside, unexpected though. 'John', he couldn't refuse to think of him: 'why did it go so terribly wrong? I am back! It's time to celebrate, even better – time to work together again.' With that thoughts he closed the door to the memories of this evening far away in his mind palace and the next moment Sherlock's vision cleared. His face wearing its usual expression, his feet led him to the only place he could think of to go – home.
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John sank deep into the seat of the cab and avoided blinking one more time over to his suddenly revived best friend. Unbelievable anger was sweeping through his veins and no clear thought was left in his head: 'What was he thinking? That bastard, that idiot, that...' His lips only two lines, fists clenched, a suppressed scream escaped his throat, sounding more like a wounded animal than a human being.
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Finally in bed Mary looked over to her near-husband, concerned. Love, understanding and a hint of astonishment were swaying in her gaze. Until tonight Sherlock was a ghost occupying John's mind often – at day and even in sleep, she could tell that. John was grieving deeply and the pain of losing his 'best friend' hadn't vanished yet. But after that first encounter she knew there had to be much more under the ceiling. As far as she witnessed tonight she could see and say there was a lot of affection between the two men, neither of them would admit at this point.
As deep as she believed in the truth of her feelings and John's feelings towards her she was aware by now she had to let him go. Cuddling around him to give some comfort John relaxed soon and as exhausted and confused as he was fall asleep. And this sleep was different - for two years it was the first one without the nightmare – without watching the fall over and over again - which destroyed all his dreams, all his future expectations, almost his life.
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Home. 'Safe', Sherlock inhaled deeply, taking in the surroundings of their – well obviously now his – flat. Sensing a far note of John – 'he was here' – he took his violin and…looked out of the window without playing. For one not to frighten Mrs Hudson and also because his body was far too stiffen and weak to hold the violin proper in place without causing himself pain. After a while he noticed a little shriek from the staircase and turned the small light on before he was opening the door to greet a now screaming landlady. After this deafening, irritating sound she flew over to him and reached for his cheeks to watch and assure her he was no hallucination.
"Sherlock", with glistening eyes she took his face in, 'how thin he was, wait, was that blood under his nose?'
"Sherlock", with a deep-drawn sigh she hugged him gently and to her surprise – and to his – he let her proceed without moving away. With a worried face, feeling his thin and stiff torso, she pulled back and said in her best no-chance-you'll-get-away-my-dear-boy voice: "Come on, there's some fresh cake and tea waiting downstairs. Take it with me and then we can make it more comfortable in the flat." Going downstairs she continued: "Boy, how happy John will be to see you! It was hard for him, you know, he was so terribly sad after your…your… Well, I couldn't bear to rent the flat away, so it's all how it was. But remember, I'm not your housekeeper. Oh, Sherlock, I'm so glad to have you back. My friend will get out of her mind if I'll tell her, you know, the lady from down the street…" Sherlock appreciated Mrs Hudson fell easily back in her manner to speak on even if he remained quiet all the time. He just wondered and had to admit to himself how tired he really was, that he allowed the Lady to lead him downstairs without a fitting dismissive comment. But hearing her voice like an endless soothing waterfall, not letting the words break his surface, gave him peace, just sitting, just being, no harm, home – but still…
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With his eyes wide open John laid in his bed staring at the ceiling. Mixed feelings were rushing through him: anger, relief, confusion, betrayal and warmth. After a good night's sleep he tried to clear his thoughts and recalled all details of the night before. 'He hadn't defended himself, why?', he wondered but went on: 'The idiot only wanted to swagger how he did his great fall and how he cheated me for two years, doing who knows what, laughing at me', John's anger was rising again but then he remembered something else: 'There was that moment, as he looked at me after my first attack, hardly visible for one who doesn't know Sherlock as good as I do: was it hurt or another expression? No, he would never ever let someone see such strong emotion, neither me! But still, there was something in his eyes… Well what do I care, he surely could imagine how I would react, couldn't he?' Some of the anger vanished as fast as it had appeared and an uncertain feeling settled in John's mind, a little voice was asking insecurely: 'What shall I do?' He missed that man so desperately. How many times he stood on his grave begging him to come back and now, as he was – he messed it up – yup, definitely – he failed all along the line… What now?
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Long after Mrs Hudson went to bed, Sherlock still was sitting in his usual position in his armchair, thinking. Wandering his mind palace, avoiding doors, opening others to find some answers. Mycroft brought him back to save London from an "underground" network and he had to start immediately. Beginning with the knowledge his brother gave him he analyzed the facts one by one. At least that was what he intended to do. Unfortunately his mind was playing hide and seek with him – for, behind every corner he passed John was waiting with an accusing gaze and questions, and every time the consulting detective keyed him away, not wanting to think about his best friend now – it became harder to fight him down. And then, after several hours of thinking, fighting and analyzing the last months, his return tonight and way too little sleep caused a shutdown. Sherlock's body slackened in his chair while his mind was running on, showing pictures of torture, Moriarty, John and London burning.
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While John was in the bathroom, shaving his moustache with the statement 'I don't shave for Sherlock Holmes', Mary watched him from their bed and wondered who he wanted to make believe that. Knowing John well enough to see his struggle and that he will never admit that he rather would fly to Sherlock than stay one minute longer but refused to go because of his loyalty towards her she smiled at him, grabbed his hands and sat him right next to her.
"John, my dear John, you know what you mean to me and how much I love you", John opened his mouth to answer, but Mary placed a finger on his lips: "Wait, let me speak as long as I have the power to do so." Taking a deep breath her voice almost a whisper she went on: "I met you in your darkest hour and had the luck to go with you a good bit of your way, falling in love with you and you even returned my love. We had hard but also happy times and I always knew I'm not your No. 1, never would be, even if the person of your heart was dead", John wanted to protest but Mary's eyes quietened him. "John, now he's back, he came straight to you after whatever he endured the last years and whatever reasons he had to do such a thing as faking his dead in the first place. You were shocked last night and I know you are sorry how you treated Sherlock even if he was being his outrageous self. It would be a lie to say letting you go is easy and wouldn't hurt me, but I know you belong to him and he needs you more than he would admit. You have to fix it! Go to him." With unshed tears in her eyes she kissed John on his cheek and disappeared in the bathroom.
John sat there dumbfounded. He didn't believe what he just heard, how she knew? He never told her! Why he had to hurt that special and lovely woman? But nonetheless butterflies were suddenly dancing in his stomach as he thought of the possibility of meeting Sherlock today. Hope and fear were fighting inside of him as he considered how he could correct his failure of last night.
After a while he stood up and carefully knocked at the bathroom door: "Mary, I…I… I'm so sorry…I'll text you." With that he stepped out of the flat that kept him alive and gave him new hope the last months. Now, well, should he go straight to Sherlock or rather text him before? Then he lifted an arm to call a cab and pulled out his phone so that he didn't realize that two men watching him. The next second he felt a twitch in his neck and immediately loosed control over his body. "No", a heavy sigh escaped his mouth, then all became black around him.
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Mary watched John step out on the street, standing there a moment and then lifting his arm to call a cab. She turned away and so missed what was happening next. Hoping John will find a way to fix his relationship with Sherlock she grabbed her phone and the number Sherlock gave her yesterday and wrote:
"He's on his way to you. Give him a 2nd chance. Love MM", pressing the 'send' button she sighed and got ready for work.
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After a few hours of some sort of sleep Sherlock finally shifted in his armchair and opened slowly his eyes. The room ablazed with light by the afternoon sun made him blink. He recognized the pillow under his head and a blanket wrapped around him, just as a hot cup of tea nearby. 'Mrs Hudson', Sherlock thought with a thankful little smile. Trying to sit up straight, to see what awoke him; he sipped on the tea and took his phone. Three missed calls from Mycroft – ah, the last one a minute ago – and several texts, from Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft and on the end of the list an unknown number. But before he could read one of the messages his door flew open and his brother walked in.
"Sherlock, why do you never answer your phone? I'm far too needed elsewhere instead of coming to you by myself. Only to see you, sitting and doing nothing." But with a short deduction over his little brother: 'Met John, didn't went well, attacked, new bruises, swollen nose, slept in the chair, might have a headache or worse', he added friendlier:
"How are you today? Ah, btw our parents wish to see you."
Sherlock couldn't tell why, but he had no nerves to argue with Mycroft right now and with an excuse he disappeared in the bathroom to take a really needed shower, shouting over:
"Make yourself at home, brother, dear."
Under the stream of warm water he tried to relax his strained muscles and to clear his thoughts – a headache started to form behind his eyes – his back and face very sensitive and slightly aching, he wished desperately John would be around to distract him and help him to focus – and not his brother… John would find not great but the right words to help his mind thinking. John… He missed him, missed him the last two years. And now it was even worse: he was so near but at the same time farther away than ever… 'He's angry, yup, so, how angry would that mean? And Mary? I like her but can I trust her? She was there for John as I was gone and John cares for her…not for me…' Forceful Sherlock shook the thoughts aside, finished his cleaning and went back to his brother, not really fresher than before…
While Mycroft gave him the latest news of the developments in London Sherlock finally started reading through his messages:
14:17 Mycroft – missed call
14:10 Mycroft – missed call
14:00 Mycroft – missed call
13:20 Lestrade – he has a new interesting case
12:45 Molly – she's excited to show him a new corpse, just came in, he surely would love to examine
12:02 Mycroft – orders to meet him in 2 hours at his office
08:39 unknown: He's on his way to you. Give him a 2nd chance. Love MM
That last text instantly attached his attention. Only a few persons knew his new number by now. 'MM, ah, Mary Morstan, but that would mean', he looked at the time: 'that was 6 hours ago! What did John prevent from coming? He weren't here while I was asleep, that I would have deduced in a second!' A worried gaze in his eyes he asked Mycroft:
"Are you still observing John?" The urgent tone in Sherlock's voice kept Mycroft from giving a sharp comment for the interruption, answering instead:
"No, yesterday we stopped it, would be a waste of recourses, now you are back… Why do you ask?"
Without a reply the consulting detective jumped into action, grabbed his coat and headed down the stairs one moment later. 'If John wanted to show up this morning, he would have done so – as angry or stubborn John might have been, you can count on him. What had happened?'
Calling back Mary's number he already sat in a cab to the clinic where she was working, knowing it was highly unlikely his call would reach her while surgery hours. As the car hardly stood he escaped running to find Mary. After a short time he caught her talking to a patient. Sherlock didn't bother to break right into the conversation, taking Mary by her arm pulling her away from the startled man.
"Wait, wait, Sherlock, what's going on?" Detecting his composure she took his hands and looked straight into his eyes, now afraid and wondering what had caused the great detective such shock.
"Mary, where is John?"
Confused she answers: "But isn't he with you?" His facial expression changed slightly and before he suppressed the feeling, a glimpse of pain in his eyes told Mary something was absolute wrong.
"This morning he wanted to go to you, I saw him calling a cab and because he didn't appear here later, I thought you two found together." With a questioning look he replied, his voice barely a whisper:
"He never came."
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As John's mind came back to consciousness he tried to find out where he was. It was pitch black and smelled like he would lie in midst of a forest. 'I cannot move my legs, neither my arms – drugs or bound? But what was that sound? Were children singing there?' He wanted to scream, wanted to call for help but as he tried to do so he inhaled amounts of dust. Coughing hard, he tried again but nobody seemed to hear him. Where was he?
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Mary not wanting to panic led them both to a nearby sofa. Grabbing her phone she said:
"Maybe he texted me", watching her display she jumped up. Sherlock immediately knew it became worse.
"What?"
Mary nervously showed him the text she received from an unknown number, starting with 'Save souls now'. In no time they encrypted the message together and sprinted towards the exit, direction St. James the less, saving John.
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John frowned as he saw a flickering light coming towards him, enlightening his place only a bit to let him realize it was a flame and he suddenly was well aware where he laid – not in a forest – under a goddamned fireplace – ready to burn…
Pure panic reached his chest, rose within him and he started screaming again.
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While receiving a couple more of these disturbing messages from that unknown person Sherlock and Mary reached the church just in time to see the fire began to rise. The flames quickly burnt the wooden construction –
"John!" Sherlock shouted and ran to the fireplace.
"John!" With his hands he put the wooden planks away.
"John!" The fire burnt hot but Sherlock didn't stop, couldn't stop.
"John!" Panic, fear…
"John!" Seeing some legs his heart stopped. He and Mary pulled an exhausted and barely breathing John out of hell.
"John!" With relief, half laughing, half crying Sherlock assured himself John was alive, taking his pulse, hearing him breathe, touching his beloved face. Mary opened the bonds on arms and legs and together they lifted the confused man up and got him away from the now fully burning bonfire.
"Mary, take John home, I have to search for hints who did this." And without a farther view he turned around and shooed away.
"Sherlock", Mary and John shouted in unison, but the detective couldn't or didn't want to hear them. Leaving the area with big steps only his trembling shoulders gave him away. John immediately started to follow, but Mary, who instinctively seemed to understand Sherlock's need to be alone for the moment, hold him back and he nodded in comprehension, following him with his eyes only.
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"So, this day went far away from my expectations", a slightly recovered John tried to joke, but continued serious: "Mary, how did you and Sherlock found me?"
"Oh, John", Mary hugged him tight and replied: "Long story. Come on, I bring you home." Calling a cab they drove directly to 221B Baker Street and John watched her in wonderment.
"Mary?"
"John, I meant what I said this morning. Wait for him and talk to him. Call me. I would like to know how it went!" Smiling, she kissed him one last time and with an: "I wish you luck," she shut the door of the cab and it drove away.
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Sherlock didn't remember - well, of cause he did, but he didn't want to - when he cried the last time. But now hot wet tears were running down his cheeks and he wiped them away, not able to stop the endless stream, not believing the amount of emotions inside of him. 'He could have been dead! No, not John, not his John!' Walking through the streets of London he slowly calmed down. Then, he found himself back on the roof of St. Bart's. He sat down staring into the lights of his city, thinking of a single person, here, where it all ended.
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John was sitting in his chair in Baker Street, waiting. Trying to think about what he should say to Sherlock? 'No idea'. Not knowing what his best friend was thinking of him right now he only could wait until he would return again. The hours passed quickly and slowly John began to worry. 'Where could he be?" A sudden thought brought him into movement again and he flew out of the flat.
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Sherlock perched untypical: with his arms wrapped around his legs and his head on his knees he leant against the chimney of St. Bart's. 'Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side', he always claimed that, but right now he would appreciate to proof himself wrong. He cared, had always cared a lot about John, even if that meant to fake his dead and leave him behind for his safety. But obviously he failed. 'Who challenged me today? What did I miss? Who knows my pressure point better than I?' The memory of John lying under that burning hell hit him hard and panic, pain and fear rose again, reduced him to tears and made his body tremble uncontrollable. Well, not even the world's only consulting detective, high functioning sociopath, was immune to the effects of a heart's want.
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John climbed the steps to the roof of St. Bart's hesitantly. Carefully he opened the door and searched the place with his eyes. Was he wrong? No, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness he recognized a figure, almost completely hidden behind the chimney. Closing the door he stood there, watching, not moving.
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Sherlock recognized someone was watching him. Sensing the presence of John he lifted his head, took in the sweet note of his former flat mate and steadied himself, refusing to look around.
"John, what are you doing here, you should recover at home and let Mary cook you something." He spoke with a strong voice, trying to sound uninterested: "You should be home…"
"No." John said assertive. "I'm not going. You sent me away once and it was too late as I came back, but not now, not today! I stay here and I want to understand what's going on in that brain of yours." With that John came over and positioned himself right next to Sherlock, leaning against the chimney, looking straight at Sherlock. He dismayed as he noticed the red rimmed eyes and the pale, slightly swollen face of his best friend and with remorse he began:
"Sherlock, I'm sorry for what I did yesterday. I messed it up, I know, but you have no idea how much time it took me to go on with life after your fall, how often I asked myself what I did wrong and why you threw your life away. How many times I was standing at your grave begging you to come back to me." He trailed off. "As I saw you last night I was shocked and how you behaved, well, like yourself, though, and then to hear how many people knew you were in fact alive and not dead – only I didn't seem to be worth to know - I became unbelievable angry and I wanted to hurt you, wanted you to feel my pain. I'm so sorry, Sherlock."
Sherlock swallowed hard, looking into the familiar blue eyes finding truth and trust, he tried to think of an answer but the only thought filling his brain was: 'John is here.' Hearing the words of his friend he wanted to assure him he didn't hate him – on the contrary – he would do everything to keep John safe and to make him happy, even if that meant sending him to Mary.
"John, no need to apologize and you know you are far more worth then you think. Go home now, I'm fine, really, I stay alive, promise. But you have to go, please." Almost pleading he wished John would go but hoped so desperately he would not. Sherlock wished he had some time to catch himself together, to repair his shattered mind, to fix his thoughts and lock these emotions away which were causing him trouble thinking and making it hard to remain calm and not to give in and lean over to find comfort on those shoulders and in these strong arms. He wished he would go. He prayed he would stay…
John never saw Sherlock in such trouble but he didn't understand – 'Why does he send me away, again?'
"Sherlock, I cannot go. Please help me to understand what happened that day and what happened to you? I want to hear if it was worth all the pain?"
Sherlock couldn't bear it any longer, with a fast move he stood up and shouted:
"Worth the pain? Nothing is worth any pain! Why do you want to know? Yes, I heard how bad it was for you, from Mycroft, from Mrs Hudson and from yourself. Yes, John I was there at my grave after the funeral and I heard you. That's why I came straight back to you after Mycroft saved me and my work was done. I wanted to forget the last two years. I went away to protect you, to save you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade and it took me all the 24 month to fight Moriarty's network down to be sure you will stay safe." Calmer he continued: "I'm sorry I caused you so much pain – and as I said – nothing is 'worth' that but I hope you can forgive me one day. And now, please John, go to Mary and be happy. Live the life you obviously want. You deserve it to be loved and Mary really is a lovable woman. I wish you luck! Really." Sherlock was exhausted and felt not like himself. With hanging shoulders he turned away, watching the lights of the town and while his vision became blurred he hated himself for such little self-control.
John stood behind him, unshed tears in his eyes. He stepped closer and touched Sherlock's shoulder – who hissed away, moving deeper into the shadows and whispers:
"I'm sorry, please go now."
"No, Sherlock, why do you push me away? There is no place I would rather be now – and yes, of cause I forgive you – but tell me why you are fighting me? And why Mycroft had to save you? From what, where?"
"It doesn't matter anymore, leave it alone. I'm back and survived – that's it." And after a pause: "I'm not fighting you, John," Sherlock's voice barely reached John's ears. "Today, seeing you under that fire… I thought I lost you and that was not acceptable. It would have been nothing I could have been able to bear. Living on would have been impossible. I'm afraid of losing you, John. That's why I had to jump that day – so you could live! Because you are the strongest and bravest man I know and a world without you was and still is not an option."
John listened in astonishment: 'was that a confession? Did the great detective, once claiming – 'alone protects me' – just said he needed me to be able to live?'
"Sherlock!" With a voice full of hope and love John took Sherlock's wrist and turned him around to look at him to make sure the man meant what he said. And seeing the face so full of emotions fighting in front of him he knew he had to make his point clear now, just like Mary said.
"You'll never lose me. I will be right beside you in good and in bad days, through boredom and danger, and do you know why? Because you, the greatest pain in the ass, the most impossible but so beloved bastard, are the one I want to be with and I don't want to miss one more day!" Never letting go of his wrist, John lifted his other hand to Sherlock's cheek and stroke it gently: "Sherlock, can I moving in with you once again?"
Sherlock, moved into this gentle touch of John's hand, closed his eyes and gave him one of his rare smiles, no longer trying to analyze the tumult inside of him he answered:
"Of course, yes, but what will Mary…" – a single finger instantly came to silence his lips: "Shh, she'll be alright." Looking at each other in awe, Sherlock only could focus on the sensation of John's finger on his lips and without a further thought he pursed his lips to place a shy kiss on it. This small gesture said more than 1000 words. John smiled at him his wonderful smile and then their lips met for the very first time. Tender and barely touching, gentle and full of love they stayed locked and time came to a halt. Pulling apart after what seemed eternity, smiling, they were finally finding themselves in a tight embrace, assuring one another to never let go again.
"I once said 'I'm married to my work' – I have to think that over because I think I love you, John Hamish Watson."
"Well, I always claimed to be straight – I have to revise that because I know I love you, too."
And with that their lips met again, this time with a passion no one of them thought they have, forceful and lingering and with a promise of a new future. And where it all ended, a new start was made. Keeping one another close they watched a new dawn.
Sure it won't be easy, wounds have to heal, life has to be lived, but together they will go on, fighting down terror and murderers and loving each other.
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Three years later Mary watched her daughter happily playing with her father and his husband. Glad her decision back then was the right one and seeing John and Sherlock as happy as they were right now, she was thankful for the luck she, the former assassin, had had to turn her life around and to find love and understanding in that wonderful family.
"Here, my dear, some fresh tea," Mrs. Hudson gave Mary a cup, smiling, always knowing how and when to comfort her, the boys or the little one.
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…and his nose was never bleeding again.
- fin -