Sherlock hated going to John and Mary's house.
When he was alone, he tried to forget about their marriage as much as possible, but going to their shared living space was a reminder of their relationship which he couldn't ignore. He hated going there and seeing John's shoes next to Mary's by the door. He hated seeing one of John's silly mystery novels next to one of Mary's disgusting romance novels. He hated Mary's little knick-knacks. He hated seeing any evidence that their lives were intertwined-their life of domestic married bliss. He only went over there if he couldn't get in touch with John any other way.
Which was the case today.
Lestrade finally called with an interesting case fifteen minutes ago. Sherlock texted John four times and called him twice, but there was no answer. Sherlock had pouted and stormed out of his flat with a huff, walking to the edge of the sidewalk and raising his arm to hail down a cab. John couldn't ignore him that easily. It was childish, he knew, but he hadn't seen John in a little while, not since Mary announced that she lost the baby.
That was what she claimed, anyway. Sherlock didn't quite believe it. He had the sneaking suspicion that his deductions were wrong on their wedding night, and Mary purposefully misled him and John to keep John by her side. Maybe she sensed that he was slipping away. After all, John spent more time with Sherlock than he did with her, and a baby was the traditional way to make a man feel obligated to stay with a woman.
Mary was irritatingly perceptive. In the beginning, he hadn't given her a reason to dislike him, and yet when she thought Sherlock wasn't looking, she would give him cold, calculating stares. Those stares increased after John's stag night. Memories of the stag night made Sherlock's heart pound. He was more drunk than he ever was in his entire life, and he felt absolutely full of joy. John felt that way, too. He could tell. Perhaps it was a blessing the client came in, because Sherlock remembered thinking John looked exceptionally handsome that night, and he was starting to feel a little bit brave, and thought about reaching over and touching John's face, just to feel his stubble, and perhaps press a quick kiss to his lips. John had grabbed his knee, and the simple touch of his hand had sent a shot of arousal to his cock. When they were falling asleep together on the stairs, Sherlock had been tempted to turn around and curl up to John's side, too. The entire night was both glorious and tortuous.
Mary must have known they got a little close, somehow.
After Mary shot him without a second of hesitation, Sherlock wouldn't put anything past her, not even faking a pregnancy and forging ultrasounds. Not anymore. Sherlock had noticed that other than a bump under her baggy clothing, she really didn't show any signs of pregnancy. He wished he could search her internet history, and see if she purchased a silicon stomach. It bothered him, because if his suspicions were true, then she was deceiving John, and Sherlock wouldn't let anyone deceive John if he could help it. He had hesitated to tell John, however, because he was already on thin ice after shooting Magnussen and getting high on the plane-two things considered Not Good by John.
John had gone away for a couple days for some boring medical conference he had to attend from time to time, and just as Sherlock was thinking of a way to break the news to him gently, Mary had, apparently, tearfully told John the "bad news" over the phone.
John texted this all to Sherlock, and Sherlock only texted back support, or how much support he could muster. He didn't tell John that there was probably never a baby, and that it was a tad too convenient that as soon as John was away and couldn't go to the hospital with her, and as soon as Sherlock became truly suspicious, Mary dropped this bombshell. Sherlock was 99.7% certain he was right, and he hated her even more for it. He knew why she faked this as well, obviously. If she were never pregnant, she couldn't fake labor and magically produce a baby.
Sherlock allowed himself to hope, perhaps foolishly so, that with no baby tying him to Mary, John would leave her. They weren't happy, and Sherlock knew it. John had told him he was only going back for the baby. No baby means no marriage. Right? Seems logical enough.
That happened a week and a half ago, and Sherlock decided to give John space. He didn't know if John were grieving the loss of his daughter, or if he actually suspected Mary's lie, too. John was always smarter than he looked. Sherlock wanted to ask him about it, but didn't want to cross any boundaries. If enough time passed and John didn't leave her, then Sherlock would tell him. John didn't deserve to be married to someone who did nothing but deceive him.
But today, he had a reason to talk to John: there was a case. They always went on cases.
Sherlock paid the cabbie and got out of the car, telling him, "Stay here, I'll be back in a moment." The cabbie nodded and Sherlock stalked over to the front door. He knocked briskly three times, and waited for five seconds. No response. He didn't have time for this. Lestrade was waiting! He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved the key John had given him to the house, and unlocked the door.
He stepped inside and rolled his eyes when he saw no one in the sitting room or kitchen.
Come on, John!
Then, he heard music coming from the bedroom, something loud and jazzy. Ah, that was why no one heard him. Imbeciles. Someone could easily come in and rob them blind like that. He huffed an impatient sigh and walked over to the bedroom and flung the door open.
"John, there's-" The words stopped dead in his throat, and it felt like an ice block fell into the pit of his stomach, his eyes widening, his limbs freezing, heart stopping.
"Sherlock!" Mary shouted, quickly removing her arms from being wrapped around John's neck and crossing her them over her chest to cover her bare breasts.
John, who was on top of her...in her, whipped his head around, jaw dropping and face turning crimson. "Fuck!" He got off Mary, but it was too late. Sherlock had seen his broad shoulders, muscular back, bare arse, and the back of his sack. If he were to ever see those parts of John, he didn't think it would have been like this. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the glimpse he got of John's testicles. If he weren't so shocked, his mouth would have watered.
As John moved off Mary, Sherlock saw his hard, wet cock leave her vagina, and he felt sick and guilty. He was aware that his mouth was open and his lips were trembling, but he couldn't move. His throat felt clogged, like bile was about to rise.
Mary closed her legs, aware that Sherlock saw her genitalia. She looked completely affronted, and for once, Sherlock couldn't blame her. Yet, there was something else in her eyes. She was clearly shocked, angry, but there was a hint of...smugness? Sherlock was in no state to analyze that.
John quickly pulled the duvet over them both and yelled over the music coming from their stereo, eyes fierce and face redder than Sherlock had ever seen, "OUT!"
The ferocity in John's voice made Sherlock's limbs zap back to life. He stumbled backwards, almost tripping over his own two feet, turned, and darted out of the house. He slammed the front door behind him and was grateful he told the cabbie to wait for him. He got into the cab and had to clear his throat. "Baker Street," he said hoarsely.
The cabbie looked back at him through the rearview mirror. "You all right, sir?"
"Fine," Sherlock muttered, trying to stop himself from shaking.
When he got back into the flat, he shrugged off his coat and scarf with trembling fingers and slumped against the door, legs close to giving out. He felt absolutely nauseated. He felt shaken. He...he forgot about Lestrade.
He sent a text: Can't make it.
Sherlock knew Lestrade would ask why, but he wasn't up for it, so he put his phone on the coffee table and wobbled over to his bedroom. He didn't want to talk to anyone right now. He sat on the edge of his bed, heart still racing, and clenched his fingers tightly in the duvet.
He was angry at himself for not realizing what was going on. John wasn't answering his phone or the door, and music was coming from the bedroom? He should have known what they were doing. But, he was inexperienced completely in that area, so he didn't know. He didn't know. He was forty and he didn't know. A blush of shame bloomed on his cheeks. It was just another way Mary was a superior partner for John, he supposed. She knew about sex. He didn't. He was pathetic. A fifteen year-old would have been able to know what was going on. They were married. That's what married people do: have sex. Except, he thought...
He was an absolute moron. How could he have thought John might leave Mary now? Clearly they were still oh-so fucking happy. He bit his lip hard, jaw trembling, throat tightening. He never wanted to see that. He was always grateful John did...that with his girlfriends at their homes instead of 221B. He always knew he wouldn't be able to see John that way with someone else. With self-pity, he thought of John kissing Mary tenderly, slowly undressing her, showering her with the affection Sherlock craved so very much. He shuddered. He imagined John adoring his body more times than he'd like to admit. The image of John naked flashed in his mind, and he growled in frustration when he felt his cock twitch. Was he that desperate that walking in on his best friend and his wife aroused him? Well, no, Mary had nothing to do with it. He grimaced when he remembered her naked body. It wasn't her fault, of course. He was the one who barged in. But, he could have gone his whole damned life without seeing her genitalia.
He remembered the curve of John's physique, his arse, his hard cock and his sack…
Sherlock shook his head. No, he couldn't get aroused over that. He couldn't pleasure himself to that. It felt indecent. John hadn't wanted Sherlock to see him that way. But, he knew he would never be able to delete that image from his mind. It was humiliating, though. A strong wave of nausea rolled through his stomach and he jumped up from the bed, running into the bathroom, but only gave a couple dry heaves into the sink before the feeling subsided.
He looked at himself in the mirror. He looked as miserable as he felt, his eyes glassy and dejected. He went back into his room and curled up on his side, not feeling very well, and noticed he still had his shoes on. He kicked them off and turned on his other side. He was tempted to grab his other pillow and hold it, but-but nothing. It wasn't like he could stoop any lower. He grabbed the pillow and squeezed it against his chest, feeling like a teenager, his eyes stinging.
Dry-heaving was not a normal reaction to seeing one's best friend and spouse in the moment, he knew. Sherlock was aware that he was being irrational right now. Humiliation was understandable, he thought, but he felt downright sorrow. It was John, though. He loved John. He wanted to be the one in John's bed, and yet, he saw irrefutable proof with his very eyes just a half hour ago that John was perfectly happy with his wife. Sherlock didn't understand. They weren't happy. Why were they having sex? He bowed his head forward and rested his forehead on the pillow. Maybe this was some other aspect of a sexual relationship he didn't understand. Maybe people who practically hated each other had sex all of the time. Did John like having sex for the sake of having sex? He didn't know. They never talked about John's sex life, of course. Sherlock would have guessed there would have had to been some sort of emotional connection, because deep down, he knew John was a compassionate man. Sherlock could admit to himself that he, himself, could only have sex if there were an emotional connection, which is why he had never been with someone. The only person was John, and that was clearly out of the question.
A bubble of resentment rose in his chest. Mary didn't deserve the privilege to bed John Watson. She lied to him about everything. She belittled him in front of his friends. She put herself first, always. Sherlock was the first person to admit he was no saint, but if John were his, he would do everything in his power to treat him with the love, respect, and affection he deserved. John deserved so much, and Sherlock wanted to give it all to him. Sherlock would give him anything-everything. He already gave him so much. John had given him the warmth of friendship in return, but he wondered if John truly knew how much he had done for him. Did John care?
He closed his eyes with a shuddering breath, two hot tears rolling down his flushed cheeks. He hated this. If only he had used his brain like normal people did, he would have put the pieces together and not barge in on them. Sherlock had no idea seeing the man he loved be intimate with another person would have such a strong effect on him, but he supposed it was to be expected, considering how much he loved him. He could never forget this. It would forever be burned into his memory. He didn't want to remember. He didn't want to think of this incident every time he saw John.
How could he face John again? Even aside from the pure mortification, Sherlock was certain that remembering him in the act would upset him even more if John were actually in front of him. He swallowed hard. This was his fault.
Sometime in the early evening, Sherlock padded out of his bedroom, disorientated from the nap he didn't mean to take, and decided to check his phone. There were a couple predictable texts from Lestrade asking why he couldn't make it. He deleted those. Going by the fact that Lestrade didn't show up to the flat to collect him, he must not have needed Sherlock that badly. There was a message from John, received two hours ago:
We need to talk. J
That was never a good sign. Sherlock didn't want to talk about it. Why did John? John never wanted to talk about anything. Out of all the things to possibly talk about between the two of them, John wanted to discuss this?!
However, Sherlock was in the wrong here. He was the one who went into their house without permission and completely invaded their privacy. He owed John a talk, if he wanted it. It would be painful, though. But he would do it.
Okay. SH
He would let John determine when and how they would discuss.
Can I come over?
Oh god. Yes. SH
Sherlock didn't want to give any of his current feelings away by texting more than one word at a time. He didn't want to see John right now. There was a bit of dread in his gut, telling him this conversation would not go well.
Okay, I'm coming over now.
Sherlock felt a shiver of anxiety in his heart. He sat down in his chair with a sigh. He could use a pack of cigarettes. No, John would get angry with him. He promised John he wouldn't smoke or do any sort of drugs after the plan turned around. It was hard, though, especially in moments like this. He stretched out his legs, figuring that looking casual would be better than revealing how nervous he was through his body language. He groaned at the ceiling. What the hell was John even going to say?
About ten minutes later, he heard the front door open and close, and he pressed his lips together. Here we go.
John came upstairs and entered the flat, dressed in jeans and a blue jumper, and Sherlock's mind immediately jumped to the image of him being naked. Sherlock had to stop himself from gasping. John hadn't even been in the flat for five seconds, and this was already a bad idea. Sherlock sat up and crossed his legs in case his body decided to be even more traitorous.
"John."
John looked unhappy, to say the least. Somehow the bags under his eyes seemed more pronounced, and the lines in his face were deeper than they had been just a few hours ago.
"Hi," he said stiffly, left hand opening and closing.
Sherlock already hated this. Should he say something, or let John talk? Perhaps he should apologize first. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, eyes flickering down to the floor, face heating up. He hoped he didn't have a visible blush.
He heard John sigh. "I know," John said. "I know you didn't mean to-do that. And I'm sorry for yelling at you like that."
Sherlock shook his head. "No, you had the right. I understand."
From his peripheral vision, Sherlock saw John walk over to the coffee table and sit on top of it. He was too uncomfortable to sit in his old chair across from Sherlock. Great. "Just, Sherlock," John said kindly, too kindly, "you can't barge into my house like that."
"Yes, I see the error of my ways," he said woodenly, staring at his socked feet.
"Why'd you come in, anyway?"
"There was a case," he said.
"Oh, there was?" John asked, a hint of disappointment in his voice.
Was he disappointed because he didn't get to go on the case?
"What was it?" John pressed on.
Interesting. Sherlock gathered the will to look at John, and he swallowed. "I didn't go."
"You what?" John's brow furrowed. "You didn't go on a case?"
"That's what I said," Sherlock snapped, the effort to hold back his nerves getting to him.
John's eyes darkened. Bad move. "All right, it was just a question."
"Well, now you have the answer," Sherlock crossed his arms, sniffing, the old habit of masking his pain with arrogance coming back strong.
"Sherlock," John said lowly, "stop it."
Sherlock knew he should have stopped right there, but he was upset, and lashed out. "It's my flat. I can do whatever I want." Now he truly sounded childish. The emphasis on it being his flat was a jab at John for moving out, and they both knew it.
John visibly winced.
Sherlock felt some of his dark mood evaporate when he saw the hurt expression of John's face, but then John put up his shield of anger.
"I don't think you're in the position to act like a prick after what you did today," he said hotly.
The word prick and a reminder of seeing John naked was not a good combination for Sherlock. "I said I was sorry. What more do you want?"
"Why'd you come in our room in the first place?" John asked, putting his hands on his knees and leaning forward. "You couldn't fucking deduce what we were doing?"
That stung, directly stabbing his insecurities. He didn't know what to say, eyes lowering in shame. "I only heard music," he defended himself weakly.
John scoffed. "Seriously? Come on."
"I am serious," he said darkly. "I obviously didn't anticipate arriving at a time while you were…" He bit the inside of his cheek. "Intimate."
"That's what married people do, Sherlock," he said as if he were explaining to a child.
Seriously?! Sherlock's eyes shot up to meet his. "I'm clearly not married, so how should I know?" His mind was aware he was about to go too far, but his emotions were clouding his judgment. He felt exposed. "Tell me then, since you're apparently the expert on marriage. Clearly you and Mary have a wonderful relationship."
John's shot daggers at him, his lip twitching imperceptibly. "What the hell do you know about relationships, anyway? You proposed to a woman for a case, for God's sake!"
If he were honest with himself, Sherlock could say he still felt guilt over that, although he considered himself even with Janine after the fake sex stories. "I had my reasons," he insisted.
John shook his head, a bitter smile on his face. "'Reasons,' sure. You couldn't be in a relationship even if you tried." The second those words left John's mouth, his eyes widened and his anger vanished, his lips snapping shut.
For the second time today, Sherlock felt like his stomach iced over, but this was worse. He and John had fought over the years, but he didn't think John ever gave such a low blow. His throat tightened, and he let out a harsh breath. He felt...furious. How could John say he couldn't be in a relationship? He never gave Sherlock a chance!
John gulped, lips parting in a frown "Sherlock," he said cautiously.
Fire ran through his veins. "Get out."
John held his hands up, "Wait, I shouldn't have-"
"Get out!" he nearly barked, heart aching. "You think I'm incapable of feeling? Fine. Leave."
"I didn't say-"
"Leave," he commanded sharply, feeling like his heart could shatter.
John stood up, looked like he was about to say something, eyes filled with guilt, and then utterly deflated. He walked out of the flat, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Sherlock melted into his chair and put his hands over his face, jaw hurting with the effort to keep it from trembling. They were supposed to go on a case today and have fun, but they wound up kicking each other out of their respective homes. How the hell did that happen? Nothing went right with them anymore, not since he returned. Not since Mary.
John's words echoed in Sherlock's mind. He thought Sherlock was incapable of being with someone in a romantic capacity. It hurt, not just because he loved John more than he loved himself, but because Sherlock had tried to open himself more since he came back. He failed, apparently. Sherlock knew he sent mixed signals over the years, thinking of himself as a sociopath until recently, but he thought John knew him better than anyone else.
How could Sherlock ever have a chance with him, if John thought he couldn't be in a relationship?