Hope.

Hope.

Endlessly fragile and crushingly debilitating.

Our daughter is right.

Sherlock had gone over it a thousand times, looked for every permutation of meaning.

Our daughter.

Did that mean John would allow Sherlock to still see Ava? Was it a binding promise or simply habit to refer to Ava as theirs? Or pity? His texts had been pathetic at times, perhaps John had simply been overcome with sympathy and had intended his text as a pick-me-up-

He hadn't sent it. Why hadn't it been sent?

Why had he written it?

In the hours before he could turn up at the prison, Sherlock was aware he was obsessing over the text.

What did John mean by saying Ava was right that he was brilliant?

Was that good? It sounded good…

Frustrated, Sherlock slammed his cup down on the table and then winced at how loud the noise was. He paused, listening for the patter of curious feet scampering down the stairs.

Nothing.

At least Ava was starting to sleep better.

He could tell John that, show how well he had done-

Act like a dog that could perform tricks? That was truly pathetic.

He needed to…to sleep or do something. Find a murder, distract himself.

Apart from the fact that would mean calling Lestrade and begging him for a case, which would mean questions. The man was becoming truly irritating with all of his mutterings and advice.

It seemed Lestrade had decided to become his self-appointed therapist.

Maybe he would have some ideas-

Absolutely not.

Standing, Sherlock paced the length of the flat. What the hell was wrong with him that he was actually considering allowing Lestrade to see the self-indulgent drivel he'd sent to John's phone?

It was only four.

Perhaps he could claim there was a case, or use Mycroft to demand an early visit. It was his brother's fault, after all, that he was a walking mess at the moment.

No. That was desperate, too desperate. John would know-

As if he could fall further in John's eyes.

There did have to be some limits. Besides, what would he say-

What would he say?

That hadn't even occurred to him. Feeling the adrenaline slow as if he were drying clay, Sherlock sank down onto the chair at the dining table.

What did he say?

His mind went utterly blank.

That never happened. What did people do when they failed to think? Perhaps there was a strategy or a reboot technique…

Anderson might know.

Probably wouldn't share it. Certainly not with Sherlock.

He couldn't back-track and save his pride by dismissing the sentimentality as foolish ramblings, as that would suggest to John that Sherlock didn't want him and nothing could be further from the truth. But if he pushed, it might cause John to shut down again. Or John might be infuriated that Sherlock was still hopeful they could reconcile, or he might-

Sherlock stood again.

Pointless. The exercise was utterly pointless, he gained nothing from it. Until he saw John and until he knew what John thought about the texts he couldn't begin to formulate a plan.

Plan? Was that the right word? That would probably send the wrong-

This time he collapsed on the sofa, groaning.

He was starting to bore himself.

In the end he asked Mycroft for the private room. Even enduring owing Mycroft a favour was worth being able to talk to John properly.

Nervousness was not something that Sherlock was well acquainted with. Before John he'd rarely had any reason to become nervous; it was rare he cared for the opinions of others and he hardly wasted time worrying about them.

It was insufferable.

The door creaked and there was a faint murmur of voices

Tachycardia. He had to be experiencing tachycardia.

It was strange to be sitting down when John came in. They'd spent so long meeting when John was already in the room and sitting down. And so long ignoring each other since Ava had started visiting John.

The longer, ruffled hair certainly suited John better, especially now that the expression on his face was hesitant, questioning rather than blank. His eyes narrowed and arms folded as he stayed by the door.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something.

He wasn't even sure how to greet him. Hi? Too casual. Hello? Too formal. A scathing remark? Too dangerous. A joke? Insensitive. Questioning John's health? Too interested?

The silence dragged and John's eyebrows knit together in confusion, then his eyes widened.

"Is Ava-" he started to ask in breathless horror.

"No," Sherlock said quickly. "No, she's fine, she's…" He hesitated, his mind still failing him. "Sleeping well."

John blinked and glanced at the sunlit window. "Now?" he asked, sounding baffled.

"No, at night. Obviously she's at school now. I meant..." Sherlock hesitated again and winced at himself. "She sleeps well during the night."

"Right," John muttered, nodding slowly. "And you've come here and booked a private room to tell me that?"

There was nothing to fiddle with. The table was empty and the room had no objects to handle as he talked to John.

He dug his hands in his pockets instead, just for something to do and-

There was the badge, in his pocket.

He hadn't put it there. Mrs Hudson, for all her attempts at cleaning did not act like a dry cleaner which left one option.

Ava must have slipped it in, which meant she had stolen it and then tried to return it. They needed to have a conversation about how to avoid getting caught when thieving.

"Sherlock?" John prompted, stepping forward.

"Your medication appears to be working.," Sherlock blurted, feeling the need to say something, anything to distract him from the badge.

The words halted John mid-step. "I…yeah….well..." He scratched at the back of his head then reached for the opposite chair and sat down slowly. "Couldn't have gotten any worse I suppose," he muttered.

"No" Sherlock said as he heaved a long sigh.

John frowned and studied the table, seeming to nod slightly to himself before he drew in a deep breath. "About what happened-"

"I know about the texts," Sherlock said quickly.

John's head shot up and he tilted his head as if confused. "Sorry?"

"That you read them," Sherlock explained, drumming his fingers on the table. "I know that you…that my brother showed them to you."

"Right," John said, looking as if he were missing something, or maybe as if Sherlock were.

Say something, Sherlock wanted to hiss. Just answering 'right' gave him no hint about how to deal with the situation.

It was like playing chess with Mycroft; knowing that the first move might very well be the last.

"Right," John said again, sitting back as he allowed his shoulders to drop.

He had to say something. To take the risk for John.

"I meant them," Sherlock said and immediately winced at his words. Hardly succinct or intelligent.

John raised his gaze.

Sherlock had taken a huge risk for John once before.

He could do this.

"I have no right," Sherlock said unsteadily and hating the waver in his voice. "...to expect that you could ever take me back. But…whatever you want or need from me, I will provide. And…whatever you decide about…about my relationship with you and with Ava…you should know that…" Sherlock glared up at the ceiling. "I…"

How was he meant to phrase this? How to avoid being too demanding or, at the other end, implying that he wouldn't fight for them?

Was he meant to?

There needed to be a bloody rule book. Or a website.

John was staring at him.

Probably best to stop talking.

It surely had to be John's turn now.

But John was still staring.

Sherlock looked away again, trying to find some equilibrium. "Why…Why didn't you send the text?" he asked, trying to return to facts rather than continue to battle the dangers of sentiment.

"What?" John looked startled. "I did."

Sherlock shook his head.

Looking around, John frowned. "Maybe there's no signal here," he murmured, studying the walls.

The room wasn't the only thing not providing a signal.

"Well," Sherlock heard himself snap. "That was, of course, the pertinent point of the question." He clenched his fingers together as he studied John. "What did the text mean?"

John was the first to look away as he shifted in his chair. "I…I don't know," he said slowly.

Oh.

Feeling as if he'd just been detached from his bones, Sherlock slumped back in the chair.

John didn't know. There was no hidden message, no-

Across from him, John scrubbed a hand over his face and let out a long, annoyed sound before he thudded his hands flat down on the table.

Sherlock didn't move.

"Why didn't you tell me you…" John looked up and Sherlock watched him, feeling slightly apart from it all. "You were suicidal," John said, his tone sounding accusing.

Sherlock snorted.

"Sherlock," John snapped, bringing his hands together. "You tried to burn the flat down while inside it."

So?

The message must have been clear on his face because John dropped his head again. "I…I have no idea anymore, Sherlock, whether we are the best thing for each other or the worst."

"I know you being in here might make you think-"

John snorted in disbelief. "You tried to commit suicide," he hissed.

"You had a mental breakdown," Sherlock snapped.

"Here, that," John said, waving his hands. "We…we completely shatter each other, Sherlock."

No.

He hadn't realised how much he had hoped, how certain part of him had been that John was going to take him back. Stunned, he sat back shaking his head.

No. He was not letting this chance slip away. Not when there was finally a glimmer of hope.

"No, we don't," Sherlock said firmly.

"I read those texts," John said softly. "I broke your heart-"

"Don't you dare," Sherlock hissed, pushing the tip of his finger down on the table . "Don't you dare use those texts to justify this. If you do not want me back then you have plenty of ammunition to use but do not tell me that you don't want to be with me because you felt pity for me or claim that you are doing this for our well-being-"

"I talked to Mycroft," John snapped. "He told me…Sherlock, you can't even tell the difference between the suicide support group and the drug support group."

"You can hardly use that," Sherlock muttered. "They're both filled with boring, whining idiots."

"God almighty," John muttered, tipping his head to the ceiling. "I'd forgot how bloody thick you can be."

"I'd forgot how much you like playing the moronic martyr," Sherlock yelled at him.

"How are you even considering this?" John asked in disbelief. "Look at where we are!"

"We aren't currently together, and we're both miserable," Sherlock argued. "Perhaps that vital piece of information might make you see things differently."

"What are you suggesting?" John asked. "That when I get out of here we just pick up-"

"Yes."

John shook his head and closed his eyes.

"No." Sherlock ran his hands through his hair. "Obviously…we have a few…" He waved his hands in lieu of saying something. "A lot," he remedied after a few seconds. "I don't know."

He should have stuck with just saying yes.

"Sherlock, you need to think about-"

"I am not a child," Sherlock snapped. "Nor are you my minder. Do not try looking after me, we saw how well that ends up."

John's jaw ticked. "I'll let you fall off a roof next time then, shall I?"

"Do not even pretend that was what I was talking about."

John flinched and they sat in silence again, letting it grow bigger and wider. A gulf that was quickly becoming harder and harder to navigate.

Even the thought of what he was about to do made something in Sherlock want to clutch at the door and beg to be let out but…

Slowly, he dug his hand into his coat pocket then took it out and laid it palm-down on the table. With monumental effort, he lifted his hand away, leaving the badge.

John stared at the badge, his face softening.

"Sherlock," he whispered.

It was hard to sit still and wait, harder still not to fidget and squirm as he watched John.

How many times had he done this? How many times had he desperately hoped that-

John reached for it and Sherlock felt his heat thud violently, lurching off the predicted course.

He picked it up.

"Six months," John murmured, tracing the edging. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to link with Sherlock's.

It was so close. Everything that he had hoped for, prayed for in the quiet still moments of the night, in the fiercest moment in the fire…

The world blurred.

"Please," he heard himself say.

Heard himself beg.

John stood and walked around the desk, pulling Sherlock to him and then-

He was holding John. Or being held by John.

Was the distinction important?

He could feel the warmth of John's breath on his hair as John held him and slowly slid down to kneel by Sherlock's chair.

It was only when he felt John's hands on his wrists that Sherlock realised what John was doing. Flinching, he tried to pull back, even while knowing it was too late to hide the burn scars on his hands and forearms.

"God," John whispered and moved as if to pull away.

Sherlock twisted his hands and gripped John's wrists instead, keeping him close. Pulling him forward he placed a kiss to John's forehead, breathing him in.

"Please," Sherlock whispered again.

John pulled back to look at him and-

The door opened.

Startled into remembering that there was life outside of their room, Sherlock blinked in confusion at the guard and then down at John, who had turned to look at the interruption.

The guard coughed uncomfortably. "Conjugal visits need a designated room," he said.

Conjugal?

The look on John's face made Sherlock want to slam the door shut again. Clearly he hadn't been the only one that had crashed back to reality with a jolt.

"Five minutes?" Sherlock said, trying to regain the haughty tone.

"You're already over," the guard said with an apologetic wince.

John cleared his throat and seemed to be trying to gather himself.

Fuck the guard.

Bending, Sherlock pressed a kiss to John's cheekbone, nuzzling at his ear. "I am fighting for this," he breathed into John's ear. "And God help you if you try to protect me from you."

John snorted, shaking slightly as he pulled back. He looked down at his fist, still clenching the badge and then raised his gaze to Sherlock.

"Bring me the next one and I'll give it back," John said, trying to take a deep breath.

He was keeping it.

If John had still been in arm's reach Sherlock would have kissed him.

"John," Sherlock said, standing up as he suddenly realised that once that door closed John would once more be cut off from him.

John paused and turned back, oblivious to the annoyed huff from the guard.

It didn't help that Sherlock had no idea what to say. All the same though, John smiled at him and nodded. "I know," John said softly before he turned to the guard. "You gonna take the pin off of this?" he asked the guard as he held up the badge.

The guard blinked at it and then at Sherlock. "Hand it here," he said, reaching for the badge. "I'll get it back to you in a bit."

And with that they were gone.

He'd taken the badge.

Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to commit the smell of John to his memory, to create an entire wallpaper in his mind to document the feel of John's skin.

Hope.

Finally.

Actual tangible hope.

Next Chapter: The Priory School