Stress Fractures

by baillierj

Sequel to "The Road of Bones". Sherlock has barely recovered from major surgery when a death in the family turns his life into chaos again. John, who has been trying to adjust to the changing nature of their relationship, is left reeling from the impact as well. [Please note that I no longer add my new stories to this website; you can find my latest fics only at AO3.]

11. The things that define us

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Stress Fractures

by J Baillier

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CHAPTER 11/11 - The things that define us

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It is love, not reason, that is stronger than death.

- Thomas Mann

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Our coats flap in the brisk wind as we wander down the paths of St Peter's Cemetery. Sherlock is reading aloud names from gravestones while we walk. He points out that nobody famous is from Woodmansterne. I remind him that there's a very famous consulting detective who's native to this village.

We pause in front of the newest of the graves in this old churchyard. It's Mycroft's. The ornamental flowers left by the mourners now look withered and sad. The grave has been covered with fresh dirt and the headstone looks painfully new.

I bite my lip. During the past week, we've been discussing family. Expectations. Responsibilities. Sherlock has admitted to worrying that his parents now might expect more of him now that he's their only surviving child. To take care of them. Not to get into trouble.

He admitted to being frustrated because he can't seem to let go of certain things in the past. I made him a promise not to fuss over him too much. He promised to let me indulge in worrying about him every once in awhile. From Sherlock that's a big thing.

This thing with Waldegrave I will probably never get. A test of some sorts, an experiment? Maybe he was curious, flattered or both. Or perhaps it was a way to get me to break this long-term status quo of ours relationship-wise. That would be a very, very Sherlock way in which to manipulate others to do what he wants. Or maybe he doesn't know himself. Maybe he needed to make sure I was not a filler of voids of some kind, a replacement. That his sudden wish to take this leap with me was not borne out of illness or grief.

Maybe I needed to know that, too.

"We are not our parents. We're not our childhood. We can choose not to let our past define our lives," I tell him.

My thoughts float to another churchyard in Chelmsford where my parents are buried. I rarely visit. Harry is supposed to look after their graves. She's probably neglecting it. She has even more of a grudge to carry than me.

He gives me a sideways glance. "Are you trying to claim you never let your childhood affect your choice of vocation? Trying to save people, sometimes from themselves?"

I have shared with him the story of my childhood - the drinking, Mum's mental health issues, the two years spent in foster homes, Dad beating up Harry when he discovered she wasn't 'like all the decent girls'. I told Sherlock of how I'd decided not to let all that baggage ruin my relationships, how I decided to believe that real love and romance and happiness could exist instead of this ugly thing my parents had referred to as love and marriage.

"You can turn bad stuff into good things," I tell him. The wind is biting into my neck and I pull up my collars. Sherlock's are already upturned.

"You think I should think fondly of Mycroft." He seems to notice the remains of his calla lilies leaning onto the gravestone and frowns but doesn't say anything.

"I can't tell you to do that. Only you can decide to do so. I just hope you won't let that stuff cloud your judgement again. Keep you from getting the things you want because you think everyone's agenda is to keep you on a leash. I don't think Mycroft did the things he did out of spite. I think he was, in his weird way, just trying to look after you."

"You think I'm making the right decision about the inheritance?" he asks. He told me last night he's decided to accept it.

"He'd want you to have it. He's still trying to make things easier for you. Let him."

Sherlock looks out into the distance, over the hedges and the now brownish lawns.

"Do you miss your parents?" he asks, looking at the gravestone now.

"They're my folks. Yeah, I miss them like hell. My life is a lot better without them but I miss them. Blood thicker than water and all that."

He looks thoughtful. He's likely still thinking about Mycroft. Sherrinford too, probably. He's lost so much. We both have.

I pluck up the courage to step closer to Sherrinford's grave. Sherlock lets out a breath and joins me in front of the weather-worn, small stone.

Sherlock leans down to touch it with his forefinger. It's a strange gesture from a man who by reputation detests sentiment, but a completely natural one from the Sherlock that I have now learned to know.

"When we were little I heard a skein of cranes out in the fields for the first time. Mycroft told me they were the souls of the dead coming to collect all stupid litle naughty boys, of which i was of course the worst," he says with a bitter smile and lets out a hollow laugh. His left hand flies up to his eye as he hastily wipes away any moisture threatening to ruin his composure.

I snake the fingers of my left hand into his right hand. He gives them a slight squeeze and I expect him to gently pull his hand away. He doesn't.

To an outsider it might look like it's us like we've always been, the two best friends with strangely non-existent personal boundaries.

It's not like that anymore. Everything is different. We're different.

"Big brothers, eh? I once teased Harry so much she punched me in the gut. She had a meaner right hook at age six than me at age ten."

Sherlock turns to look at me with this one particular expression that he awards me with when I manage to amuse or impress him. His eyes linger on me, appraising. "You stare at me more than you used to."

"And?"

"Just an observation," he replies, the edge of his lip curling up slightly.

I almost can't believe he's mine now. Or that he's been mine for a long time already.

I look at him and my heart swells. In this moment we're invincible. We're forever.

To others he looks the same as always, but it's these bits of him that I've only recently been allowed to see change the light in which I see the man. To outsiders Sherlock often seems cold, evasive and distant. I can now appreciate how it's a mask he has carefully constructed.

I am honoured to be the only one who knows what it's like to wake up ensnared in his limbs and watching him frown when I kiss him goodmorning. And I am even more honoured to be the only one who knows you can use his earlobes to render him utterly speechless.

It is a grave responsibility that he's given me. With this intimate knowledge of him I would have the perfect ammunition to hurt him, hurt him worse than Moriarty, worse than anyone. But I never would. And that is exactly why I'm the one who is allowed to see the real Sherlock.

He gently leans against me and my smile widens. We stand there for a time, none of us caring exactly how long.

I don't know if we'll ever come back to this churchyard again. Sherlock is not someone who would consider it important to carry regular offerings to graves.

There's nothing more here for us to discover so we start walking out.

I grin as we leave through the metal gates. Sherlock raises his brows questioningly.

"I'm imagining what it would be like if there were still two brothers like you around," I tell him.

He flashes me a smile. "I think you could handle that., Captain Watson."

"Sure I could, but I just want the one."

- The End -