BBCSH 'Gladly'

Author: tigersilver

Pairing(s): S/J, J/M

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 2700

Warnings/Summary: 'Fix-it' AU, after end of S3, HLV. No infidelity, really. No Mary-bashing, either. Likely highly derivative, for which I am sorry, but I haven't an original thought in my head, these days. All apologies for oncoming onslaught of saccharine fluff.

There's something off about Sherlock.

John's been noticing this now for ages, it seems. He can't help it; Sherlock is his best mate and John prides himself on knowing him best, better even than Mycroft, better even than Sherlock's (surprisingly charming) Mummy and (er, um) Father.

It's a niggling sense of a major misstep being made at his wedding. That look in Sherlock's eyes, the wounded one? It was off, John feels. Sherlock shouldn't be feeling excluded, he mentions to Mary afterwards, just casually. For chrissake, John had chosen him as his best man, right?

Right, Mary agrees, absently nodding. "Very odd, John," she adds. She's occupied with not mixing sand into her carefully layered sheen of sunscreen and that's understandable. John understands.

Now that John has the time to cogitate over Sherlock's recent behavior (as in, his 'not dead' behaviour since his return), he's rapidly coming to the conclusion that Sherlock has changed in some fundamental fashion. He's slower to deduce, for one thing. He seems unfocussed, for another. He has descended so low as to willingly fold the wedding napery into fancily formed shapes. Something is clearly gone off the rails with John's best mate but John isn't really certain what.

It's a pity things go completely to rubbish shortly after that; John's brain is preoccupied with what's physically wrong with Sherlock (quite a lot, fuck it!) and then with what's ethically and morally lacking in his lovely (yes, still, ta very much) wife. Whom he's not quite forgiven but may well do, eventually. (John feels that there will arise within him some sort of vibrantly emotional marker, a line in the sand metaphorically, between the instance his having offered her his forgiveness and the moment of his actually feeling such forgiveness, but that time still hasn't arrived. Yet.)

It still hasn't when Sherlock tells John (with a version of that same wounded look in his expressive eyes) that 'Sherlock' is actually a girl's name. John's more than a bit impatient with it all by then. He really would like to forgive Mary for shooting his best friend and then get on with his life but he can't help that it hasn't, either. People are like that, he'd say to Sherlock, should Sherlock ask.

Sherlock hasn't asked, which is one of the multitudinous beauties (ta, yes, there are quite a few, thank you!) of being best friends with a bloke who can blatantly ignore the emotions John has likely been wearing on his sleeve for months now. Such as the one come pouring through his body like a torrent when the jet bearing Sherlock away (to certain death; let's not think too hard about that overmuch, eh, John?) turns itself about and zooms back. That's a bloody fine one, really it is! Comparable to his joy and terror and gratitude (mixed all madly like a poorly made cocktail) the moment he fully comprehended that Sherlock had turned off the bomb on the train, that the great git was alive to do it, that he was breathing and had working fingers and was more than capable of provoking John into another foaming fit of pique, of whipping through John's life like the proverbial storm he is. Bloody Sherlock!

Nevertheless.

John's very proud of his own particular 'east wind', has always been. But there's something off still with Sherlock Holmes and it's eating away at John's gut. Sherlock deserves happiness, John thinks. He deserves careful handling and coddling and comfort. He deserves a great deal of the finer things in life and being the arrogant sod he is, the talented sod he is, the posh fop he is, Sherlock usually has them at hand. But fine suiting and entrée to all the finest restaurants are not enough. Nor are all the cases he can handle, passed on by a grateful Yard. (What Sherlock deserves remains amorphous in John's head; he only knows that he could possibly have provided it, once upon a time...and mayhap still. Excepting...right, then.)

It's a relief when Mary finally ends it. Seems she does love John but it's somehow 'Not enough, John.'

"What?" he asks her, rather blankly. Rolls over sufficiently to peer at her in the dark, batting away at the interfering divan. "Are you even saying?"

"I'm sorry, I really am," Mary replies softly and there's that fondness in her eyes, the same affection John's learnt to become accustomed to catch surfacing in Sherlock's gaze, sometimes—more often, he admits (if only to himself and that very quietly) than ever before. "But it's not enough, being second rate, darling. I should have known that from the start but you know how I can be stubborn. I like to win, love; you know that."

"I…I?" John has no idea what to say to that statement. It's a curious statement for a wife to make, and her practically still a newlywed, and it's a very bizarre thing to hear when one is an expectant father-to-be. And yes, the baby's his; Sherlock has somehow finagled a paternity test, likely with his elder brother's assistance. "Well. Well!"

He sits bolt up, staring down at her. She's lovely, even in the advanced stages of pregnancy, and he really does love her, but it seems that's not enough. "What now, then?" he manages, voice a little too far on the side of croaky. He clears his throat and waits for a very long moment, one that seems to drag on like a string of frozen treacle suspended over an abyss.

"What now, John?" Mary sits up as well, heaving her way carefully and smiling gratefully at the hand John can't help but extend her, settling herself against the mounded up pillows with a sigh. She laughs a little and maybe it's sad, a sorrowful noise to John's straining, aching ears, as melancholy in a way as Sherlock's recent semi-smiles have been (John sees them fairly often these days, especially whenever John goes over to the old flat to lend him a sounding board for the Moriarty debacle.) "What now? Well, now you go home, love. That's all. Go home to him."

John opens his mouth to say something, anything, he's not certain what, exactly. There's something dreadfully off about Mary now; it's as if the tables have turned tits up entirely. Well…what he means is that there really is 'something about Mary', more than even her horribly dubious past and their still semi-uneasy future as a couple. The last which now appears to be made neatly moot.

"Well, fuck."

In the dark, the bed with his always-surprising and (apparently, logically soon-to-be ex) wife, it comes to John like a bolt from the heavens: she's correct. Mary is right, righter than rain, and practically blinding John with her brilliant rationality.

Of course it's true, what Mary's said. Of course John's not 'home' and hasn't been. Home is Baker Street and a tip of flat. Home is where his best mate in the world dwells (alone, unfortunately, all these months—no! Years, isn't it?) 'Alone,' Sherlock has stated (erroneously, John knows) 'is what protects me.' That's the largest pile of shit John's ever been asked to wade through and by virtue of being pals with Sherlock Holmes, John's had cause to wade quite a lot!

Not that John's not long since realized it for himself, the way of it, the root cause of what's been so wrong with the bestest, brightest, most brilliant man on the planet. There's been a part of his brain chewing over Sherlock's strangeness for what feels like eons. All the cumulative acts and facts and tiny clues Sherlock can't quite manage to divert John's attention from entirely, all the tells and signifiers John is pretty fucking certain Sherlock Holmes would like to ensure he never truly sees. Oh, right, sorry: 'observes', isn't it, the mantra?

"I…" John swallows, reaching out to pat Mary's knee. "Yes, right. I will. I will do that."

"Good on you," Mary grins and after a moment entwines her fingers with John's, pairing nicely with the warmth of her bent knee sinking into his tightened knuckles from straight through the rumpled bedclothes. "You do that, love. But in the morning, all right? It's a bit late, now."

"Okay, yes." John flops back down, staring at the ceiling. "Right, absolutely." There's a faint crack in the plaster, he's been meaning to fix it for quite some time. He vaguely supposes someone else will have to, now. "Sensible, that. Ta."

"Mm…" Mary, sensibly enough, has already drifted off to sleep. John continues to gaze rather sightlessly at the ceiling. It's boring and mundane and not what (or whom) he wants to be looking at but needs must and he can't say he cares for the Tube at this hour and only Sherlock Holmes himself could magic up a cab at this rate. Still? It may be too late to dash over to 221B but it's never too late to text.

Stealthily, not wanting to awaken Mary (her and the baby both need their rest), he takes up his mobile, pressing keys in the lightening dim a bit frantically. He's all at once drenched with perspiration, feeling flushed, reeling drunk with emotion—and it's all good. All. Very damned good.

John sets his teeth together as he sends, flexing his jaw. And waits, not so much with bated breath (although there's a little of that, a delicious anticipation, a ricocheting spark of pure joy) as with a distinctly strong assuredness of what Sherlock will text back when he reads John's query.

No. Not a query. It wasn't ever in question, was it? Not according to Mary, at least.

'Coming home' John sends.

Two words, ten simple letters, humming their collective way up to the satellites and the stars and then homing straight back down again, down through a mass of circuits and wires to land splat in Sherlock's hand, work their way into his all-encompassing terribly acute vision, thence to the detective's brain (and his chest, John hopes fondly, just as Mary's bullet had, once, but in a much more lovely manner) and all at once arriving at the very core of the world's only. John only just stifles a giggle. He's a goal in mind, a definite end-game, and that is to most probably pierce that great and glorious heart clear through, which is no more than Sherlock deserves, the sodding silent idiot he is, that stupid Sherlock.

For this overwhelming feeling of gladness can only be shared. Preferably with the one singular person John loves.

John grins and grins; cannot seem to help himself. That over-protective liar and the foolishly fond fool, the dearest, kindest berk in the universe. John is nearly incandescent with love for him, for just the thought of him, for all the gorgeous coalescing of the grand scheme of things, the real picture of it all, at last coming clear and true, visible to the naked eye as that one silly supernova was, long ago.

He inhales, sharply, and the air tastes sweeter than it ever has been. There's a ping sounding from John's sweaty palm, a tiny one, almost instantly. A subtle vibration that has his entire body jerking. John exhales louder than he wants to (careful of Mary, careful of the baby, always) and it's not a sob, no, but it's close enough—and not due to sorrow, cheers. Never that.

"Mmm…meh," Mary murmurs by John's side, fretfully shifting about to face away from the intrusive glow, "manners, Sherlock!"

John beams like a loon as as the screen lights up and brings his mobile right up close to his face, so fast he nearly bashes his own nose, squinting madly, feasting his eyes on the matching ten-letter response he's received, so happy his eyes are moist and he's forced to blink rapidly for a second to clear them.

No, it's never too late to text an insomniac genius, especially not one who's been waiting ever so patiently, for ever so long, just for this moment to transpire:

'Please do. SH'

There's really only one reply possible (there never really was, was there?) So John wastes no time in dashing it off:

'Gladly.'

'Good. SH.' John's mobile pings in return almost before he hits 'send'. He gives it another moment or two before he texts again: 'Wanker. As if you expected that.'

He can almost hear Sherlock's drawl in his head, and has to snort softly. 'Of course I did, John,' Sherlock would snap. 'Not an idiot.'

'No. I didn't, actually. But thank you, all the same. SH' is what John reads with widened eyes instead.

It's a bit shocking, Sherlock's response, but no more so than any of the other shocks John's endured, so he leaves go that aspect of it and carries on with the incessant smiling. 'Pleasure is mine too, you know?' he texts, his fingers slowing as all this kerfuffle catches up to his weary body at last. 'See you in the morning.'

'NOW. SH'

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock is not willing to wait. John's face is beginning to hurt from all the smiling, but still—sensible, right? Besides, he's going to need all the rest he can manage to store up, won't he? Negotiating terms of affection (mutual! Oh god!) with an impatient and ferociously curious detective will not be particularly—

'No. Sleep now,' he admonishes his (probably; no, most definitely) pacing-the-flat-like- a-certified- madman beloved. 'Morning's coming soon enough and I swear I'll be there on the first train.'

"Not good enough. Coming to you. 20 minutes. SH'

'NO! Lump it, Sherlock,' John thumbs carefully, mindful his eyes are drooping even as he types. 'I'll be with you as soon as I can, love, and don't you dare come here or I'll wreck you. Mary's sleeping.'

It's a minute and some before Sherlock comes back with a single, slightly forlorn reply. 'Promise? SH'

John's grin fades as he types: 'Oh yes. Never doubt it. Goodnight, Sherlock. Please?'

It's as he come to believe, all of it. Why it was that Sherlock has been faltering, a shade of his former self. It that John's needed by Sherlock; no, more than that. He's a requirement, at least for Sherlock, and that's a relief in many ways, for clearly for Mary John is not. Needed, that is, or not nearly to the same degree.

It's an honour as well, naturally. One John very much intends to uphold.

'Sherlock. For me,' he sends, his last message of the night, and carefully sets his mobile on his (soon to be ex) bedside table, knowing as he does that Sherlock will (possibly; odds are slightly better than mere average) consent to kip for an hour or so on the sofa before John arrives.

Grudgingly, reluctantly but he will do. He's done quite a bit more than that for John's sake and John's feeling very not-guilty for cornering the sly git.

Silly prat, how I love you. That, John resolves, is precisely what he'll say to his detective, first thing.

John's smile is returned, coming and going as he licks his dry lips, mouthing the words. Oh, that'll be grand, won't it? He can't wait to see Sherlock's expression. Must ensure to catch it on his camera, right? Right.

Genuinely satisfied with his plan (and with all the night's twisted-and-strange turnouts, really), John slumps wearily back into his (soon to be ex) bed and shuts his eyes with a sense of fierce pleasure against the annoying crack in the ceiling.

Nope, not his problem, cheers—not now, and not ever again, ta. Mary will have to call someone in.

It's no time at all before John falls asleep, nightmare-free this time, happy in the knowledge he's managed to make it all right. Him all right, rather. True, there's something off about Mary now but, then again, that's always been true to a certain value, hasn't it.

And that'll keep (yes, it will) until morning. As in, after John's safely at home again, after he's happily ensconced in his old armchair and sipping that first morning cuppa, he and Sherlock can (snog maybe?) sort it and there's no doubt (snog, absolutely!) in John's unconscious mind they will do. (Snog—and then a great deal beyond that, for fuck's sake!)

It's what they do, isn't it? Not by being normal everyday boring people, but just by being them. Gladly them.

Fin