31
When John got home, Mary was in the process of knitting a blanket. Sewing and knitting were among Mary's talents, and she often did one or the other when she needed peace of mind. At the sound of his footsteps she looked up from her needles.
"For the baby," she said, presenting him with a strained smile. "Our daughter, not Sherlock," she added teasingly. The smile he returned was also strained, but for entirely different reasons.
Breathing deeply, John sat down next to Mary on the couch. Gently he took her hands in his. "There's something I need to tell you," he said. Mary watched him curiously, with eyes that were almost a reflection of his own, a calm gray-blue. Nothing like the vivacious hues of Sherlock's irises. Cut it out, he scolded himself.
Focusing on the matter at hand, John let an honest grin split his lips. Mary grinned back at him before she even knew what she was supposed to be smiling about. Then,
"Moriarty… isn't back from the dead. You're safe—we're all safe."
Mary froze. Her widened eyes jumped between his.
Beaming, Mary gave a joyful cry and lunged the small distance to her husband. The half-knit blanket and needles fell to the floor unnoticed. Mary clung to John and he wrapped tight arms around her.
When she finally had the strength to draw away, John watched without judgment as she ridded herself of the tears that had stained her cheeks. As an afterthought he said, "Oh, and Sherlock apologizes for not telling us sooner."
"What? How long has he known?"
John sighed. "The whole time."
"The whole time? For God's sake, that man-"
"I know, I know. We discussed it," he told her, smirking despite himself. He reached out and ran his hands tenderly up and down her arms. "Apparently you were being investigated as a possible culprit behind the video."
Mary gawped at him. "What? But I didn't—Does Sherlock know that I didn't do it?"
"He made it clear that your name's been crossed off the list."
Mary nodded, her expression turning contemplative. John waited patiently as she sorted through the bombshell he'd just dropped on her. After a moment, Mary hesitantly met her husband's eyes.
"So…" she began. "What does this mean for us, John?"
The doctor's head tilted downwards, and he watched his thumbs methodically brush over the smooth skin of Mary's hands. Recent memories quickly leapt to mind. Steeling himself, he looked back up.
"That's the other thing we need to discuss," he said. John meant to continue, but he fell speechless, lost in her clever gaze. It was clear that Mary knew exactly what was coming.
He cleared his throat. That didn't relieve him of the duty to say it.
"Mary, I think…" John said slowly, "I think we both know this isn't working. You and me. And not just because of recent events. Even before that. Only a month in and I was miserable. I was making you miserable."
"John," she protested.
"Just—hear me out." He took a deep breath. "I thought that this was what I wanted. A quiet, no-nonsense life with you. I truly believed that, but it… it didn't work. It was wrong from the beginning. Not because I don't love you. I do love you, Mary, truly. Against my better judgment, I do."
A hand cupped Mary's cheek and she leaned into it. John's stomach twisted. He hated this, hated all of it, every bloody moment. Even after all that Mary had done, he cared for her. He didn't want to hurt her. But he had to do what was right and honest for all their sakes.
"I'm not suited for civilian life. That's the truth. And it's more than that, I…" John's mouth hung open, the words failing to tumble from his tongue.
"I know," came Mary's whisper. Despite the way her heart was filling with emptiness, she bore a brave smile. "I know, John."
"I need him," he finally uttered. The profound truth of the statement swooped through his gut like a jet, but he felt the better for it. For the first time in months he knew he was making the right choice, he knew that his instincts were leading him true. "And he needs me. I can't be… here… when I'm supposed to be there."
Mary nodded her acceptance, unable to speak. John's heart squeezed tighter. Surely something inside of him would burst from the unbearable pressure any moment now.
Sensing his eyes growing misty, John placed a hand on the back of Mary's head and drew her into his arms. Lips by her ear, he whispered, "God, I love you, Mary, I'm so sorry. I am truly sorry."
John took his wife's face gently in his hands. "I still want to be part of your life," he said passionately. "Not just our daughter's, yours too. I want to raise her together, like we planned. Things will just be a bit… different now. But I care about you, and her, and we'll always be a family, yeah? This doesn't change that. Will you give me that, Mary?"
Mary's eyes roamed the familiar territory of his face as if memorizing every line, every crease, every shadow. "Yes," she said. "Yes, of course." She placed a hand on her stomach. "We wouldn't have it any other way."
When John leaned forward and touched his lips to hers, both parties understood: it was a goodbye kiss.
"I'll come by every day," he promised, rising from the couch. "Okay?"
Mary managed a smile for him. "We'll look forward to your visits."
Imparting one last smile, John was out the door of the Watson house that was no longer the Watson home.
32
The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. Sherlock's brow crinkled. He knew that tread. He rose to his feet just as John came through the door.
"Why are you… here?" asked Sherlock cautiously. When he'd sent John away earlier that day, he hadn't expected to see his friend again only hours later. John was meant to go home, reassure Mary, celebrate with her, and presumably begin planning their free-from-Moriarty future together. What was he doing back at 221B?
"There's something I need to know," John said bluntly.
"Surely it can wait," replied Sherlock, almost laughing. "Shouldn't you be with Mary? Perhaps arranging a fancy dinner reservation to celebrate?"
"Nope. It can't wait," John said, crossing closer to him. "I need to know if I'm just imagining things, or if this is exactly what I think it is."
Sherlock's eyebrow rose. "John, flattering though your faith in me is, I am not, in fact, a mind reader."
The next second Sherlock's eyes widened considerably, his retorts instantly wilting away as John grabbed his left hand and twined their fingers together. The shorter man stepped closer. Sherlock did no more than stare in utter shock.
John felt unexpectedly calm. He was nervous, certainly, and his heart was beating like a drum inside his chest, but not once did he consider backing down. He was tired of ignoring the issue or beating around the bush. Once and for all they would have the truth between them. They would finally face the elephant in the room.
"Do you want this?" John asked quietly, far past invading Sherlock's personal space. "Me?"
For a few seconds Sherlock appeared to be encountering an internal error, much like when John had asked him to be Best Man. Luckily the genius broke free much quicker this time around. Clicking his tongue, Sherlock let his mouth fall open.
"John-" His voice was practically a croak. A relieved smile lit John's face. Further flustered, Sherlock fell silent again.
Gently, so as not to startle the younger man, John pulled Sherlock's hand towards his lips. He kissed the back of the hand, lingering there and observing Sherlock's reaction all throughout. He skimmed his lips across Sherlock's knuckles, letting his eyes fall closed.
Opening them again, he lowered their hands and met Sherlock's still-in-shock gaze. "That's what I want, Sherlock," he said. "You and me. Like that. Because, funny enough, it turns out that I am… completely in love with you."
Sherlock's jaw clenched, and John was willing to bet anything that it was done to control the glistening in his eyes, the one that promised tears.
"And what I want to know is," he continued, "when you said goodbye to me on that runway, were you just telling me your name or did you mean something else?"
The consulting detective was uncomfortably aware of the organ located inside his rib cage—so focused on its movements, in fact, that the rest of his mind was uncharacteristically quiet. He felt every beat of his pulse like a metronome.
"Am I alone in this or not?"
"But…" Sherlock stammered, finally remembering the convenient tool of communication called language. "Mary."
"We had a chat," John told him. "The marriage is over."
"What? Why?"
"It wasn't working. Simple as that."
His eyes narrowed dubiously. "'Simple' is not a word I'd consider apt to describe any part of your situation. Was it because of her actions towards me?"
"What, you mean like shooting you in the chest, almost killing you, and threatening to finish the job later?" said John tightly. He let out a tense huff. "No. Even before any of that, I knew it would end. It was only a matter of time."
"I don't understand."
"You don't have to understand all of it. Just one thing."
"What?"
"That even without the lies, Mary wasn't the one I wanted. I've forgiven her, Sherlock," he explained, willing Sherlock to hear him, to understand. "So I'm not coming to you as some sort of… back-up plan. You aren't my second choice. You're my first. I chose you because I love you. More than anyone else."
The hand in John's squeezed viciously, without its owner even being aware, John wagered. The soldier had never before seen such total vulnerability in Sherlock's youthful eyes. All he wanted to do was stretch upwards and press their lips together. John had always preferred to let his actions speak louder than his words.
But this was important, and before John acted on his impulses he was going to lay it all out. Because while anyone else might have understood all the unspoken words behind a kiss, this was the man who hadn't known he was John's best friend until it was explicitly stated. The man who hadn't seemed fazed in the slightest by Magnussen's implication that John's only pressure point was Mary, that John cared more for Mary than for Sherlock. Something that wasn't even close to the truth, and Sherlock had so clearly believed it, even before Magnussen voiced it.
Well. There was to be no more of that. He was going to say everything so that Sherlock couldn't possibly misunderstand. Then he could kiss him.
"All I've wanted to do since I got married was to come back here," he went on. "And that was long before I discovered the truth about Mary. I need you. I need… to be here, with you. And I'm hoping that you need the same thing, otherwise I'll have to find myself a new flatmate. And since I couldn't possibly get as lucky as I did with my first one…" John cocked a teasing eyebrow. To his great joy, Sherlock did indeed chuckle.
"What do you say?" he asked softly. "Will you have me?"
"John… are you… absolutely certain this is what you want?" the junkie asked huskily. "There are things I will never give to you-"
"You think I don't know that?" John laughed. "I spent two years living with you, remember. I know exactly what it entails. I'm not asking you to be someone different—just the same annoying dick I've known for four years."
Sherlock grimaced, as though he wanted to smile at the comforting insult but other thoughts spoiled the smile before it could come to fruition.
Finally Sherlock replied, "I'm afraid that if I were… to lose you, should you change your mind down the road and leave—quite understandably, of course…" Sherlock's eyes flicked to John, glowing with hurt at the imaginary pain. "My heart would be irreparably broken."
John had never loved Sherlock more than in that moment. The admittance must have cost the consulting detective a good deal of his pride and well-learned caution. The fact that he was willing to reveal so much of his heart to John gave the blogger a greater sense of accomplishment than anything else in his life ever had.
"That will never happen," vowed John. "I belong at your side, Sherlock, nowhere else. I know what I'm signing up for, and I also know that it's exactly what I want."
Sherlock searched his friend's eyes. What for, he wasn't sure. He didn't believe John was lying. But something inside of Sherlock refused to accept the obvious conclusion staring him in the face. After all, how could this really be happening? The one thing that Sherlock desired most was coming true? There had to be some trick. Just a magic trick.
But it wasn't. Sherlock's brilliant mind couldn't disavow the truth for long, not with so much evidence piling up. And the truth was, John loved him. John wanted to come home. John wanted to be with him, presumably for the remainder of their lives.
Though… John hadn't actually said that. And while the implication was clear, Sherlock didn't trust anything other than hard, spoken facts right now.
"For how long?" he asked.
John's lips curled upwards. It wasn't hard to see through the younger Holmes. He answered simply, "Forever, Sherlock."
Every muscle in Sherlock's face—no, his entire body, relaxed as he was filled with exaltation. The room settled back into an accustomed ease between the two best friends.
A familiar smirk planted itself on Sherlock's lips. "'Forever' isn't a legitimate measure of time," he lectured. "It is, therefore, completely meaningless. It's generally taken to mean 'infinity,' but I can assure you that neither of us will live quite so long. Perhaps what you actually meant was 'for the rest of our lives'?"
"Which in your case is growing shorter by the minute," was John's snarky response. A full stretched-across-both-cheeks grin splintered the detective's playful façade. The rare and beautiful sight wrenched John's intestines, and he couldn't resist any longer.
Taking Sherlock's face between his hands, John leaned forward. He enjoyed a split moment of sensing Sherlock freeze in surprise when their mouths touched for the first time. Sensitive to the circumstances, John's first kiss was gentle. He quickly removed his lips from Sherlock's, waiting for a sign of Sherlock's reaction.
A hand grabbed the back of his head, and Sherlock yanked John into another kiss, far less calm than the first. John gasped as their mouths collided. Sherlock's lips moved insistently against his and—Jesus, where had Sherlock learned to kiss like this?! Satisfied vibrations ran through John's body and he pressed himself closer.
The doctor was half-breathless when Sherlock released him. Sherlock's hand held his cheek tenderly and he stared into John's eyes like they held the answer to the world's greatest puzzle.
But all John could think to say was, "How on earth are you able to kiss like that?" He surveyed his friend—lover? boyfriend? life partner? What was the proper term now? he wondered—with bafflement. Of all the things John had expected Sherlock to have expertise in, this never even came close to the list.
Sherlock chuckled. "My imagination has had ample time to perfect the theories involved."
"Theories my arse, Sherlock Holmes," John shot back. "What are you, a bloody kissogram in your spare time? People pay for action like that." John's eyes bulged as he heard his own words. Cringing, he put up a finger. "We're going to pretend those words were never spoken."
Smiling amusedly—and seeming quite pleased with himself, John noted—Sherlock raised his second hand to John's face.
"What words?" he teased, before bending down for another kiss.
33
"Hoo-hoo, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson called, knocking on the door later that afternoon. She nudged the door open with her good hip, carrying a tray with refreshments into 221B.
"I've brought-"
Mrs. Hudson stopped when two heads turned towards her, one in each armchair. "Oh hello, John," she greeted cheerfully. "I've only got enough for one, I'm afraid. I wasn't expecting you. Weren't you here just this morning?"
"Well…" John said, awkwardly clearing his throat. "Yes. In fact, I should tell you that I'm going to be here permanently. From now on."
The landlady grew sympathetic. "Are you and Mary having trouble again?"
"We've separated, actually."
Mrs. Hudson tsked, shaking her head. "Oh, John." She walked over to him, patting his shoulder supportively. "I'm sorry, dear, I know how hard it can be. But things will get better, don't you worry. Just give it time."
John smiled. "I appreciate the kind words, Mrs. Hudson, but there's no need to worry about me. Things are already better." He was unable to keep his eyes from turning towards Sherlock. The men shared a surreptitious smile.
Mrs. Hudson didn't miss a second of it. She observed everything between the consulting detective and his blogger, her heart swelling at what she found there.
Turning away to hide her inappropriately excessive joy, Mrs. Hudson made her way into the kitchen. My boys, back together, she thought giddily, setting down the tray of biscuits and iced tea.
A/N: Don't worry, the story isn't over or anything. This is only a subplot really, not the endgame. Lots more to come!