John Watson's short, bitter war began with the taste of blood.

The nightmare was like so many others, dark and vivid. The streets were slick, each twisting alley empty but for himself and the sound of receding footfalls.

In the dream John ran toward those sounds, splashing through muddy puddles, slip-sliding on rubbish, and every time he was close, rounding a corner to the near-click of those sharp heels, they'd retreat down another pitch-black lane.

He never got any closer to what he was trying to reach.

It took years before John realized he'd spent a lifetime doing that, running toward something, never knowing quite what. For awhile he thought he'd found it in his mates, but they grew up, grew distant. He thought he'd found it as a doctor, then in the army. And then a bullet taught him that the only thing he'd found was distraction.

And then, and then, and always then…there was Sherlock.

And finally John knew what he'd been running toward. Six feet one half inch of purpose. One man, one place where he could make a difference and see the difference he made. Here he could do more than slap a plaster over a wound and hope, here he could actually watch his touch heal. He was able to take things profoundly broken—two hearts—and make them whole.

Yet bad habits are hard to break, and sometimes they come back to haunt you. Too familiar with running toward something, John went to war with his purpose. It's happened only lately, as he's got older, maybe a little too self-reflective. "You're just his shadow, John. You're second. You're less."

At first these pointless battles were small and easily won. Fuck you, he'd tell himself, short and sweet. Because damn it, someone had to think the dull thoughts, get the milk, pay the bills, remember the keys and the coats.

Except…except…

John watched how people look at Sherlock, he'd see their awe, an expression he recognized through and through because he still wears it and damn it maybe that was the problem. Even after a dozen years he was still amazed at how high Sherlock flew and sometimes, just sometimes, oh dear god sometimes he wanted to overtake him, fly higher.

It was childish, a malaise with no true source, a thing that—so long as he didn't do anything rash—could be coped with by simply coping.

The problem was Sherlock went and did something awful at maybe exactly the worst moment, and so John went and did something worse and ended up pulling them both from the sky.

Which brought John here, dreaming of the dark, of darting down an alley after a shadow he couldn't catch, and biting his tongue so hard it bled, that sharp, bitter taste waking him even before the pain.

Then, eyes flying wide, heart pounding frantic in his chest, John suddenly knew what would happen next. He'd asked Steven for that, begged for guidance the older man couldn't give, but waking to a cold dawn John knew. He absolutely knew.

He would go back.

Because here's the thing. John lived nearly forty years without Sherlock. Eventually John became Dr. Watson, then Captain Watson. He became someone respected, accomplished. Waking up in that grey light he realized that for years he'd done it, he'd damn well soared. But then he met Sherlock and learned what flight was really like.

Three days ago, when he was clattering down the stairs of 221B, the sound of his footfalls loud and heavy, John had been screaming, in his head screaming. No, never, not again. This time no.

He'd been fueled on fury and pain, he'd been anxious to dredge up every wrong that had been done to him by the person he loved beyond all others, and he'd run toward no, never, not again, thinking that it meant we are through, this has done us in.

Excuse the drama queen.

We've all got one, as a therapist I saw it often enough. When hurt just so, every last one of us has the capacity to revert to our most childish self, do things we've long out-grown.

Well blah blah blah.

What Sherlock did could indeed have done them in. What John did in response could have finished them off if Sherlock's betrayal hadn't. But some things are tougher than other things. A footfall may crush a flower, but do nothing to a stone.

Waking on the morning of the third day after he'd gone, John Watson looked at the pale wash of light across the walls of Annie and Steven's guest room, and John at last gave up his small and silent war.

And then John hoped, and John prayed that maybe, just maybe, his marriage was a stone.

…

Many call it Regent's Park…

That's what Sherlock said, two days after he and John first met, when the tall man with the good coat was attempting to entice his new short friend to tarry at 221B.

"—but in fact it's officially called The Regent's park after, of course, the prince regent." Which prince that might be, Sherlock did not say. "Encompassing 410 acres—166 hectares, if you prefer—the park has over 200 species of bird, including nesting herons and peregrine falcon."

John didn't know then that Sherlock had spent the last day and a half Googling London, looking for just such minutiae, thinking the best way to convince John to stay was to offer him amenities such as—

"—the Anchor & Pear is fifty seven steps from 221B and has the distinction of having won awards three years running for best, best, um—" He may have done the research but not all the dull facts stuck. "—quizzes! Quiz nights. They, do a thing, a quiz thing and apparently they win awards for it. So there's that."

And so it had gone for an entire weekend.

"—and it's been voted London's spiciest Thai—"

"—the city's finest cappuccino—"

"—the widest selection of erotic magazines."

Sherlock had even taken John to a shop that made bespoke canes. "In case you'd like something nicer than army-issue."

And yet somehow, though it was almost literally across the street from the flat, Sherlock had left the park until last, the only amenity they looked at that John thought actually was one.

"—containing an open-air theatre—"

At the time John didn't know that Sherlock had spent perhaps thirty minutes in that park his entire life. ("I can't think with all the quiet," he admitted months later, when his new lover suggested a walk while they went over the clues of a case.)

"—a half dozen cafes, restaurants, and shops—"

Over the river they went, beneath willows, walking round geese and ducks. They had coffee in the Hub and later John told Sherlock that he'd sat in that little glass building as if master of all he surveyed, a benign ruler offering the charms of his kingdom to its newest subject.

"—and do you fish, John? Yes, well you can't here anyway, but the park waterways contain carp, stickleback—"

Later John would know that Sherlock knew less about London in some ways than he himself did, and that what he had really done was not research London so much as deduce John and then tailor his investigation toward his new flatmate's tastes.

"—whether you're 8 or 80, the Park's rugby, football, and softball activities are, I understand—"

It really didn't take long for John to twig to what was going on. Sometimes people wonder at the speed of their friendship, how they became so inseparable so quickly, and John thinks it's as simple as this: Being curious, deducing, observing aren't just the skills of a consulting detective—they're the province of all things human. The thing is, we're each of us curious about different things and right from the start John was curious about Sherlock and Sherlock was curious about John and frankly lifelong relationships have been founded on far less.

But from the start John and Sherlock had far more.

John Watson had a cell-deep need to be needed. A man does not turn to medicine and then to the service without wanting to be of use. Unemployed, unfocused, John was left with that cell-deep need but no one that needed what he had to give. Then there was Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes needed to be seen. Genius can't function in a vacuum, or at least this genius couldn't. Without someone to see that he saw, that he saw what they didn't…well the seeing lost its allure. People think he wants the puzzle of the case, the challenge of clues, but that's only part of it. Above all Sherlock needs to be noticed. And then there was John.

And then beyond this—which was enough, more than enough—they shared a taste for adrenalin, for the dark, for early morning alleys where the only sounds were their own footfalls and the skitter of rats in bins. They craved a certain sort of…it wasn't really danger, just risk. It was the need to move quick, think quick, stay one step ahead. They craved challenge really, the frantic heart-pound of flight.

And though they didn't consciously know it those first weeks, John and Sherlock had love. Almost right from the start and right down to their bones they loved one another for no other reason than that they just did.

This is my way of saying that Regent's park—all right, The Regent's Park—means a lot to my boys. In some ways it's where they began. Began discovering each other, began falling in love, began a dance they'd dance for the rest of their long lives together.

So I wasn't surprised when, on the morning of the third day that John was gone a text was sent…

Regent's?

…and within seconds answered:

I'm already there.

…

Sherlock didn't hurry.

He still does, mind you. Dashing down stairs and through doors, he flits and flitters his way through life most days but sometimes he doesn't, sometimes he moves sweet and slow because John's taught him that. "Close your eyes so you can hear," John'll say, "stop your ears so you can see. Stand still and feel, damn it."

So yes, Sherlock's learned how to take time sometimes, and thirty seconds after he'd read one word three times, he stood very still in the middle of that park and, coat collar up, gloved hands fisted at his sides, he looked toward a pretty bridge not too far away, his heart flying along at nearly one hundred beats a minute—John told him once the heart beats that fast during orgasm—and he breathed open-mouthed and so quick he was light-headed.

And standing there Sherlock knew one very important, precious thing.

I will let him break me.

In his hand was a stone. The stone was smooth, and about as big as the first joint of his thumb. He could feel it pressing into the center of his palm as he carefully fisted his hand around it.

I will let him make me fit.

Yet bad habits are easy to acquire, most especially when you come by them young.

When still a boy Sherlock learned how to cope with being alone. He learned the art of pushing pain away, self-talking through sadness. He learned that being loud and demanding distracted from everything that hurt, and that was good, that was fine, that was of use. Problems only came because he never unlearned these things.

The stone was Sherlock's reminder that that time was done. Taken from beside a grave —it was black like her marker and some part of Sherlock imagined he carried part of her now, just as she had carried so much of him—the stone reminded him that he was done being imperious, done being dramatic, forceful, demanding, him.

I will be better.

He was ready, he was willing, and he hoped very much that he was able to be more. To be good.

Heart drumming against his breastbone Sherlock walked toward the Longbridge. And though he wouldn't hurry, he knew he'd be there long before John. But he would wait patiently. So patiently.

Sherlock would be good.

…

John's got a memory for minutiae. Many doctors learn the skill, some better than others. You look at a patient's face and over time that face becomes a repository of symptoms, medications, fears and foibles. Eventually all you have to do is glance at an old woman you've not seen in three years and unbidden comes: asthmatic; four cats who sleep on the bed; stubbornly resisting a cane, like captions at the bottom of a TV screen.

Walking through Regent's John saw the park that way, captioned everywhere with the things he and Sherlock had done.

One new-moon night they'd danced in the dark in the bandstand near the college, both of them trying desperately to stave off the black dog after a case gone terribly wrong.

Then just over there, by the patch that frills up with daffodils come summer, John had whiled away an afternoon putting tiny daisies in Sherlock's hair while the good detective stretched out with a case file.

In the middle of the park, pretty much on top of the Hub, sex not once, but three times, each time after John promised himself they'd stop before they were caught but considering the most recent giggling rooftop fuck had happened just three months previous it was clear this was a promise John never meant to keep.

Yes, that, John thought, staring at the trees, seeing the past, seeing the foolish things, the fine things, the care and the carelessness and knowing that he wanted more, so much more.

Not far now, almost within sighting distance, almost, almost…and then there he was, a dozen metres away, a tall man standing in the middle of Longbridge and John stopped dead, heart suddenly pounding fast and furious.

He'll know. He'll see.

Sherlock can literally detect a hair out of place. He once deduced a suspect's height, heaviness, handedness, and weapon of choice with nothing more than a half-inch smudge spied high on a window pane. He hears a hitch in someone's breathing, smells a trace of camphor on a jumper, he damn well tastes and touches his way to revelation.

He would know what John had done.

Everyone'll tell you that John's the kinder, the braver, the better and the best in this marriage. He's stronger, wiser, he's a cut above. Everyone will damn well tell you this.

Everyone's a liar.

Because suddenly John again tasted blood because again he'd bitten his tongue. Except now it was a wide-awake nightmare, watching as pavement gave way to slats of wood and then he was there, at the foot of a bridge on which he knew, he positively, absolutely knew he was about to break a fine man's heart.

Oh god I'm talking too much, but there's so much to tell and too many words bunched up in my skull. I know that when the boys are gone things will be said, myths made, facts forgotten and the thing is…I need you to know: This is their truth. This is their why and how and when.

And this is their now: John Watson with eyes shut quick-tight, afraid to lift his head, suddenly certain that what would come next would be worse than what had already gone.

John may not always be braver, but he is brave. So one breath, two, maybe ten, and finally, at the foot of that bridge, John Watson looked up. At the foot of that bridge John opened his eyes.

And at the center of that bridge stood Sherlock Holmes, eyes closed.

…

He's taller.

Walking slow toward his husband, John shook his head. How can a tall man who always stands tall be taller? How can one who's always looked manly suddenly look like a man?

John loves novels, even the occasional bit of poetry, but he's never believed you can read regret in the lift of a chin, find forgiveness in the cool depth of someone's eyes. No, John Watson's a big believer in words. Words clarify, inform, they're there for a reason and that reason is this: There's a whole lot less guessing when people just damn well say what they mean.

But.

A body can read a body. John learned that right then. As he came beside Sherlock he knew that in the last three days great shifts had taken place, that the man he'd known for twelve years was gone. And that he was more. That he was stronger, weaker, older, better, infinitely more delicate.

If John had been someone common he'd have touched the gloved hand resting on the rail. He'd have reached up, turned that shaggy head to look in pale eyes. But John's as uncommon as men come and he knows something no one else does: The language of Sherlock.

It's a rare language that one, full of odd gestures and ticks, unusual words and words with sly meaning. Yet right from the start John knew this tongue and had for years been its sole interpreter.

Sherlock would not look at him.

Because Sherlock didn't want to see.

Tell me what is, that downcast gaze said, tell me my new truths. Everything you say I will believe.

And so John did.

Yet John actually said little. He's not a good liar, John Watson. Hell, when he's nervous sometimes even his truths sound false.

But John said what needed saying. He lied by omission, and instead of admitting his own sins, he absolved Sherlock of his. And John said I was wrong. I missed you. I need you. I love you. And I will never leave again.

As John fell silent, Sherlock took a quick breath, nodded once. He jerked his head to the side, then made a gesture with each hand in turn.

A knot loosened in John's chest. Sherlock was shifting facts, getting rid of bad data. He was making room in his mind palace for everything John had said. Another quick nod, a twitch and…

Head canon accepted.

Finally Sherlock Holmes turned from that rail and he looked his husband in the eye, but the man who'll outlive god having the last word seemed to have none.

Well that was just fine. There'd be thousands of words soon, and upon spying the butterfly plaster on Sherlock's cheek, the half dozen cuts littering that pretty face, John got them off to a fine, fine start by beginning an argument that had them bickering the entire ten minute walk home.

"You little shit, you better not have broken my favourite tea mug."

Whew. Hopefully that final line diffused some tension. Lots of words—and the conclusion—are on their way.