Courage is what it takes to stand up and speak; courage is also what it takes to sit down and listen.
~Winston Churchill
John
Sherlock nods slowly and John sighs and clears his throat. He opens his mouth but no words come out.
Where should he start? With the death of Sebastian Moran or with Mary shooting Sherlock? Or maybe Mary shooting Daisy. Should he get into the details about their marriage or should he keep his mouth shut.
He has to decide on something and quite fast. He's used to Sherlock staring at him expectantly but Mr Holmes deserves knowing why he will never meet his granddaughter.
Sherlock leans towards his father and says something that makes Mr Holmes nod slowly. Then the older man picks up his mug of tea and moves to the armchair by the TV. He leans forward to place the mug back on the coffee table and straightens his back.
"Out with it Captain Watson," he says briskly.
"Sir?" asks John sceptically.
"That would be Colonel Holmes for you lad," says Mr Holmes simply. "Now start at the beginning."
He cannot stop the feeling of calmness that immediately washes over him. Of course Sherlock knows which buttons he should push for John to get himself together. The doctor or the solider. Curious why he never mentioned that Mr Holmes served in the army.
"Colonel," says John and he barely resists the need to stand up but can't resist the need to salute.
"Now tell me why a mention about your late wife has you wound up in knots tighter than a hammock," says Mr Holmes. "Because it isn't a matter of grief alone as far as I can see."
"I'm not grieving her, sir," answers John. "I'm not doing it now and I wasn't exactly grieving her after her death."
Mr Holmes raises both eyebrows questioningly as his eyes flicker from John to Sherlock and then back to John again.
"She was a mercenary, a heartless, cold-blooded criminal that made a living out of killing innocent people," he answers swiftly. "She was a professional assassin with a private vendetta against my person and in an attempt to execute it she nearly killed your son and actually killed your granddaughter. Had your granddaughter been a worse shot than she was Mary most probably would have tried to kill your son again and most probably she would kill your great-granddaughter, my daughter and in the end myself."
And let's not forget that she was also an abusive wife that kept gaslighting you until you felt like a worthless piece of shit.
"Can we stop for a moment?" asks Mr Holmes calmly. "Sherlock, for the love of God why…"
Why you didn't have her arrested after she shot you? Why you forgave her? Why you invited her into our house and expected her to sit with us at the very same table? Why you grieved her death? Just why?
It's easy for John to finish this question.
"We already talked about making questionable choices," says Sherlock petulantly.
"Yes, we talked about making questionable choices that affect the whole family even though at the time it didn't occur to us to even consider that something could be wrong about making them," agrees Mr Holmes. "In what world allowing her to walk away freely after she nearly killed you was a good choice?"
"John and Mary had a baby on the way," answers Sherlock swiftly.
"And pregnant women go to prisons and give birth to their children there all the time," Mr Holmes retorts. "John," he adds as he looks at John, "what were your initial feelings on the subject?"
"She shot Sherlock," answers John simply. "She knew what losing him had done to me. She met me while I was grieving and she did her best to put me back together. She knew what losing him again, and for real this time, would do to me and she still pulled the trigger," he spits angrily.
"You went back to her," Mr Holmes points out.
"Because I allowed myself to be convinced to come back to her. Because we had a baby on the way and because Sherlock was pushing me to forgive her," answers John. "How could I oppose that idiot," he points at Sherlock, "when he tore his stitches and gave himself a bloody heart-attack at the age of sodding thirty-seven, a week after he nearly died because he tried to convince me that trusting and forgiving her was the right thing to do because she was caught up in a case he was working on?"
"The same way Mal and I stopped him from running away and joining circus when for a brief while he wanted to become a contortionist," replies Mr Holmes. "Gently but firmly. Given the factor of the case he would have sulked for a month or more but eventually he would have to get over it," he adds before he looks at Sherlock expectantly. "Why?" he asks.
"Why do you keep following Mummy and whatever idiocy that catches her attention?" asks Sherlock. "Her yoga phase? Her knitting group? For the love of God you taught yourself how to knit even though you hated it because you could never get it right."
"It's not the same thing," Mr Holmes shakes his head.
"It is," Sherlock practically spits out.
Mr Holmes's eyes widen and his left hand flies to his mouth. Sherlock grimaces and folds his arms over his chest.
John feels as if he lost the thread of where this conversation is supposed to go.
"Also, shut up," Sherlock mutters a moment. "Both of you. I can hear you thinking and it's bloody annoying."
"It's bloody stupid, that's what it is," snorts Mr Holmes.
"Thank you," snorts Sherlock.
"No, Sherlock, it really is stupid," sighs Mr Holmes. "Between yourselves you have a nearly mastery in Chemistry that could have been pursued into PhD. A degree in cryptology, again if it was pursued. A medical degree and career in the army that was recognised enough to get a position of a Captain. In RAMC, I presume. Yet, I feel as if I'm sitting in front of two biggest idiots on the planet earth and completely blind ones on that."
"Shut up before I will bring up crocheting," hisses Sherlock. "He used to make doilies," he tells John.
"Everybody needs a hobby," John tells him.
"And yours included following my wayward youngest son all over London," Mr Holmes snorts. "Or was it the girlfriends?" he asks.
"Shut it," mutters Sherlock before John has a chance to say anything.
"Can you please both stop arguing?" he asks.
"I'm not arguing," objects Sherlock firmly. "Daddy is being delusional."
"Well, if I'm delusional and you aren't then I'm worried about how good you're at your job," Mr Holmes snorts.
"Can we please change the subject?" snorts Sherlock.
"In a moment," Mr Holmes says. "John, what are your intentions towards my son?"
"That's it," says Sherlock as he stands up. "We're leaving."
"Sit down, you plonker, we just got here," sighs John as he yanks him down by the shirt and Sherlock flops down on the couch. "We both had a very long day, it's late, the girls are sleeping and I'm not driving back to London in the dark because with my talent we will wind up in Cornwall if we're lucky and in Scotland if we aren't," he adds with exhausted exasperation. "Also, Mycroft," he adds as an afterthought.
"Mycroft can't hide from me forever," mutters Sherlock as he crosses his arms over his chest. "Speaking of which I wish to register a complaint. Your middle son is up to his ears in this whole mess as you already noticed. Not only he's somehow responsible for keeping Daisy away from me but he's also responsible for allowing Mary to fake her death which resulted in Daisy's death. I wish to at least punch him in the face."
"Get in line," mutters Mr Holmes. "I'm your father, I'm older, he's my son and therefore I'm going there first," he adds grimly. "Then I'm going to turn him over to Mummy and once she's done you can do with him whatever you please. The offences you listed aren't the only thing he has been guilty of."
"What exactly he had done?" asks Sherlock curiously.
"Gap year," says Mr Holmes sourly. "Oh, you know Sherlock, the last I heard about him he was passing through a border between India and Burma. Travelling the world, my arse," he snorts. "A year of he's fine while you had been kidnapped."
"I didn't stay kidnapped long," says Sherlock simply. "And I most certainly don't remember being kidnapped. What I do have is memories of the beginning of the summer and a huge blank between that and finding myself on the streets."
"Then there's that," mutters Mr Holmes.
"That isn't exactly his fault," shrugs Sherlock. "Choices, remember?" he adds pointedly. "He didn't push me into drugs, Dad. No, it was something I did to myself and I started long before that."
Mr Holmes frowns and asks softly, "When?"
"Do you remember that thing with my left hand?" asks Sherlock quietly. "I didn't start that year," he adds quickly. "Not with heavy stuff but I did start with stuff that I could get without prescription. Small doses at first, then bigger. Then I went to some doctor in the area, one that I knew that was keen on keeping people medicated. I started with the mild ones but I graduated to heavier stuff to finally end on morphine. Then along came cocaine and during that year I think that I've sampled almost everything that could have been sampled."
Mr Holmes sighs heavily.
"Clean slate?" offers Sherlock.
"I don't think…" Mr Holmes starts.
"Clean slate?" Sherlock presses insistently.
Mr Holmes rubs his chin and sighs, "Clean slate."
"Right on time too," sighs Sherlock as he stands up. "Josie needs changing. I should get there before she will wake up Katie. Stay," he adds as he walks out of the room and heads upstairs.
"I don't remember him having a nearly bat-like hearing," mutters John because he definitely didn't hear a peep coming from upstairs and he's used to hearing Katie's mewls.
"Sensory overload," explains Mr Holmes.
"Asperger Syndrome?" asks John pensively.
"He can give you that impression but no," Mr Holmes shakes his head. "Per Rudy's request we had all three of them evaluated and Sherlock was the only one who ticked only several boxes during the first evaluation. If there's one thing I learned about children for certain is that they like mimic the behaviours of people that surround them. Mal has a mild Asperger Syndrome, it was never officially diagnosed because the Holmeses preferred to not know whatever or not their daughter was simply a peculiar child or mentally handicapped one. You have to remember that she was born in 1946 and that the Holmeses were an upper class family. They were unwilling to risk the potential stigma that such a diagnosis carried back then. I was a soldier and I was gone a lot, so the boys grew up with Mal."
"And because children mimic the behaviour of their role models they all started to mimic your wife's behaviour," nods John.
"The only one that had a milder form of Asperger Syndrome than Mal's was Sherrinford. Mycroft used tether on the brink of being diagnosed with Asperger until he figured out the reason why that test continued to pop up during the evaluations of his mental capabilities. And Sherlock from before fire didn't even come close to that level," explains Mr Holmes.
"And after?" asks John.
"Ticked enough boxes to be diagnosed with Asperger Syndrome," sighs Mr Holmes. "I'm not a psychiatrist John, I'm a retired soldier and my specialty was management and administration and whipping crows into shape. But even I knew that Sherlock's Asperger was PTSD masquerading as Asperger."
"Because one doesn't get worse on the tests after being better," nods John.
"Not only that," admits Mr Holmes. "Because the behaviour that Sherlock was presenting wasn't Sherlock at all."
"If not him then who?" asks John. "Sherrinford?" he guesses the answer to his question.
"Mind you, he retained enough of his own character to not become lingering ghost of Sherrinford but…" he shakes his head. "We shouldn't have sent him away to secondary school," he sighs. "It was suggested to us that amongst his peers he might learn how to fit in but he never had. We should have known better after Sherry but it worked well for Mycroft and we thought that it would work on Sherlock too."
"There's no stopping that is there?" asks John quietly. "Beating yourself over the choices you made?"
"Do you?" asks Mr Holmes simply. "About what happened recently?"
"Amongst the other things," John admits grimly. "He had a psychotic episode and I felt that I was witnessing a repeat of Magnussen and I couldn't allow it to happen again," he pauses. "He was high and instead of dragging him back home by the collar I allowed him to drag me out there, working that case. I let him shot up in a bathroom even though at any given point of time in the past I would have marched in there, flushed the drugs down the toilet and sat on him until the high would wear off. So I subdued him and I tried to get him to snap out of it but…" he hangs his voice and wrings his hands.
"The moment you hit him once you just couldn't stop hitting," says Mr Holmes quietly.
"Yes," whispers John and puts his face in his hands. "Kicked him too, a lot," he mumbles into his hands. "And I wouldn't stop, not until I had to be physically dragged away from him, by two men. I would have killed him, he was already dying because of the drugs and I nearly killed him," he chocks out.
I loved him and after swearing to myself that I will never become my father, that I would never lie my hand in anger on someone I love I nearly bloody killed the only person I loved with all my heart with the exception of my daughter.
"Father or mother or both?" asks Mr Holmes quietly.
"What?" mumbles John as he lowers his hands and raises his head slightly to look at the older man.
Mr Holmes has this familiar distant look in his eyes. His hands are stapled underneath his chin, just like Sherlock does when he's thinking.
"Which one of them was the abusive one?" asks Mr Holmes.
"Father," John admits softly.
"What about Mary?" asks Mr Holmes as his gaze focuses on John.
John sits up straight and blinks and whispers, "How…"
"In about eight to nine out of ten cases victims of domestic abuse tend to repeat the circle of abuse," answers Mr Holmes. "Most often because they don't know any better. But you did know better, John. You knew better and yet you gave in," he adds thoughtfully. "The question is, why?" he asks. "It's highly possible that there are unresolved issues between you and Sherlock and knowing Sherlock there have to be some but…" he pauses. "It doesn't feel right, not with Mary being who she was. I cannot imagine someone like her not trying to punish you for your perceived misdeeds prior to executing her final revenge," he concludes.
"It was never physical," John finally admits. "And it started small, during the time when my head wasn't screwed exactly right. She was nice, in overall and funny in this sarcastic sort of way. It reminded me of Sherlock," he says and pauses. "She was patient with me, exceptionally so. That's why at first I didn't notice how manipulative she was. I trusted her, I loved her or the image she was presenting at the very least," he shakes his head. "After Sherlock revealed her for who she was… I started noticing that something wasn't exactly right but we just had Rosie and I blamed it on exhaustion. I was working full time, then chasing Sherlock on cases and coming back home to a fussy baby and an assassin wife that spent her days taking care of our daughter… I blamed it on hormones, on exhaustion, on a budding resentment that in spite of coming back home I still couldn't bring myself to completely forgive her. I got into an emotional affair with a woman I met on a bus… Nothing serious ever happened but for a moment I felt as if I had some control over my life."
He pauses and licks his lips.
"I was planning to tell her about the affair," he continues. "I was planning to tell her that I wanted a divorce and I wanted to sue for a full custody."
"But you never had a chance," says Mr Holmes.
"She was dead and in her dying words she glorified me," snorts John. "She was dying and all that I felt was relief. What sort of a monster did it make me?" he asks. "She was dying and all I could think of was that now I could come back home with Rosie."
"Where?" asks Mr Holmes.
"Where home had been since a certain idiot asked if he can borrow a phone," sighs John. "The same domesticity that was stifling me with Mary with Sherlock was effortless. Funny at times even," he smiles at the memory of Sherlock's horror when Katie shat herself so badly that she got poo into her hair. "It never felt like a chore with Sherlock."
"Of course it didn't," says Mr Holmes simply. "It explains a lot," he muses. "All right, I will get between you and Mal if it will come down to that."
"Why?" asks John in surprise. "It doesn't change what I did to him. It's unforgivable and inexcusable."
He knows it at the bottom of his heart. He knows that the best thing for Sherlock would be parting their ways and never seeing each other again.
"Yet here you are," shrugs Mr Holmes. "You love him, don't you?" he asks thoughtfully.
"It's hard not to, he's my best friend," sighs John.
"And that's not the answer to the question I asked," replies Mr Holmes. "You're in love with him, always had been," he says and pauses for a second while John's heart skips a beat. "Chances are that it started the very moment you looked at him and he opened his mouth," he shrugs. "If it didn't happen back then, it had to happen before his death for certain. Because you weren't mourning just a friend, you were mourning a spouse. How long after meeting Mary you proposed to her?"
"About six months," admits John softly, floored by Mr Holmes's perceptiveness.
"And not because you loved her enough to want to make her your wife," adds Mr Holmes. "You loved her, in some way, enough to see yourself spending the rest of your life with her, enough to decide that proposing to her when you did was a good idea. Why wait if your life won't get better than that? But it had and you still chose her because she was supposed to be safe, because you knew that you wouldn't survive an encore of what happened if it happened again."
John nods slowly and he whispers, "But it had."
"Yes," Mr Holmes agrees. "It had and it was your wife that made it happen. Your latest outburst doesn't surprise me now. Everything you had been through within last five years contributed to what happened. You never forgave Sherlock for the deception of the fall because deceiving each other about the big stuff is not what partners should be doing. Hiding stuff like birthday or anniversary presents is okay but pretending to be dead for over two years, regardless the reasoning, is not okay. Then there was Mary, the one you married and the one you found yourself married to. You resented her, your marriage," he pauses. "I assume that your daughter wasn't planned," he states and looks at John expectantly.
John nods slowly.
"That contributed too," Mr Holmes nods. "So you found yourself in a new marriage with the woman you didn't chose to marry, a child on the way and you felt trapped. As long as Sherlock required your assistance as a doctor you had something to hide behind but he got better eventually and with him pushing you towards reconciliation and social pressure…" he pauses. "Newlywed husbands don't leave their pregnant wives without ramifications so you tried to make it work, mostly for the sake of your daughter," he muses. "But you couldn't stop resenting Mary so you wanted to punish her for her choices. Except the emotional affair with the girl you met on the bus while probably brief enough to give you some semblance of control over your life was followed by a proof that you could have your daughter and Sherlock together and that you could make it work. Hence the decision to leave your wife but things didn't go the way they were supposed to go and it got into your head."
It's like listening to Elsa and he finds himself nodding internally even though he's staring at the older man in shock. He didn't expect this kind of perceptiveness from someone who looks so ordinary. But Sherlock's perceptiveness had to come from somewhere. Last year when he talked with her he decided that it had to come from Mrs Holmes but now he can see that Sherlock took it from both of them.
Mr Holmes stares at him expectantly in the same way Sherlock used to when they met. Expecting a praise, no that was Sherlock. What was the question? Oh…
"It doesn't matter," sighs John. "He doesn't feel things that way. I know that he cares…"
Mr Holmes interrupts him by whistling softly before he says, "And that was the sound of your IQ plunging into double digits." Then he looks at the floor and adds, "It even splashed itself on the floor."
John frowns.
"Listen, John," says Mr Holmes calmly. "As we learned today there's a lot of stuff which I didn't know about my youngest son. But stuff I do know, I know for certain. I had time to learn it, to verify my own observations and I know him," he pauses. "Sherlock is gayer than a rainbow flag, always had been," he says simply. "I knew that since he was about twelve or thirteen. Finding out his type took some time but it wasn't surprising," he shrugs. "After all beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and role models…"
"He said that too," John interjects.
"Of course he did," Mr Holmes snorts. "I spent forty years in the army and even though we always lived away from the base and had friends and acquaintances amongst the civilians distinct majority of people that visited us on semi regular if rotating basis were soldiers. Some of them were my friends, some were my subordinates, occasionally it was a crow that felt more comfortable talking to me away from the barracks," he shrugs. "Majority of them were men, mostly younger men and some of them even I could recognise as aesthetically good looking. If I could do that and men never interested me sexually imagine how interesting they had to seem to my gay son?" he says simply and shrugs.
John nods slowly.
"Granted, a good looking man in an uniform could turn his head but in order to keep it turned one had to have something up here," Mr Holmes says and he points at his temples. "He had crushes, ones that resolved themselves due to his interests heterosexuality or their inability to stand him at his worst as much as his best," he shrugs and grimaces. "That was always a problem with them," he adds and sighs. "He kept trying, at least until he dropped out of mastery program and disappeared from the face of the planet. We tried to gently pry why or steer conversations towards the subjects of potential interests but afterwards it never really worked."
"Why?" asks John curiously.
"You will have to ask him," Mr Holmes says simply. "All that I know for certain was that up until then he occasionally made an effort to head out and met with someone who hit on him. But neither of them became serious enough to warrant moving in together or getting through the horror of meeting the parents," he grimaces. "So a while after he stopped we gave up, well I did. As long as he was happy with how he lived his life to me he could sleep around or live like a monk. That didn't matter."
It sounds reasonable and John finds himself nodding.
"Then imagine our surprise when about six years ago after a huge row that resulted with Sherlock storming from the accommodations Mycroft at the time was maintaining for him we got a call from Mycroft that Sherlock not only found himself new accommodations but also a flatmate," says Mr Holmes with a small smile. "Sherlock isn't a big fan of people in general and always abhorred sharing living space with other people. If the alternative between living in a dormitory or sharing a room with someone and living alone in a closet was an option he would always chose the closet. When he was at school he kept chasing roommates away until the board gave up and put his bed in a storage closet. He was very happy about it."
"Are you saying that I'm special?" asks John curiously.
Mr Holmes snorts and says, "Let me think. A freshly discharged military doctor which alone implies that you've got something up here," he points at his temples. "Then there's physical type on which you ticked nearly all the boxes. Then there was your appreciation towards him…"
"He shot me down," John interjects.
"Let me guess, within twenty-four hours of meeting him?" asks Mr Holmes curiously. "Of course, he did," he snorts. "You were supposed to help him pay the rent, weren't you? Sherlock has problems in social situation and probably by then he felt confident in his decision that romantic and sexual entanglements weren't for him," he shrugs. "Nobody gets hurt by looking though," he shrugs again. "And I hazard a guess that he was a bit worried that he will chase you away within few weeks at the most. So why bother then."
"He did try," admits John. "Or it felt like it sometimes in the beginning. You wouldn't believe the stuff we argued about back then. He drove me nuts."
"But you stayed," Mr Holmes points out.
"Well, we had to make some rules to ensure somewhat peaceful cohabitation," says John with small smile. "Like not keeping human remains on the same shelves with food, the usage of electric pot for experiments and proper labelling of the inedible stuff in the freezer," he adds fondly. "He pissed me off with that one so much that once I served him toes with mycosis for dinner, told him that if he won't start labelling frozen stuff properly then next time he will get human haggis."
"That had to go well," Mr Holmes smirks.
"Well, he devoted next morning to labelling every single bloody thing in the fridge," chuckles John. "Imagine my surprise when I wanted to make an omelette for dinner and I found each singular egg labelled. It would be fine if it ended at that and a sulk but while he was at it he switched the contents of the jars of our instant coffees and put decaf in the normal jar," he adds with a fond smile.
"That had to be a very funny morning at work," Mr Holmes snorts.
"It was," John admits. "But I got in touch with my inner, distant Scotsman next morning after I heard him coming back from a stake out. I had to wait for him until he fell asleep, he mistook the hornpipes for fire alarm, ran into the chair he left in the middle of the path between the kitchen door and the bathroom corridor and he nearly brained himself on the breakfast bar so badly that rather than laugh at his annoyance I had to stitch his right temple. He milked it for over a week. And speaking of milk, he always used it up, mostly for experiments but never bothered to pick one in return. Weirdly he always remembered to pick up a four-pack or a six-pack of beer even though he rarely drank it, unless I was cooking something very greasy."
Mr Holmes smiles at that comment and sighs, "Alcohol wasn't his vice of a choice as you know."
"It wasn't a vice back then," sighs John. "I mean, he told me to shut up when I told Lestrade during the drug bust that the idea was ridiculous but…" he pauses, "it wasn't something that was hanging over our heads back then."
"But it does now?" asks Mr Holmes pensively. "Since when?"
"After my wedding," says John with a grimace. "Believe it or not, first time I saw him after we returned from honeymoon was in a drug-den, sleeping off a high. After that aborted exile…" he pauses, "I was never completely certain, not up until after few weeks after Katie's christening. Around her he was always sober."
"And you never questioned him why?" asks Mr Holmes.
"I tried, he wasn't exactly forthcoming with believable answers," mutters John.
"Of course he wasn't," sighs Mr Holmes. "And you didn't see a pattern in there, do you?"
John shakes his head.
"After your wedding, prior to impending birth of your daughter and in the fallout of your wife's sudden demise," says Mr Holmes simply. "How is that when he believes that he's about to lose you for good he completely loses his marbles?"
"I don't know," sighs John.
"I do," sighs Mr Holmes. "And apparently I have to spell it out for you," he grimaces. "Answer me this question. What was the very first thing he did after he returned to London after Mycroft got him patched and cleaned up? Because it certainly wasn't visiting his dear old Mummy and Daddy. We didn't see him until the third day after his return and even then instead of heading out for lunch like we always did in the past he invited us to Baker Street which he never had done before. Not for the lack of trying on Mal's part. Then he shoved us out of the door the very moment you showed up."
"He always liked his privacy and he was never very forthcoming about his past," answers John.
"Really?" snorts Mr Holmes. "Pardon me, and accept that I have some experience in that regard, after raising two older sons through teenage years. Because it looked to me like a teenage boy trying his best to keep his parents from trying to embarrass him in front of his crush."
It's hard to keep the warmth tendrils of hope that spreads through him suddenly. Because Mr Holmes is right, he might not know everything about Sherlock but he knew other stuff. But Mr Holmes keeps talking.
"He's in love with you, you idiot," says Mr Holmes fondly. "I can't tell you for how long but odds are that he never had a chance to not fall for you. He might have consider himself married to his work but then he went and made you an integral and irreplaceable part of it. You don't know the republics of former Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia as well as I do, you know very little about the scumbags that still delve there or their methods. Sherlock didn't make it back home because he was lucky, he made it because he was resilient, because in the darkest moments he was holding himself alive by shreds of the only thing they couldn't take away from him," the older man adds grimly. "He came back for you and after his return he reorganised his life to keep you with him in any capacity you allowed him. He still does," he sighs. "Because if my best friend had done to me what you had done to him I assure you that I would pay him back in kind and afterwards I would very seriously reconsider the best and friend parts in our relationship and most probably I would have chosen to dissolve it. Yet here you are."
John's breath catches in his throat and he chokes out, "I know that I don't deserve him."
"It's not about deserving," Mr Holmes shrugs. "He loves you, John," he sighs heavily. "He loves you ardently, he loves you fiercely, he loves you hopelessly. He would burn the world around to keep you happy and safe and he would burn himself in the process. He will never act on it though, out of fear that if he speaks he will lose you forever, he would rather spend the rest of his life taking whatever scraps of attention and affection you would give him. If you truly love him and I think you do, you will have to act on it first because he will never make a first move…"
"I don't deserve him," John repeats.
"But it's not up to you to decide for him what he deserves," says Mr Holmes simply. "He chose you, he kept choosing you over and over and he will keep doing it for as long as he breaths," he sighs. "I know that, he's my son. I knew that Mal was it for me and I know that I was it for her. Blessedly we met each other when we were young and we got to spend over five decades together. Some people aren't that lucky. Sherry never got that chance and he will never get it. Myc never found anyone that would have turned his world on its axis and as pissed off at him as I'm right now I still sincerely wish him that. But Sherlock… it's up to you," he shrugs, then he peers into his mug. "Tea has gone cold, I will make another pot. I'll be in the kitchen if you will want to find me," he adds as stand up, collects the pot and the mugs and leaves the room.
John keeps sitting on the couch still reeling from what he heard.
It wasn't easy to push down what he felt for Sherlock back when he thought that he lost him forever, that he would never have a chance to tell Sherlock how he felt about him. And later when he got the miracle he asked for he fought against all instincts that pushed him to run into Sherlock's arms. For God's sake he was so terrified of losing him again, of giving Sherlock this kind of control to destroy him again that he married a woman he barely knew and as it turned out later he didn't know at all. He still nearly lost Sherlock, kept losing him still. To the bullet, to a bloody heart-attack, to drugs and to his own inability to let Sherlock in.
He will keep losing him still and Sherlock would keep dying for his sake if John will let him. Josie might keep him from doing something stupid for a while but she's still a baby and incapable of reasoning with him and sooner rather than later Sherlock will find another way to destroy himself by believing that this would be what John wants.
But he doesn't want Sherlock to keep dying for him, he wants him to live for him.
And there's only one way to convince Sherlock to live for him even if John doesn't deserve Sherlock's friendship, let alone his love and his single-minded devotion.
So he takes a deep breath, stands up and heads upstairs.
He finds Sherlock still in his bedroom, seated on the bed and staring vacantly at the wall above the cot, his phone lying next to him on the bed.
When John closes the door behind himself Sherlock turns around to look at him and starts standing up as he says, "John, what did he tell you? You look like hell."
"Because I'm in hell," John says softly. "One I made for myself because in all the instances that mattered I chose a coward's way out. I never should have," he pauses and he sees that Sherlock is about to speak. "Please let me finish, Sherlock and then you can talk."
Sherlock nods slowly albeit slightly reluctantly. For a brief moment he looks at the bed, hesitating between standing and sitting down. In the end choses to stand, his back ramrod straight, shoulders squared and head held up high. Bracing himself for horrible news.
It is horrible news for Sherlock because if Mr Holmes is right then Sherlock will never have a chance to get what he truly deserves. He will never give up on John, even though he should, it would certainly make his life easier. And if Mr Holmes is wrong…
At the very least he owes Sherlock the ultimate truth.
So he straightens his spine, squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath as he lets all the walls he built around his heart collapse before he speaks.