A/N - Hope everyone had a wonderful Valentine's day. Thanks as always to ScopesMonkey.
Sherlock pulled himself up the stairs, arms aching. He'd known John would be angry - John was angry often. But the pain, he hadn't been prepared for John to be hurt. John always understood. He might not agree, but he always understood.
Not this time though. This was too much for John Watson.
Sherlock pushed open the door to what had once been John's room. Baker Street felt ugly, it felt wrong, but he didn't have anywhere else to go. He certainly wouldn't go to Mycroft. No one else knew yet nor was he ready to tell anyone. He couldn't tell anyone else, not if John didn't understand.
He curled up on the bed, a strange bed, one he'd never been in before. John knew it though, John had slept there for months.
Sherlock had followed the blog, of course. Read it daily actually. On days when there was no new entry, he would scour the older ones, recalling adventures, admiring the pictures. And when there was a new entry he'd devour it, learning more about his friend and his life. Sometimes it filled the holes and sometimes it made them deeper. Mycroft, in their rare conversations, had provided snippets of information. John avoided Mycroft, didn't answer his phone calls or emails. And much to Sherlock's surprise Mycroft seemed to accept that from John, honouring some unasked request to leave John alone.
Sherlock knew the little that Mycroft knew came from Lestrade. And knowing Lestrade he wasn't sharing everything.
He's met a woman, Mary Christianson. Greg says he seems serious about her.
Sherlock had felt a long forgotten pang when he'd heard that. He'd felt it once at the Chinese circus when he'd stood between John and Sarah. And he felt it on the nights when he'd lay in his bed and listen to the giggles and moans come from the room above him. From this room.
He often wondered when it had happened, when he stopped worrying about John's women and when they'd stopped coming around. The subtle changes had gone unnoticed, even by him. Most of them anyway; John's concerned attitude about Sherlock's reputation had always confused him. He often recalled the eavesdropped conversation between John and The Woman. Had he and John been a couple and neither of them had realised it.
Her father is the owner of the Christianson Group, the financial advising firm. I met him once at a reception. He's Swedish, but respectable. I believe I met Mary as well, she was quite beautiful and very, very wealthy. Does a lot of philanthropic work, right up John's street I'd suspect.
They'd been sitting at a café in Budapest and he'd known Mycroft was watching his every reaction so he'd done his best to suppress them. He'd been jealous though, it had ached through his chest. It was ridiculous, he knew. He was dead - at least as far as John thought. It was unreasonable to expect him not to move on.
It wasn't as if anything had ever occurred between them. Sherlock had been unaware of the emotions at the time. Even if he'd known, he would simply have ignored them. He didn't do that, after all. And John would have understood. He was John, he always understood. But three years, mostly alone, was a long time. It had given Sherlock the opportunity to realise a lot about his previous life.
And John had met Mary.
Sherlock had looked at the pictures on John's blog, eyed the beautiful woman with the easy smile, and been able to see how much she loved John. John had always been smiling, always having fun. Sherlock ignored the pictures where there was doubt in the blue eyes, or sadness. It was just a bad photograph or an ill-timed moment. John had declared his happiness repeatedly through his blog entries, none of his other women had ever warranted so many mentions before. And the simple John smile had been apparent in the engagement and wedding photos. Sherlock had stared at the pictures in his small hotel room in Johannesburg and put his faith in Mary Christianson, trusted her with John, and hoped that she'd make him happy.
The selflessness had surprised him, but it shouldn't have. All of it was for John. It had been, probably since the pool, since he'd realised he had a weakness. Since he realised he had a friend, a genuine ally.
The happiness seemed to continue after the wedding. John's blog entries often contained light-hearted anecdotes and silly messages. Sherlock would read Mary's comments, noting the easy humour that the two of them seemed to share, gentle jabs traded back and forth. Sherlock had felt both jealousy and genuine happiness that his friend, his John, was content.
That happiness had been gone when he'd seen John at the surgery.
"Sherlock?" The quiet voice came from the stairs. Sherlock unfurled and sat up as Mrs. Hudson came in. She had plate of food and a plastic bag with her.
"Eat something, dear," she said, handing him the plate. He took it, recognising her potroast, and he smiled at her. She sat on the bed next to him as he ate, savouring the warmth it brought him. She eyed him in that motherly way she so often adopted and counted his bites.
"Did you see John?" she asked after several minute. Her voice was quiet as if she anticipated the unpleasantness. He nodded, took one last bite and set the plate on the small table next to the bed. He huffed and nodded.
"He is not pleased."
She smiled and placed a hand on his thigh. She didn't seem surprised. "He was devastated after you died, Sherlock. He hasn't been the same, not entirely since then."
Sherlock looked at her, confused. "It's been three years. Based on his blog, he's happy. He's married. I understand the anger—"
"He isn't married anymore," Mrs. Hudson said quietly and Sherlock stopped short. There had been nothing on the blog, he'd heard nothing from Mycroft. He felt his brow furrow, he didn't believe her. There was a flash of something in his chest, he didn't know what, but suspected that he should feel guilty for it. He tried to grab onto the sensation, categorise it, but it eluded him. There was silence for a second. She tilted her head to one side and looked towards the floor. "Well technically he's still married, but not for much longer." She met his eyes again. "They had a meeting this morning actually, to divide up the belongings and such. He-" she shook her head again another look of pain appearing in her eyes, "He let her have everything. Just so it would be over."
Sherlock stiffened, pulling back from her. "She's being difficult-"
"No," Mrs. Hudson said. "Not at all. Mary is- Mary is a saint actually. I think that was part of it. John feels like he let her down, that he was a bad husband."
"I fail to believe that John-"
"He isn't the man that you knew, Sherlock. He's different. At first I thought it was just because you were gone, I thought he was mourning. But as you said, it's been three years. He still isn't better. He's almost," she stopped for a minute, looking past him, at the wall. She struggled for a word, and nodded as she settled on one, "lost."
"It was necessary," he said. "I had no other choice." They were going to kill you. They were going to kill Lestrade. They were going to kill…John. John. My John.
She smiled at him. "I'm sure it was, dear." She patted his leg. "I'm sure it will just take time. He'll come around. He's missed you too much not to. You have to understand, Sherlock, after the funeral he couldn't even come into the flat. He'd hyperventilate and panic. When he left, Harry, Mike Stamford, Bill Murray and that lovely Inspector Lestrade had to be the ones to remove his belongings. He sat on the curb across the street and watched them."
Sherlock eyed her suspiciously again; that didn't sound like John. John was sure, strong.
"He was broken, like a puzzle always with a piece missing. When he finds it, it's only to realise that another one is gone. I don't think it was just your death, it was witnessing it. He said he talked to you just before, that you lied to him. He didn't understand why." Sherlock nodded, that was true, though a necessary deception. He'd wanted John to hate him, to be angry.
"Also, he couldn't handle the criticism of you. He believed in you so strongly, but couldn't mount an argument to support you. You weren't here to help him and he felt alone in his faith." She squeezed his thigh again. "You're being alive doesn't suddenly alleviate all that confusion. You need to talk to him, perhaps explain why."
Explain everything, he thought, although it wasn't entirely possible. He wasn't sure he was willing to admit his weakness, even to John. Especially if John was so obviously not interested.
"Mary said he has nightmares about falling." Sherlock cringed. John had nightmares about watching friends die in Afghanistan, of course he would have nightmares about Sherlock's fall. That was something he hadn't considered.
"Idiot," he mumbled, slamming his palm into his forehead.
He stood in a flash, striding towards the door, then stopped and turned back to Mrs. Hudson. "Where is he living?" Sherlock asked. "John," he clarified in case there was confusion. He could go to Mycroft if he had to but that would take time. Mrs. Hudson would know right now, but she might be reluctant to share.
She just smiled at him, a knowing, smile. He frowned, suddenly feeling manipulated. "Before I tell you, dear, I must ask you to do something for me." He straightened, glaring down at her.
"Time could be of the essence here Mrs. Hudson." He did not really think that John would harm himself, but he had an overpowering urge to see the doctor, to try and explain further.
"No problem, dear, it will only take half an hour. I'll help you." She opened the plastic bag she'd come in with and pulled out a box. She held it out to him, there was a woman on the cover, smiling. She had dark hair.
"Blonde doesn't suit you, Sherlock, honestly."
He stood across the street, between two buildings, the odd perfume smell of the hair dye still floating around him. He sniffled, trying to remove the scent from his nose with no success. He stared at the window. He could see movement behind the curtain. Mrs. Hudson had told him the flat was small and in a 'hardly decent' area. Sherlock had still not been prepared.
When he'd realised the address was in Shadwell, he'd been shocked. South London, why was John in South London? The neighbourhood was hardly as bad as Mrs. Hudson had described. Clearly it was lower income, but it was mostly immigrant populations. There were children playing, in the small courtyard behind him, but overall the neighbourhood seemed relatively quiet and, while poor, decent. He was not surprised to find that Mrs. Hudson had been uncomfortable though.
He saw the blue glow in the window when John turned on the telly and he wondered vaguely which of the horrible shows he was watching. Sherlock had travelled the world and often found himself watching those same shows and thinking about John.
John, his John, his only friend. The only person who'd really mourned him. Mrs. Hudson had been sad, he had no doubt. And Lestrade as well, but the loss had only deeply affected John. Perhaps that was why he had suffered so much, he was the only one to carry the weight.
He grabbed the bag at his feet and quickly strode across the courtyard. He'd decided on Chinese, the meal they'd eaten their first night together, after John had killed the cabbie. It seemed oddly sentimental, but also right. He thought John might appreciate the gesture.
He stood at the door and considered ringing the bell, but decided against it. There weren't names on any of the other buzzers so he could not be sure of who he was ringing if he tried to get the occupant of another flat to open the door.
He was just leaning over to examine the electronic locking mechanism when he heard footsteps on the other side of the door. He backed up few steps and waited for the door to open. The small black woman who came out kindly held the door for him, since his hands were full, as he made his way inside. He smiled innocently at her as she turned to walk away.
Too easy, he thought looking for a lift. He didn't see one and eyed the stairs. He wondered if John climbed six flights of stairs every day but shook it off and started up. There were bars on all of the doors surrounding John's, but not on John's. Sherlock frowned, wondering if his quick assessment of the neighbourhood had been incorrect, and he wondered why John did not have the extra security. He pushed the thought away, John was more than capable of taking care of himself.
Sherlock stood in front of the door for a minute, trying to hear noises coming from inside the flat. He heard the quiet hum of the telly but that was all. He placed one of the bags on the floor and knocked on the door.
There was a quick shuffling before a loud, "Who's there?" Sherlock flattened his hand on the door, closing his eyes at the sound of John's voice.
"Open the door, John," he said, feeling the wood beneath his fingers. "Please," he added quietly, but loudly enough for John to hear. After a moment there was shifting behind the door and the sounds of locks being thrown and a chain. Sherlock stepped back, grabbed the bag and waited. He held up his arms, prepared to offer the food as a sort of pacifying gift, but stopped short.
When the door opened and John stared back at him it was with red, blood shot eyes. Clearly, Sherlock realised with an ache in his chest, John had been crying.