A/N: All my thanks to guest reviewers whom I may not thank via PM. It is so very strange to be getting that close to the end of this epic! I never thought it would take me so long to write when I started it now 18 months ago. I hope you all enjoy this chapter! As always, reviewers are loved :)

...

Nutrisco et extinguo: "I feed upon it and extinguish it"

Adhuc sub judice lis est : "the case is still before the judge", i.e. the matter is still undecided and not to be interfered with from the outside.

Warnings: Rating for this chapter is T.

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Chapter XLIX: Adhuc sub judice lis est

Masochist, by Ingrid Michaelson


oOo


She says you're a masochist for falling for me,
So roll up your sleeves.
And I think that I like her, 'cause she tells me things I don't want to hear,
Medicinal tongue in my ear.


"Let's switch side next time."

"What?"

"In the bed. Let's switch side."

The floor gives out and for a second you see a silhouette standing on the other side of a chasm and falling with the earth into the abyss, a man on a roof reaching out to you and hanging up before jumping. Sherlock's words are so unexpected that you feel like your feet don't touch the ground anymore. It isn't a pleasant sensation. It is violent and hits you like a punch in the chest.

"No no no, don't do that!"

Sherlock's voice is edged with panic, which slowly rises in his tone. Your eyes are burning, and you realize you must have been staring at him so intensely you forgot to blink. Quickly, you stand up and turn to make more toast. Your feet against the kitchen floor seem to put the world back into place. Gradually, you start feeling anchored to the earth again. This is ridiculous.

"Do what?" you answer as casually as possible. You really have to stop being so obvious, or you'll scare him away. Sherlock hates having to deal with that kind of things. It was awkward enough the first time you had dinner together at Angelo's, and you didn't even mean anything by it then. You had just been clumsy. But now?

The heat from the toaster makes you uncomfortable. As you stare at the red lines burning the piece of bread inside it, you see what's making this whole thing so difficult.

Sherlock is alive. That in itself could account for the most extreme state of shock.

But that's not all. Suddenly you realize how much his coming back changes you, too. When he was dead, sleeping with one of his shirts made you pathetic, but unimpeachable because you were a man grieving. There was something almost tragic in this image of a bereft man clinging onto a smell, and tragedy had a sublime dimension. But now you've fallen to the rank of a mere pervert. Yep, that's it. If you sleep with the shirt of a dead guy, you are a broken man, a tragic hero; but if the guy is alive, you're just a weirdo.

"I haven't googled it yet."

You smile, and before you can stop it chuckles escape you. You rest your hands on the counter to get some sense into you. You seriously have to come back down to earth. Taking on the broken man part was fine as long as Sherlock was dead. Nobody cared if you had never been lovers. He was gone, you cared, you would never get over it and you did not want to, and in the end everyone could relate to that. But now here is Sherlock, confused and terrified at the smallest sign that you are not fine, freaking out if your eyes start to shine because he's probably never googled how to manage a crying friend? Sherlock, who can probably see right through you. And who clearly doesn't want to.

"We should tell Mrs. Hudson," you finally say, your voice perfectly composed.

Sherlock lets out a relieved sigh, and you can't repress a smile. Yes. He definitely doesn't want to see. And that's just fine.

"Mycroft probably called her already."

At this, you frown. "You have to go down and see her, Sherlock. Say hello. Explain." It is funny to be talking to him like you used to, so naturally. As if he'd never been gone. As if he'd never died. You get your mug and take a sip of tea to forget the tightness in your chest.

"I can't explain everything all over again!"

You'd forgotten what a child he was. Your eyes fall on his furrowed brow and his pouting mouth. You take another sip. "You don't need to explain everything." The pieces of toast are ready. You pick them and turn to Sherlock, looking him in the eye. He gulps.

"John, I–"

Oh, damn. What is he panicking for now? You are absolutely calm. So it's not you. Again, you are struck by how similar this scene is to those of the past, in some respects. Sherlock's mind just wandering, you not following at all, trying to make sense of his reactions. Just what got into him now?

The best thing to do is to stay calm and give him time. So quietly, you sit down again and look at him. He seems distraught. A lock of black hair is sticking to the side of his brow, contrasting with the paleness of his skin, and you refrain from stroking it back.

"What if I can never give you what you want?" Sherlock croaks eventually. Then he appears horrified by what he's just said, and glances around like a trapped animal.

Right. So this is what it's all about. You simultaneously feel the urge to slap him and to hug him. One part wants to shout back: you performed a fucking miracle, Sherlock, you're alive, what more can you give me? Another part just wants to embrace him without a word. But precisely. That's exactly what Sherlock is so frightened about. He must have seen it all already. Must have deduced it all.

"Are you sure you really know what I want, Sherlock?" you ask gently. God, he's such a mess. Like a child who's got a bad grade and thinks of all the things that could make his parents hate him even more, think him unworthy. As if they could.

"I killed people." Here we go.

"Me too," you counter back. "More than you."

"I tortured the cabbie to get Moriarty's name."

Strangely enough this feels like a conversation you've already had. It takes you a second to remember. Right. Mycroft. He knew. The bastard knew, and he had been testing you. But to be fair, at least he knew his brother well – knew his fears.

"What are you trying to say?" you ask at last.

"I... Why... Why do you... Me..."

OK, now this is getting a bit too much. Your hand twitches with the need to touch him, placate him in any way, convey the message It's all right. He averts his gaze and the shame on his face is almost unbearable. You wish you could wipe it away. Wish you could just encircle his cold body and give him all the warmth you've got. But you know you can't do that. Not yet. Never, maybe. What you have is so fragile. Every word, every gesture counts, and could break the world of glass building around you. You don't want to hurt him. But you have to get him out of the hole he's been digging for himself.

"Why do I what?" you press on softly.

Sherlock shakes his head. He brings the mug to his lips, takes a sip; then another. The corner of his mouth is wet. You've never seen someone drink so clumsily. You wait, and refrain from mopping the wet corner of his mouth. At last, he speaks again.

"I need to get back to the flat – I mean, the other one, the one across the street. Get my suitcase."

You put your mug down and take a deep breath. "OK, we've got to talk about this. You've got to tell me, Sherlock."

"Tell you what?"

"Where do you want to go?"

Sherlock looks down at the mug in his hand.

"You kept the mug I used."

You try not to roll your eyes. So much for talking this out.

"Sherlock..."

He sighs. "What do you want me to tell you, John? I–"

"Do you want to live in London?" you interrupt. There. You'll ask direct questions. Specific questions. Ones he can't avoid.

"Where else would I live?" Fine, ones he can avoid. You're never going to get anywhere if he starts answering by questions.

"I don't know, anywhere you want."

Sherlock swallows. You can see his Adam's apple moving in his throat with unease.

"Do you want me out of London?"

"What? No!" Could he make this more difficult? "Don't be stupid. I..."

You stop, not knowing what to say anymore. You feel the tension rising.

Who's being stupid, after all? Of course it wouldn't be obvious to Sherlock that you should move back in together. He didn't want to come home after all.

Home? Is it even home to him? You only spent 18 months together. Not even two years. He's been gone for almost three.

Right. Only 18 months.

You just sit there, dumbstruck. 18 months. How could he have had such an impact on your life in 18 months, making the rest almost irrelevant? And how could you expect him to feel the same way? You clench your teeth. Perhaps you really are being selfish. Or perhaps not. What if Sherlock doesn't want to live with you again? No, that's just insecurity speaking.

Is it?

"I'm staying with you," you tell him before you can think too much about what you should say and what you shouldn't say. "I'm sorry. Kicking me out isn't an option."

Sherlock frowns. "You said it was, yesterday."

Shame sets your face on fire. You look away instantly, trying to cool down the heat in your cheeks.

"Listen, John, I... You don't have to go anywhere."

You look up and catch Sherlock's eyes. Silence.

He doesn't want you to go anywhere. He wants you to be out his life. No, he doesn't.

What can you do when obviously he doesn't even know? He just looks like a lost child.

You sigh.

"Fine. Well. That's a start. We'll go get your stuff then. But before that I want you to go down and talk to Mrs. Hudson."

"You're not coming down with me?" Sherlock asks.

Is that how he sees you? Half-puppy, half-guarding dog? Your behaviour must have been stifling if he's surprised that you'll let him out of your sight for a second. But then again, he's right.

You realize your hand has been trembling when Sherlock grabs it, and freeze.

"I didn't mean it like that," he says.

His gesture stuns you. A memory of a white sheet, a nightmare, and Sherlock poking you at night to help you feel better flashes in your mind. "I know. It's fine."

But since he seems to feel so guilty about it, you still walk him to Mrs. Hudson's door. Just in case. And also because you have no idea how she is going to react.

As it turns out, they seem just find, Mrs. Hudson doing what you wish you could have done but know you can't: let Sherlock see her grief and love and relief, and hug him. You leave them there, her sobbing on his shoulder, and him not even stiffening.

You close the door to the flat quietly behind you. Your eyes meet the skull and once again it dawns on you all at once. Sherlock is alive. You fall into the armchair.

The smell of the flat is different. The two mugs on the kitchen table are telling a new story. But you still don't know which.

Sitting straight, you try to focus on the tasks at hand.

Breakfast, check.

Mrs. Hudson, check.

Lestrade? You take your phone and start typing a text.

Hi Greg

You stop. What the hell are you supposed to write? Guess what, actually Sherlock isn't dead? That's just crazy. You put down the phone. Maybe you should call him. Yes. That would be best. You dial his number and try not to think too much about how you're going to say this. But you only get the answering machine. You sigh, not sure whether it's in relief or disappointment. Well. You'll call again later. Next.

Molly? Surely she must know. No. Sherlock didn't mention anything about her knowing that he was back. This is a bit awkward. You take your phone again and open a new text. What really is awkward is that Molly doesn't know about Shinwell. You can't tell her about that, it's none of your business. And the man seems to be genuinely in love with her. But still, it would be better if she knew... Right. None of your business.

You look at the screen a second before typing:

Thank you, Molly.

You press the SEND button. You don't feel like saying more than that. In fact, she'll get everything from just that, and you know it.

Next...

You hear the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat open and her steps up the stairs.

"Hello, there!"

You turn to your landlady with a smile. But it doesn't stay there for long.

"Where is Sherlock?" you ask, standing up at once. She scowls.

"Tut tut! What kind of reaction is that?"

"Sorry."

She smiles at you fondly.

"How are you doing, John?"

"Me? Great. I mean, Sherlock is..."

You look away, your voice dying in your voice. You breathe in deeply.

"I know," Mrs. Hudson says, tears in her eyes. You are taken aback when she hugs you, but you hug her back.

"Oh John, isn't it wonderful?"

"Yes, it is. It is."

Sherlock did not express any joy about being back, and only now do you feel that you can let yours show. And joy is an understatement, really.

"Come down and let's have some tea," she whispers at last.

"Where is Sherlock?"

"Oh, leave him be for a moment, won't you?"

"I'm not–"

"He's just watching some DVDs Mycroft left for him in my room."

You step back and stare at her.

"Mycroft?"

"Don't be so suspicious! You know he loves his brother."

"Yes well he loves him in a strange way, doesn't he?"

She gives you a look.

"Come and have some tea."

So down you go and sit in Mrs. Hudson's living-room. It reminds you of the time when you came and told her you would move back in. Of the times when you used to watch crap telly with her during afternoons when Sherlock was still alive. No. He is alive. He was never dead.

"Would you like something to eat?"

"Thank you, we just had breakfast. So what are those DVDs?"

"I don't know. Mycroft said only Sherlock should watch them, and that he should do so alone."

"Right. Tell me that's not suspicious," you grumble, glancing at the door to Mrs. Hudson's room, catching a glimpse of Sherlock, and sitting where you can keep an eye on him. You cannot see his face, but his body seems tense. What in the world is he watching? You shift on the sofa nervously.

Mrs. Hudson comes back with a pot and cups on a tray. "Here we go."

"Thank you."

You drink your tea in silence. You try to avoid glancing too much at the door.

"So... What are you going to do?"

You blink.

"About what?"

"Well, about Mary, for a start."

You take another sip of tea, feeling your throat tighten.

"I have to tell her about Seb."

"Seb?"

Damn. You didn't think before speaking. Mrs. Hudson didn't need to know about that. Dreadful business.

"How much do you know?"

"All I need to know, I think. Except I do not know what happened last night. I take it Sebastian Moran died?"

Sebastian Moran died. Seb died. Why did he have to be the bad guy? No, scratch that. Why did he have to off himself?

"John? Are you all right, dear?"

"Yes, of course."

"He was your friend."

"I know."

"It must have been a shock."

"Yes."

"John. You have a right to grieve."

"To grieve? Sherlock is back, Mrs. H, what would I have to–"

"You lost a friend."

"Yes, well, he did try to kill me. Kind of. But that's not the point."

"Not really, no. John. Look at me. You must not feel guilty about this."

"I'm not feeling guilty! He just shot himself in front of me, after all. Nothing to feel guilty about."

You drink once more, but you can't even taste the tea. You can't talk about it with Sherlock yet. You don't know if you ever will. But he gave Seb back the gun. His gesture still escapes you. Why did he give him the gun? At first you thought they were in league and Seb would shoot you. But surely Sherlock must have known. He would never have given Seb the gun if he had thought that the one who would get the bullet would be John.

"John?"

"Yes, I'm sorry."

"Don't be, dear. You've had a difficult day yesterday, and I'm afraid you're haven't seen the end of it yet. How is Sherlock?"

"How did you find him?"

"Scared."

Her answer startles you. It shouldn't, because Sherlock is scared, and Mrs. Hudson is perceptive. Still, hearing her say the word seems to make it more real.

"The question is, what is he scared about?" you wonder out loud.

"Give him time, dear. Give him time."

"Yeah," you answer unconvinced and unconvincingly, glancing at the door.

"How did Sherlock react to the crib?"

"He tried to run away."

"Ha! Well we can't be surprised."

"Not really, no. I pushed the crib to a corner, but I can't get rid of the son, though."

Mrs. Hudson's eyes widen.

"I'm kidding! Jesus, Mrs. Hudson, I love my son!"

"Of course you do. Make sure Sherlock loves him too."

"He doesn't have to."

"John, Blake will be part of your life. Sherlock will have to deal with that."

You laugh rather brokenly. "If he wants to be part of my life, yes. He never said he did."

Mrs. Hudson puts down her cup sharply.

"Now listen to me, John. If you are going to wait for him to tell you something like–"

"No, of course not! No, I know he won't... No."

You stare down at your tea. For a while you both remain silent, drinking a sip now and then.

"But it doesn't prevent you from saying those things to him," Mrs. Hudson remarks softly.

You look up at her.

"I–"

But before you can any more Sherlock bursts out of the room and dashes down the corridor.

"Sherlock! What the..."

You jump to your feet and get to the toilet to find him emptying his stomach in the basin.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, are you all right? What did you do?"you ask, putting a hand on his shoulder doesn't answer. He is very pale and looks rather dizzy.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson murmurs, bringing a hand to her mouth. You feel ready to explode.

"What did Mycroft give you?" you ask her between gritted teeth, your hands clenching into fists.

"I don't know, just DVDs! I didn't watch them. He said only Sherlock should. I couldn't have known..."

"I'm going to kill him." Your hand on Sherlock's shoulder tightens slightly. "But first I'll see what this is ab–"

"Don't," Sherlock says hoarsely, grabbing your arm before you can turn and go to the room to see what he has seen on the screen. You squat down and put your hand on his shoulder again.

"Hey. You all right? Would you like some water?"

"I'll get you some," Mrs. Hudson says.

Sherlock's grip on your arm tightens.

"Don't go."

"I'm not going anywhere."

You rub your thumb against Sherlock's palm. Sherlock shivers. Mrs. Hudson comes back with a glass and hands it to him.

"Here, drink some water."

Sherlock brings the glass to his lips, but spits in the toilet basin a few times before swallowing any water. You keep rubbing your thumb on his hand encouragingly. There is no warmth in his hand. You touch the other one. No warmth either.

"Why are you so cold?"

"I'm fine."

"Did you take a hot shower this morning?"

"Yes."

Well, that wasn't enough, then. What can you do to help with the coldness? Deleted memories, he said. But now he remembers them. So what can you do? His hand in yours was warm this morning.

"Should I make some tea?" Mrs. Hudson asks from behind you.

"I think we'll just go home, but thanks, Mrs. Hudson," you answer, checking Sherlock's face for confirmation. Sherlock nods.


When will it stop? When will it stop?
When will I feel all soft on the inside?
When will I feel soft?


Back in the flat Sherlock paces the living-room like a tiger in its cage. His restlessness makes you nervous. You walk to the window and open it.

"Are you still feeling nauseous?"

Sherlock shakes his head and falls into the couch. You come to sit next to him and ask quietly:

"What did you watch?"

He remains silent. Your chest tightens. Something is vibrating. In your pocket. Damn, your phone.

"Sorry, just a minute," you tell Sherlock. "Hello?"

"Hi John!"

"Oh, Mary. Hey."

"Did you sleep well?"

"Yes."

"Ha ha, you must have been tired after last night!"

"Yeah, well..." God, how are you going to tell her? Your eyes follow Sherlock who stands up and walks to the window.

"Blake is awake, but maybe you'd rather have breakfast at 221B?"

"No... Look, I..."

"I was just wondering if we should wait for you here or not." You glance at Sherlock. He's probably not ready to meet Mary.

"OK. I'll be right there."

"No, no! We'll be there in a couple of minutes."

"What? You want to come?" You give Sherlock a worried look,before realizing he's not even hearing your conversation and can't possibly help you make the right decision. Well. He can probably deduce the whole conversation from what you're saying. But he's still not going to tell you what to do. "Hum, well..."

"See you in a minute, then!"

"Wait!"

But she has already hung up. You groan. This is going to be awkward.

"Sorry about that. She probably thought I didn't want to come to her flat."

"Obvious."

You walk up to Sherlock, by the window. Maybe this isn't even about Sherlock. Maybe you are the one who doesn't want to face things. You know Mary will make you face them.

"I have to tell her about Seb." Your throat feels tighter than you thought it would.

"Tell her he was a sniper?"

"No, Sherlock. Tell her he's dead."

Your eyes lock. He doesn't seem to understand. Or maybe he doesn't want to. Well, you'll have to spell it out, then.

"Listen, Sherlock, about the body... I want a proper funeral."

His stare tells you he definitely doesn't understand.

"John, that man tried to kill you." There we go. Does he have to say it as if you were stupid?

"Yes. But he was my friend, too."

Sherlock snorts and turns away. You try very hard not to be annoyed with him.

"I'm serious, Sherlock."

"Well you call Mycroft about it. I don't have a phone anyway."

You blink.

"You don't have a phone?"

"Threw it out the window yesterday."

Could he be any more extreme than that? A door is slammed downstairs and the steps creak. Mary. You catch Sherlock's nervous glance.

"Should I go to the bedroom?" he asks. But there's no time.

"Hum... Kitchen?"

Sherlock complies without protest. A second later the door opens on Mary, holding Blake against her breast.

"Hey! Slept well?"

She already asked you this. She doesn't often repeat herself.

"Hey, Mary. Yeah. You?"

She gives you a peck on the cheek. In the kitchen, Sherlock seems to be frozen. You have to tell her before she sees him.

"Yep. Where's Sherlock?"

"What?" you ask, unsure whether you've heard her correctly or not.

"Oh, there you are!" she says, walking up to Sherlock. Your eyes widen. "Hi, I'm Mary. I heard a lot about you. But you already know that."

You watch, speechless, as Sherlock shakes her hand stiffly. You look at Mary, then at Sherlock, then at Mary again.

"What the–"

"Here, can you keep an eye on Blake for a second? I need to talk to John. In private, if you don't mind."

She winks at Sherlock – winks, at Sherlock – and puts Blake into his arms. Is she mad? Yes, of course she's mad, that's not even a question, but seriously, don't mothers have some kind of instinct in regards to their child's safety? Clearly not.

"Hum, Mary, I don't think–"

"Oh, he'll be fine! Just come here."

Who will be fine exactly? But before you can insist any more she is dragging you to the bedroom. She closes the door behind you.

"Good. Some privacy. First things first: how are you doing?"

"How am I... What the hell, Mary? How did you know–"

"Irene stopped by last night."

"Irene? Irene Adler?"

Mary nods.

"Wait a minute, you know her?"

"Now, yes. Actually, we'd met at Jerry's pub previously, but I had no idea it was her."

Your head is spinning.

"Irene Adler came to see you last night?"

"Yes, that's what I just said."

"What did she want?"

"Nothing. Just tell me Sherlock was alive."

"So you knew?"

"I learned the news pretty much at the same time as you, darling, so don't give me that look."

"Sorry. Look, Mary, there's something you must know–"

"No, wait. You haven't answered my question. How are you?"

Her tone is genuinely concerned, and you feel guilty instantly. You're just trying to get rid of the burden of Seb's death by telling her as fast as possible, without even thinking if that's the best for her.

"I'm... fine. God, better than fine, I..."

You look away, feeling your eyes burning and your throat tighten. The voice doesn't come out anymore. How pathetic can you get?

Mary smiles gently and wraps her arms around you, hugging you tightly, shifting from one foot to the other, rocking you like a child.

"It's wonderful, John. Wonderful."

"Sorry, I... I haven't completely recovered from it yet, but I'll–"

"Shh."

"About Blake. I know I was supposed to take him today, and you're going shopping with Catherine, but do you think you could come back earlier? I'm sorry, I–"

"Don't be stupid, John. I'm not giving Blake to you today."

You take a step back.

"What?"

"How do you intend to take care of both of them?! Now I can't do anything about Sherlock, so just leave Blake to me for a few days, and concentrate on your priority!"

"But he's not–"

"Yes, he is."

You look down in shame. "He's not my only priority..."

Mary stares at you. "Just leave Blake to me for a few days, John. I'll call you."

"Mary–"

"Or you'll call me, whichever. And isn't your paternity leave starting next week? That's perfect timing."

"Mary, I'm taking it for Blake!"

"Oh but you're going to need it for Sherlock, believe me." She sticks her tongue at you, and you can't help but hug her again.

"You're an incredible woman, you know that?"

"I know."

You tighten your embrace for a second before letting go.

"Mary. Did Irene tell you about Seb?"

"How he's a sniper? Yes... Yes, she did."

"He's dead."

You can see the news dawn on her almost literally. Her eyes widen, her face falls, and she slowly looks up at you.

"Seb is dead," you repeat softly. Yet your tone is firm, too You take her hands in yours and squeeze.

"He's dead."

"I'm sorry."

"How did he die?"

"He shot himself. In the mouth. Like Moriarty."

"Oh God."

She sits down on the bed, tears welling up in her eyes. She doesn't stop herself from crying, doesn't try to hide it.

"Idiot... Did he have to do this? Bloody idiot... Didn't even say goodbye... Damn him..."

"He did say goodbye. Told me to tell you."

"Don't lie, you suck at it."

You put a hand on her shoulder, waiting. After a while, she wipes her face with the back of her sleeve and stands up.

"All right. Enough of that. Let's get moving."

"Moving? Where?"

"I'm going back to the flat. Just wanted to say hello. And meet Sherlock."

"Mary, wait–"

But she's already opening the door and stepping out.

"By the way, did you think of hiding the shirt?" she asks loudly. You give her a horrified glare, but she laughs and walks up to Sherlock, ignoring you. Of course you know Sherlock must have guessed already, but Jesus, could she make it more awkward?

"Hey Blake! Did uncle Sherlock take good care of you?"

You glance at Sherlock uneasily.

"I'm not his uncle."

"She's kidding," you put in.

"He looks happy enough," Mary goes on, grinning at your son. "Say bye to uncle Sherlock!" No, Mary, Sherlock doesn't understand cheeky, please just shut up.

"Not his uncle," Sherlock grumbles again.

"Sherlock, she's teasing you," you say, coming to stand closer to him. You're glad you did when Mary turns to him and looks him in the eye. This doesn't bode well.

"You'd better take your responsibilities," she says gravely. "'Cause we all do, here."

"Mary," you murmur, warning in your voice. But she keeps smiling brightly. Her eyes are still red. You try hard not to think about who is going to comfort her once she's gone back home.

"Well I guess you deserve a few days to adjust. Welcome back!"

She walks back to the door. Welcome back. You didn't even think of telling Sherlock this. Welcome back. It wasn't relevant, because he tried to run away from you. He never intended to come back. Mary stops at the door and turns. "You know, you're exactly like in my dreams. I hope we can talk some more once you've settled in."

And with a wink, she's gone. You realize you didn't even say hi to Blake; You didn't even hold your son.

"Is this all right?" Sherlock asks.

No, you think gloomily. But then you understand he's talking about Mary, and reply:

"She was very close to Seb."

"That's not what I meant."

You blink. "What do you mean, then?" Sherlock stares.

"Are you sure you want to divorce her?"

"What the... Where did that come from?"

"What did she want to talk to you about?"

You glance at him sideways. Maybe this is a good opportunity. Sherlock was always curious, he might be willing to give information in exchange for information.

"I'll tell you if you tell me what Mycroft's DVDs were all about."

"Forget it," Sherlock grumbles. Well. So much for the information exchange. What in the world did he see on these DVDs? Maybe you should just go down again and ask Mrs. Hudson to borrow them. But Sherlock seems so intent on you not seeing them that he'll never let you do this. Maybe she even got rid of them already. Or Mycroft came and did. Mycroft. You'll kill him, you swear you will. Speaking of which...

"Are you feeling better?" you ask Sherlock, scanning his face, which looks less ashen than earlier at least.

"I'm fine," he replies curtly, averting his gaze. Right. Since when have his lies become so obvious? You see his eyes widen and follow his gaze. He's just looking at the table.

"Why... Why do you have this?"

"Have what?"

"That notebook."

Damn. Now you see it. On top of the table. Not good. How can you come up with an explanation for this?

"I... I thought you were dead," you fumble.

Sherlock blinks. "I fail to see how that's linked."

"I mean, I'm sorry I read your diary or whatever you considered it to be, but I–"

"That's not a diary, John, and that's not what I meant. How did it come to be in your possession?"

"Oh. Mycroft gave it to me. Well. Sort of. He gave it to Mrs. Hudson who gave it to Mary who gave it to me."

Sherlock stares. "Just how many people–"

"Don't worry, they didn't read it. I mean it's not the most... Nevermind. Look. I thought you were dead. I was trying to hold on to–"

"But Mycroft didn't," Sherlock interrupts darkly.

"What?"

"Mycroft didn't think I was dead. He knew I wasn't."

"Yes, well..." Your brother is a bastard. "I suppose he just... I don't know. You can ask him. I was going to call him anyway."

"Why?"

"Seb's funeral, remember?"

"Oh for God's sake!"

"He was my friend, Sherlock!"

"And wasn't I?!"

"Of course you were! But you're not dead!"

"Oh so would that have been better?"

His words hit you like a bucket of cold water. Would that have been better? The cold just spreads from your chest to your entire body. Would it have been better if I were dead? No shiver runs down your spine, but instead your back feels like it has been buried in snow. Oh so would that have been better?

You barely register Sherlock opening his mouth, shutting it, taking a step towards you, then a step back. Would that have been better?

"John, I–"

"Do you wish you were dead, Sherlock?"

"What? No!" He runs a hand through his hair with what you can only construe as irritation. "Of course I don't, John. I'm not mad."

"You don't have to be mad," you say coldly. You would know. You've been there.

"That's not what I... Shut up!"

Your eyes widen as you take in the scene and snap back to reality. What are you doing, questioning him like this? Of course he doesn't wish he were dead. He was just showing anger. He was just showing jealousy over the fact that you seemed to care more about a man who had clearly been a threat and a burden to him for the past three years, than about him. He can't understand your relationship to Seb, but surely you can't understand his either.

"Sherlock..."

"Spare me your pity."

"Pity? Sherlock what's–"

"I don't think I can do this."

Here it is again. The bucket of cold water. You swallow.

"Do what?"

"This!" He gestures vaguely. "You... I can't... I don't know what I'm doing here. You have a wife. You have a child. You have a proper job at a clinic. You can't live with me anymore. It doesn't make sense. You don't need to live with me anymore. There's no point in me staying."

You wait until he is done spilling out everything he has on his mind. Well. Probably not everything. This is Sherlock after all. You observe him calmly.

"You don't believe a word of that."

Turning away from him, you walk to the door. "Now. Shall we go get your suitcase?"

You stop by the door and look him in the eye.

"Come on, Sherlock. Let's go."

You give him a smile. He follows.


You say that my skin feels like no one else's,
That it's different somehow.
But I don't understand, isn't a hand just a hand?
No you don't understand.


The stairs creak under your feet as you walk up the steps. The staircase is darker than in 221B. As Sherlock pushes open the door to the flat, you get a strange feeling, the same you got when Mary moved out – a sensation of stiffness in the nape of your nape, the impression that a limb has been removed from your body. It is strange to think of Sherlock living in a flat by himself. Without you.

There is little furnishing inside, but it's a mess. The bed is undone. The suitcase is open next to the table, vomiting half of its contents onto the floor. In the wardrobe, a jacket, a pair of trousers and two shirts are hung clumsily. You wonder what made them special enough to escape the pile in the suitcase.

You cross the living-room which was clearly also used as a bedroom and walk into the kitchen. Its tidiness is striking. It is so clean in fact it looks unused. You open the cupboards – empty. The fridge – empty.

"What have you been eating?"

"Out."

You turn to Sherlock, who is standing in the doorway. His gaze makes you self-conscious and you look away.

"Out?"

"Yes, I've been eating out."

"Oh."

What about before? Was he always eating out when he was with Seb? Or did Seb cook? You remember he said once he was a great cook. He probably wasn't lying.

"Did Seb ever cook for you?" you ask casually as you come back to the living-room.

Sherlock freezes by the wardrobe, and turns to give you a look. You feel your face heat up.

"John, we weren't–"

"Sorry that was a stupid question. Do you need help with the suitcase?"

"John."

"And how much are you paying for this flat? Do you think you could give back the keys earlier than you said and avoid paying until the end of the month."

"Seb and I weren't in any kind of relationship."

"Of course you were."

He stares. You flush.

"I mean of course you weren't."

"John..."

"Look, I didn't mean anything by that question. I just remembered he told me once he was good at cooking, but I never got to taste anything he prepared. So I was just wondering..."

Something lights up in Sherlock's pupils – irritation mingling with jealousy. This is ridiculous.

"I'm sorry," you tell him softly, coming closer.

Sherlock simply puts the clothes into the suitcase and closes it. His wrist seems so thin. Has his skin always been so translucent? The veins in his hand bulge out as if they had been chiselled. You swallow.

"When was the last time you ate?"

"This morning."

"I mean before that."

"Don't know. Can't remember. With the Woman, probably."

"Is she still in London?"

"She's going back to Singapore today."

"Is she?"

He does not seem to be bothered by it, but you wonder... What if it did matter? Irene Adler is the second person who held importance in Sherlock's life these past few years, after Seb. He probably trusted her more, too. He could manipulate her more easily, without a doubt.

"Do you not want to say goodbye to her?"

"Goodbye?" He seems genuinely surprised. "Why would I want to say goodbye?"

"Well... You don't know when you are going to see her again, do you?"

This comes out as more of a question than you intended. Sherlock too must have heard it, for he turns to look at you again. Or rather, to pierce you with his gaze. It hasn't changed. You still feel completely naked under his scrutiny.

"I don't. But I cannot give her false hope."

"What do you mean?"

"She asked me to come with her."

You clench your teeth and try to ignore how your pulse has quickened at his words.

"You don't want to go?"

This earns you a proper look, one of those that used to drive you crazy before Sherlock died.

"John, what in the world would you want me to do in Singapore?"

"I don't know. Just... be with her."

He snorts.

"Please."

"I'm serious, Sherlock! You liked her. Hell, I think you even loved her. It wasn't just attraction. You kept her texts. You were depressed when you thought she was dead. You were keen on impressing her. You insisted on keeping her phone. You saved her life. And she was a proper challenge, wasn't she? You weren't bored with her. Doesn't that count?"

"John."

"You didn't intend to come back here, did you? So what did you intend to do?"

"China."

You blink.

"What?"

"I wanted to go to China."

"But... why?"

"Black Lotus."

He takes his suitcase and makes for the door. The nape of his neck stands out, so white between his dark mop of hair and the black shirt he is wearing.

"Wait a minute, are you serious?"

"Quite."

"So... Do you still want to go there?"

"No."

He locks the door behind him, his long, slender fingers wrapping around the key deftly. His hand too seems to white in the shadows of the staircase, the blackness of the sleeve next to it almost endowing it with a glow.

As you watch Sherlock standing there with his suitcase, ready to leave, you start to panic again. He could be going anywhere. From a flat you did not know he was in, to another where you might never find him. Three years have changed you. You would probably be willing to beg if it made him stay. But you won't, because you know it would have the opposite effect.

Your behaviour cannot be excused now. Since Sherlock came back, there seems to be stakes and goals once more. The world has been endowed with a whole new layer of meaning. The world isn't the same.

"John?"

"Yes. Sorry."

"What are you apologizing for?"

"What? I don't know. Never mind."

Sherlock just stands there, his suitcase in hand. He never carried anything when you were together. When you want to Dartmoor, he didn't carry his bags. Wherever you went, you were always the one carrying everything. You never thought that one day you would hate seeing him carrying his own stuff. You right hand starts trembling.

You turn to the staircase quickly and start walking down, but his voice stops you.

"I don't want to go to China now, because you've seen me anyway. You know that I'm alive. There is no reason for me not to be in London anymore."

He tries to say it casually, but his tone does not ring true. You can tell he is embarrassed. He brushes past you in the staircase. You shiver.

"And even if I speak Chinese, it would have been harder to investigate there," he goes on. "Disguises don't work so well."

"I bet," you say with a smile, trying to imagine him disguised as an old Chinese man as you follow him down.

When you get out of the building, Sherlock stops abruptly in his tracks and you bump into him.

"Sherlock, what–"

You fall quiet as you see the police car parked in front of 221B, and Greg in the doorway speaking with Mrs. Hudson.

"Sherlock..."

But Mrs. Hudson has already seen them, and Greg, following her gaze, turns around and stares. You can tell from the look on his face that his eyes have met Sherlock's.


When will it start? My broken part.
When will I feel all soft on the inside?
When will I feel soft?


"You should have told us."

You are all sitting in Mrs. Hudson's living-room around tea – again – and you are very grateful to her for having taken inside what could have turned into a fight. Greg is clearly furious. Hurt, and furious. The worse possible combination.

When you walked up to him, saying "I tried to call you this morning but–", he gave you a betrayed look, and then completely ignored you, focusing on Sherlock alone. Mrs. Hudson, being the angel she is, ushered you all inside before bystanders could start wondering what was going on. Greg is sitting stiffly across from you, glaring. But behind his glower you can read genuine pain.

You peek at Sherlock. His features are tense, and you are quite sure he would have run away, had you not been by his side when he saw the police car and Lestrade's back.

"I know Mycroft told me it was for your own safety, but that's fucking bullshit," Greg goes on. So he saw Mycroft. You have to call him about Seb.

Mrs. Hudson's eyes widen and you reckon she never heard the D.I. be so vulgar. You have, but only after at least five pints at the pub.

"Do you have any idea how hard it was for all of us? Did you even think about what we would go through? About what John would go through?"

"Greg..." you warn. You don't need Sherlock to hear that. He probably already does. There's no need to rub it in his face. He's back now. And it's all that matters.

"Three years, Sherlock! Three fucking years! And I thought..."

Greg averts his gaze, his brow furrowing. You know that look. His voice must be stuck in his throat. Three years of pain and guilt are bubbling up to the surface, stifling him. You can only sympathize, but still you wish he had waited just another day before coming. You're not sure Sherlock is in any state to take this for what it is: a proof of Greg's caring for him.

You glance at Sherlock again. His teeth are clenched, making his jaw protrude more than usual. His lips are pinched, not as full as they should be. You look away.

"I can understand for me," Greg says rather shakily. "After the arrest, I..." His voice breaks and you really feel bad for him. "But John? Mrs. Hudson?"

You open your mouth to tell him he's got it wrong, that there is no reason Sherlock would hold a grudge against him, because he jumped for him, too, but Sherlock beats you to it.

"I was not trying to hurt you," he says quietly. He is looking down at his cup of tea, his expression dark. You feel the urge to take his hand in yours.

"Really? What were you trying to do, then?"

"I–"

"Don't get me wrong, Sherlock. It's great you're alive. Hell, it's... But I–"

"Moriarty played with your mind, Lestrade. I was angry with you at the time. But it was ridiculous. It is only natural that he would succeed in manipulating a mind like yours."

Greg and Mrs. Hudson just stare at Sherlock. You breathe in sharply and close your eyes.

"Sherlock..." you begin.

"Oh, you know what I mean!" he snaps.

Greg shakes his head, and for the first time, a small smile forms on his lips. But it's a broken smile. He seems exhausted. Now the pain and the guilt are overriding the irritation. You're not sure it's such a good thing.

"Mycroft could have told us," he goes on. "He bloody kidnapped me just now to tell me you were alive, couldn't he have done it before?"

"He couldn't take the risk," Sherlock answers.

"What risk? Nobody else would have known!"

"Oh, so you wouldn't have told John?"

The look Sherlock gives Lestrade in this instant is so intense it sends a shiver down your spine. Just what does Sherlock know? What was on those DVDs? Greg looks shaken.

"I..."

"Of course you would have, eventually. And then what would John have done? He would have done something stupid to make Mycroft tell him where I was."

You grumble something incomprehensible, not quite liking Sherlock mentioning your stupidity once more, but he has a point.

"And what would have been so wrong in that?!" Greg asks.

"He would have died."

The coldness with which he spoke silences everyone instantly. Sherlock's face his grave. Lestrade clenches his teeth, and pain flashes across Mrs. Hudson's eyes. You swallow, feeling the cold irradiating from Sherlock's body. Maybe you're imagining it; it's probably impossible to irradiate coldness. Not physically, at any rate.

"I'm sorry, Lestrade."

"Thank you."

You look up, startled by Greg's words. You glance at Sherlock. He too seems perplexed.

"Well, you still saved our lives, didn't you? You jumped so we could live. The three of us."

So Mycroft told him that too. You try to picture Greg at the Diogene's, being told Sherlock cared enough about him for Moriarty to have taken him as a target too. Then hearing Sherlock is alive. You can hardly imagine his reaction. "Shock" probably doesn't even start to cover it.

At Greg's words, Sherlock's hand tightens on his cup of tea, from which he hasn't drunk at all. He is feeling awkward; again, you can tell from the trapped animal's expression.

You clench your fists and keep your hands firmly on your own knees.


When will I feel all soft on the inside?
When will I feel soft?


"Well, that wasn't so bad," you say as you close the door to the flat behind you, dragging Sherlock's suitcase, which he did not take when he stood up from the couch in Mrs. Hudson's living-room. It's heavier than you expected, and you can feel the sweat trickling down your back. OK, that's probably not due to the suitcase, but... You glance at the bathroom's door, then at Sherlock, who has just fallen into the couch, grabbing a newspaper. Restless.

"Just take a shower, John, I'm not going to run away," he says.

Damn his perceptiveness.

"I–"

"Or do you want me in the shower with you?"

Your jaw drops, and you flush.

"What..."

"I was joking, John," he says uneasily, his tone hurried. Yes. Of course. What the hell?

"Right. I'll go then."

You go to your room, get your stuff, then head straight to the bathroom without sparing a glance at Sherlock. You close the door behind you and let out a sigh you did not know you were holding. You've got to get a grip.

As you step into the shower, you can't help but listen carefully to see if you can hear him. But you can't. Will you hear the door if he opens it?

You slap yourself mentally. He said he wasn't going anywhere.

But he said that three years ago.

You shake your head, annoyed with yourself, and start the water, checking the temperature, waiting for it to warm up. Maybe a hot bath would do Sherlock some good. You'll suggest it to him afterwards. A massage would certainly help, too, but you can't picture Sherlock letting anyone touch him like this. Maybe you. No. Not even you.

Your pulse quickens but you try to ignore it and regulate your breathing. You cannot stop your brain flashing images. You, getting out of the shower, coming out in your robe with a towel on your shoulders. The flat, silence. You, going into the living-room. Empty. You dash to the bedroom. Empty. To the other bedroom. Empty. On the couch, still the shape of a body – the shape of Sherlock's body, still visible on the leather. Stop it.

You hear steps down the corridor and suddenly the bathroom door opens.

"Can I come in?"

You inhale sharply, trying to dispel the awful images in your mind. Your right hand is trembling.

"Yes of course," you reply quickly.

You hear Sherlock close the door behind him. Your heart is hammering in your chest, and the noise fills your ears. The buzz of the shower. The crushing beat in your chest, so loud in your ears. In 18 months of flat-sharing, Sherlock never came in the bathroom when you were there. Now there is only the shower curtain between your two bodies. You swallow, and focus on the shampoo bottle. It is slippery in your hand as you turn it around to run some of the liquid soap in the palm of your hand.

On the other side of the curtain, Sherlock is quiet. He isn't doing anything. He isn't really using the bathroom – not shaving, not washing his hands. He must be just standing there, perhaps leaning against the wall. Your mouth feels dry. You close the shampoo bottle and put it back on the edge of the bathtub before running your fingers through your hair.

"Do you want me to speak?" Sherlock asks, and his voice sends an electric jolt throughout your body. You swallow.

"What do you mean?"

"So you know I am there."

The water on your chest is tickling you so you turn your back to it and grab the shower gel.

"You don't have to. I can feel your presence."

The spurt of the shower on your back is burning you, sending shivers down your spine. Maybe you should turn down the hot water. Take a cold shower. But now you have shower gel all over your hands and it'd be a waste not to use it first. You bend, and rub your hands down your legs, energetically – methodically. The buzz of the shower is making you dizzy.

"I was thinking, maybe you should take a bath," you blurt out, desperately trying to release some of the tension. "A hot bath. When I'm done, of course."

"But I took a shower this morning."

"I meant, just to warm you up. Your body is so cold."

Sherlock does not answer. You turn up the cold water and turn off the hot one. That should help. You can hear Sherlock shift from one foot to the other on the other side of the curtain. You breathe in deeply, exposing the front of your body to the cold spurt of the shower.

"Sherlock, you don't have to stay here if you don't–"

"I'll need time."

You blink and stop rinsing your hair.

"Time?"

"For what you want from me."

Here we go again. What can he possibly mean by that?

"What do I want from you?" You feel stupid for asking. But if you don't, you'll just be speaking at cross purposes.

Sherlock does not answer, but you can hear him step closer. Soon his silhouette appears right behind the curtains. Your heart misses a beat.

"Sherl–"

He reaches towards you, never pulling the curtain. His hand lands on your left arm, just under the shoulder. Through the plastic of the curtain, you can feel how cold his fingers are. The beat in your chest, ringing in your ears, becomes almost deafening.

"This is not my area," he croaks. "But I will try."


She says you're a masochist for falling for me.


.

.

.

tbc