Summary:

"Sherlock's words hadn't stopped echoing in John's head. Best friends who wished they had never met. It was unbearably sad, especially because it was true. John had wished that, he had to admit. He had wished when he had discovered the truth about Sherlock's death, when he had felt all the hurt of being tricked. He had wished it again and again after the first nightmares, after refusing to join Sherlock in crime scenes.

And at the same time it was unbearably sad because it wasn't true. Not like that. John had wished, yes, but he had never really wanted that. Sherlock had changed his life and John had absolutely no idea where he would be if he had not met Sherlock and shared a life with him."


CHAPTER 9

Mrs Hudson's cooking was delicious, of course. They tried to keep the conversation going, but the truth was that Mary was too busy delighting herself with the food. Mrs Hudson and Mrs Reid were paying too much attention to the wine.

John and Sherlock were too quiet.

John envied Sherlock for his crazy eating patterns. Nobody had batted an eyelash at his mostly untouched food, but John had to eat all of his not to raise any suspicion. It was delicious, but his throat was still clogged with his and Sherlock's earlier altercation.

Sherlock's words hadn't stopped echoing in John's head. Best friends who wished they had never met. It was unbearably sad, especially because it was true. John had wished that, he had to admit. He had wished when he had discovered the truth about Sherlock's death, when he had felt all the hurt of being tricked. He had wished it again and again after the first nightmares, after refusing to join Sherlock in crime scenes.

And at the same time it was unbearably sad because it wasn't true. Not like that. John had wished, yes, but he had never really wanted that. Sherlock had changed his life and John had absolutely no idea where he would be if he had not met Sherlock and shared a life with him.

And he didn't have the tiniest wish to know. What John was now was a direct result to what Sherlock had meant to him, of what he still meant. And John had been hurt, it was true. In more ways than he cared to analyse, he was a broken man as a result of Sherlock's direct actions, but he wouldn't change that. John was also a capable doctor, had access to all the adrenaline he needed and, most important, was the best friend of the most extraordinary human being on Earth.

If Sherlock thought for a second that all the times John had wished that, John had really meant it, then John had to work on that. He had no idea how, but he had to. Sherlock was a high-functioning sociopath, but John wasn't wasn't good at having heart to hearts, either. He had the feeling that when it came down to one another, both of them were emotionally stunted. He asked himself why that would be.

John lifted his eyes from his plate and fixed them on Sherlock, who was sat right in front of him, talking to Mrs. Reid about one of his experiments.

He couldn't forget her words either. She had been absolutely right.

Jokes about he and Sherlock being a couple aside, the truth was that Sherlock was one of the people John loved most in the world. Years ago, when all that happened, Sherlock and John had been living a co-dependent life, sharing bills and work, tea and crap telly. And all that had been ripped off him in a second.

He didn't think Mrs Reid would understand, but it hadn't been like losing a husband or a wife, in any way. It had been like losing a limb, an oxygen flask.

John brought his hands to his lap and rubbed his sweaty palms on his trousers. He took his glass of wine and washed down the bitterness that always came with those thoughts. He looked up at Sherlock again. Sherlock, who was right in front of him, even after being dead for two years.

John had been given a second chance. Something Mrs Reid and many others – everyone who wasn't dealing with Sherlock Holmes, for that matter – would never have.

In John's case, his limb had been reattached, his oxygen flask had been refilled. He was sharing a meal with his whole family in a way he hadn't experienced before. And he had Sherlock to thank for, in a way. Even if John had brought Mary to have dinner, it wouldn't have been the same if Sherlock had really been dead.

Sherlock had heard him. He had never made a habit out of it, but he had done it, for once.

When John came back to himself, Sherlock was staring at him. He wanted to ask 'What?', but knew it was one of those times Sherlock would just stare at him and then not answer when John asked what that was about. John just continued looking at him, and took another sip of his wine to give himself something to do.

"We've been missing new posts on your blog, John," Mrs Reid said, out of the blue, startling John. He didn't know what to answer to that. He missed them too.

"Care to share some new cases with us, Sherlock?" She asked.

John looked at him with interest. He, too, wanted to know.

Sherlock cleared his throat and smiled a little, awkwardly. "There's been nothing interesting these weeks."

"Oh, I'm sure there's something," Mrs Reid tutted. The wine had left her even more expansive. "Your cases are always so thrilling."

Sherlock smiled more openly. "That's because you know them through John's eyes. He tended to romanticize things a bit. But then, you know, he has always been a romantic." He looked at Mary and winked at her.

"You're the drama queen," John retorted. And, okay, maybe he was being a bit childish. Just a bit.

Sherlock looked at him, indignant. "I'm tall, my presence is naturally impressive," he huffed.

John feigned outrage. "What is that supposed to mean? I'm tall enough."

"God, these two, honestly," Mrs Hudson scolded while Mary giggled at John's face and Mrs Reid watched everything with mirth in her eyes. "It's like having overgrown kids around."

"Not too overgrown, in John's case," Sherlock pointed out, and Mary let out a loud laughter. John was going to have words with her about that.

He did what any respectable ex-army doctor would have done in that situation. He kicked Sherlock's shin under the table.

"Ow," Sherlock cried out. "Really? Very mature, John, very."

"You're the one to talk."

"Boys, please, behave," Mary managed to find some words in the middle of her giggle fit.

John looked at her and snorted, but tried to keep himself from laughing.

How could he go from broken soldier to happy schoolboy in seconds around Sherlock was something he would never understand. He looked at the man across from him again and could swear he was thinking the same thing. That was probably why they were best friends who had wished they had never met, but would never leave each other alone.

"Ah, this is so nice," Mrs Reid was saying. "I didn't imagine you would be so fun to have around."

Sherlock smiled at her. "We aren't. We're on our best behaviour for Mrs Hudson's birthday, and I was just kicked, so I don't know about that either."

Mrs Hudson tutted. "They are lovely, Lou, I told you," Mrs Hudson patted her sister's hand. "She worries about me being here alone. But I always tell her, I'm not alone."

"Of course not," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock can drive anyone around the bend, of course," she said, looking pointedly at him, "But I wouldn't trade my boys for anything."

John was so fucking glad for that plural that he couldn't contain his smile if he wanted.

Sherlock chose this moment to slide the little box on the table to Mrs Hudson, who just stared back at him. He smiled awkwardly at her and made a vague motion with his hand, willing her to open the present.

"Happy birthday," he said quietly.

John asked himself why Sherlock had chosen that moment to give her the present if he was so embarrassed by it, but the truth was that Sherlock was probably trying to escape the heart-to-heart conversation that would surely follow the gift.

She finally took the box, opened it, and gasped at the view of the earrings. "Sherlock," she said, simply. John could see that her eyes were wet. "I can't accept this present, it's too much."

"Nonsense," Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes at her. He cleared his throat. "My mother says you women always like pearls, so I thought these would fit. John tells me they are right, so there, they are yours."

"They are gorgeous, dear, thank you," Mrs Hudson said, standing up and coming over to Sherlock so she could give him an awkward hug, since he was still sitting.

Mrs Reid and Mary were talking quietly about how beautiful the earrings were, but John could not tear his eyes away from Sherlock and Mrs Hudson. His heart tugged quite painfully in his chest and for the life of him, John couldn't tell why.


After the pudding, they were still at the table, talking about some of Sherlock's old cases. Mrs Reid's excitement didn't seem to be wearing off and the never ending supply of wine left the two sisters more agreeable.

Sherlock and John had just retold her the case of Henry and the gigantic hound, and Mrs Reid was staring at them both with wide eyes. John had to admit that he had missed that. Sherlock, for all his love for the dramatic, was never really fond of the general public – which made John feel a bit guilty after the press had been used to destroy his reputation. But the truth was that John liked seeing Sherlock being acknowledged for the job he had invented and the work at which he was the best in the world.

After being quiet for some time, Mrs Hudson let out a contented sigh. "It's really good to have you here," she said, looking at John. "Sherlock gets very lonely here without you," she said, hiding her mouth from the other guests, but without really bothering to low her voice.

John looked intently at Sherlock, who just rolled his eyes.

"There was enough wine for today, Mrs Hudson," he said, without looking at John.

Mrs Hudson ignored him and continued to talk to the others. "I can't imagine how he lived without us before, you know" she shook her head. She looked at John reproachfully. "You, young man, can't just be a stranger like this."

John felt properly scolded. He knew Mrs Hudson was more than a bit drunk, but he knew she meant every single word. Sherlock looked uncomfortable.

Mrs Hudson turned to her sister. "He took John's chair out of the living room, have I told you that? So sad. Who does that, really?"

John looked at Mrs Hudson in a different light. It was almost as if she was saying...

But she was drunk and, although she was one of the closest people to Sherlock, she couldn't know what went on in that head of his.

Sherlock stood up abruptly, buttoning his jacket. "Isn't it time to be calling it a night?"

"Why don't you and John go do the washing up?" Mary intervened. John was glad for it, although he couldn't imagine Sherlock washing anything ever.

"Mary is absolutely right, you two should go. I have a million wedding things to ask her and you would just get in our way," Mrs Reid said, while taking Mrs Hudson's glass out of her reach.

It surprised John that for once in his life Sherlock didn't complain about being told what to do. He grabbed as many plates as he could with one hand and waited for John to bring the rest of the tableware to the kitchen.

He couldn't really help to do the washing, since he was still in the cast, so he took his place at John's right side and dried what he could with one hand.

They worked silently. John kept trying to find just the exact words to apologize without making Sherlock feel uncomfortable.

Sherlock groaned. "It's physically painful for me watching you think. Say it at once," he said, arrogantly, not looking at John.

"She's right, you know," John said, simply. Sherlock looked sideways at him, but didn't say anything. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock placed the plate he was holding on the drying rack. "John..."

"No, just... It's true, I'm sorry. And for earlier too," John turned off the water and dried his hands on the dishcloth. He sighed and turned fully to Sherlock. "I've never wished—"

Sherlock huffed.

"I never really wished to not have met you. I thought that, but it's not something I could really wish. Did you?" John felt stupid for asking because Sherlock had actually tried to do it, had gotten rid of all John's things.

Sherlock took another plate and started drying it slowly. He cleared his throat without once looking at John. "No," he answered, still rubbing the cloth on the plate. It was a dull movement, something to prevent him from being too exposed. John was used to this.

"Sherlock," John said, grabbing the sleeve of Sherlock's jacket. Sherlock left the plate on the sink and finally, finally, looked at him. His eyes were mostly green, blindingly bright. "All this, we have to stop."

Sherlock sighed and tugged at his hair. "I don't know how, John. I'm trying!"

"I know," John tried to soothe him. It was the truth, John knew that. John had been paralysed, trying to stay away and protect himself from all the pain Sherlock had the power to inflict upon him.

"It's not my fault you are having nightmares again," Sherlock said, quietly, because of course he had deduced that.

John sighed. He leaned back on the sink and looked at the wall in front of him. "It is, you know. It really, really is," he said, not accusingly, just sadly.

Sherlock stared at the side of John's face for a good minute. John could listen only to the sound of their breathing. It suddenly felt as if the whole building, the whole street and the whole city were completely empty but for them.

"Oh," Sherlock let out, finally. John wanted to ask how had he not known this. But of course he hadn't. Apparently Sherlock was always underestimating his place in other people's lives.

John cleared his throat. "It doesn't matter. You can't change that, I know this... I just..." John trailed off, unsure of what to say. He just what? Thought he could continue to push them apart and be okay with that? Took it out on Sherlock the fact that his mind couldn't deal with him?

"Well, I can't now, my hand is broken," Sherlock muttered. John didn't know if he was aware he had said it at all.

"What does that have to do with anything?" He asked.

"When you listen to the violin as you're just about to enter your REM sleep, your dreams are less violent. After a week or two of daily violin sessions, the nightmares are bound to stop if you aren't met with other triggers," Sherlock explained.

You're my trigger, John thought. He looked sideways at Sherlock and knew that he didn't have to say it out loud to be heard. Sherlock looked at his own feet. "How do you know this works?"

The right corner of Sherlock's lips turned slightly up. "Experiment," he said simply.

John felt a burst of warmth invade his chest. "You used to monitor my nightmares, didn't you?"

"Not good?"

"No... It's fine," John snorted. It was actually absolutely, incredibly fine. He couldn't explain how fine it was.

"I just wanted to know exactly when to begin playing. It worked. It works," he corrected himself. His eyes went distant for a moment. "But anyway, I can't play the violin and you don't live here anymore. So..." he shrugged.

It was the truth, simple statements of the truth, but John couldn't help hate it. Sherlock had taken care of him when nobody was watching, just as John had done. John asked himself vaguely if Sherlock was feeling the same hollowness in his heart that John was experiencing.

John turned to the sink again and turned on the water to fill the sudden silence with something. He planted his hands on the sink and looked at his feet, sighing heavily. "This, all this," he said, motioning vaguely around him, "Us, I miss it."

"You headbutted me last time I implied that."

"I miss everything," John said, turning to him fully.

John wanted to explain that he didn't just miss the thrill of the chase and to be sided with Sherlock against the world. He missed the violin and the tea. He missed watching Sherlock while he spoiled every single thing they tried to watch on the telly. John wished he could list all the little things he randomly remembered during the day and that made his heart sink with a bitter sense of longing.

He wished he could tell Sherlock about how missing him didn't mean he didn't hate everything sometimes, that it actually made everything hurt worse.

Sherlock looked at him as someone who had no idea of what to say. He tucked one his hands in his pockets while the broken one hung awkwardly along his body, and leaned on the sink. "I do, too. Miss, I mean. You."

Sherlock was rarely inarticulate like this. It was the best sign to John that he was telling the truth.

John started to wash another plate, but touched his shoulder to Sherlock's side. "Maybe it won't be like before, but everything that will come now, I want you in it," John nudged him lightly. He knew he was being almost delusional, that things wouldn't be easier just because he had said the words. There would be pain and awkwardness and he would feel absent and lost, but he had to try. "Do you get it?"

Sherlock just nodded.

"Good," John said, with his throat tight.


An hour later, they were all reunited in Mrs Hudson's living room, saying their goodbyes after what ended up being a great night. John was still feeling the buzz Sherlock's words had left in his ear. He looked at him while he hugged Mary and thought about how he wished to listen to Sherlock's violin again. He couldn't help the melancholy at that thought. It wouldn't be the same thing.

Mrs Reid hugged him tightly, patting his cheek and complementing his writing skills once more. She demanded to know about any new cases immediately and told them that the fans missed them. They aren't the only ones, John thought, and once more, he was sure Sherlock had listened. He was presented with one of his little secretive smiles.

Mrs Hudson told him in no uncertain terms that he ought to come by more frequently. Hugging Mary, she told her to force John to come visit. Mary winked at him knowingly. He was sure he wouldn't hear the end of it, but it didn't matter. He didn't need to be forced to do anything.

Mary, Mrs Hudson, and Mrs Reid walked to the door, exchanging numbers and talking about the wedding. They said their goodbyes with a promise that Mrs Reid would surely be on the guest list of their wedding. Obviously.

John and Sherlock ended up alone in the hallway for a moment.

"You never got to show me those crime scene photos, after all," John said, and smiled.

Sherlock smiled back. It was a good a view. "You could come by tomorrow to see them, if you'd like. I'd like you to."

"Yes, sounds good," John said while they walked to the door.

"Good," Sherlock answered.

Mrs Hudson and Mrs Reid had already said their last goodbyes to Mary and John and went back to Mrs Hudson's. Mary was flagging a cab.

"Good night, John", Sherlock said, awkwardly. John could swear there was a bit of reluctance in his tone, or maybe it was just the echo of his own feelings. It was still strange to leave 221B. He asked himself if he was ever going to get used to it.

He wouldn't know what led him to do it, but John lifted his left hand and squeezed the back of Sherlock's neck lightly, surprising both of them. Before he could stop himself, he rubbed his thumb over the smooth skin, thinking that Sherlock had absolutely no right to feel that warm in February.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said, letting his hand fall on his side. He could still feel the warmth in them. The sudden burning made him want to fidget. He flexed his fingers instinctively.

"Yes," Sherlock said and his voice seemed strained, but John didn't trust himself to look at him again. He was afraid he would do something crazy like trying to hug Sherlock or something like that.

John closed the door behind him and walked over to the cab that was pulling over. He fought back the urge to stare at the door uselessly.


I gave up having one certain day of the week to update this. real life gets in the way. so I'll try to update every week, but it will be a surprise! sorry for that, but it's the best I can do :D

As always, thanks to my beta.. And you - yeah, you - come talk to me on tumblr about this plot! (it's on my profile page here)