Chapter 3:
Walking up to Baker Streets front door, Sherlock listens as Mycroft's car drives off with relief. Of all the things he wanted to do at the moment, entertaining Mycroft was not one of them. Or anyone who wasn't John for that matter.
Sticking his key into the lock, he opens the door to find Mrs. Hudson dusting and groans aloud in annoyance.
"Sherlock, dear! You're finally back. I was beginning to wonder. And the smell! Awful. I can barely bring myself to go near the stairs anymore." She says, scrunching her nose up as she says this, only confusing Sherlock.
"Smell?" John asks as he steps in behind Sherlock.
"Oh, and you brought someone over! Honestly, Sherlock. I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper. If you wanted me to clean up for you, you should have at least asked. Now you'll just have to do it yourself." Mrs. Hudson admonishes.
"Mrs. Hudson, what on Earth are you talking about?" Sherlock asks in exasperation. Why was it so hard to just allow him time alone with John? Didn't he deserve that?
"How rude of me. I'm Mrs. Hudson. It's always nice to meet one of Sherlock's friends." She says, ignoring Sherlock completely as she moves to John and holds out a hand.
"John Watson. Sherlock's husband." Hearing John say those words is more shocking now than it had been to hear Mycroft say them earlier. There's still the possibility that, because that is the background John had been given, he's only playing along until he can demand that they separate, but Sherlock wants to believe that that's not the case and he actually does want to call himself Sherlock's husband.
"Husband? Sherlock, why didn't you tell me! You really should have cleaned up then, young man!" She reprimands again and only now is Sherlock remembering the state he had left the flat in. He hadn't been back since that night and as a result, it was surely a sight.
"I'm sure it isn't anything I haven't seen before." John appeases. Good, sweet John who likes to deescalate situations caused by Sherlock being - well, himself.
"Of course, but still." The landlady seems at a loss for a moment and Sherlock is just about to dismiss her entirely and drag John upstairs himself when she perks up.
"Oh, I know! Why don't you come with me while Sherlock goes and cleans up, hm? There's so much to discuss, least of which being where you've been all this time." Sherlock merely blinks and suddenly Mrs. Hudson is linking her arm in Johns and dragging him off - like he himself had wanted to do - to her flat.
"And Sherlock, dear? Make sure that you open the windows. It'll help to get rid of the smell." She suggests before turning to John and chattering in his ear. Whatever she says seems to amuse John as he smiles, and then laughs heartily in response, seeming entirely unphased by this turn in events.
When the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat closes, Sherlock finally breaks out of his stupor and scowls. Turning to the stairs, he begins to loudly stomp up them to ensure Mrs. Hudson knows about his displeasure. He only gets a few steps up, though, when suddenly the smell hits him like he'd walked into a wall.
Realizing this is what his landlady must have meant, his scowl deepens and he continues on up.
0-0-0-0-0
It wasn't so much as cleaning as it was shoving everything out of sight.
Windows open, Sherlock tosses the meat and veggies dangling from the ceiling into a bag and then out the window and onto Mrs. Hudson's bins below. From there he unplugs the sink drain and dumps anything containing liquid into it. With the cups and mugs now empty, he begins shoving them into the cupboards without so much as a rinse.
In the bathroom, he removes the plug from the tub and leaves that to drain as well before heading to the sitting room where he kicks scattered biscuits under the couch. The only thing he actually takes the time to properly take care of was the glass from the shattered telly and plate which he brushes onto a dustpan and then dumps into the trash.
Anything else out of place, Sherlock merely shoves it away in a nook or cranny that wouldn't be immediately visible to anyone entering the flat, and with that, he feels safe in retrieving John from his conniving landlady.
Hurrying down the stairs, he makes a beeline for Mrs. Hudson's and lets himself in without so much as a knock. His arrival doesn't seem to surprise either occupant, however, as they continue chatting amongst themselves, ignoring Sherlock's presence entirely.
"That's just awful. I'm sure Sherlock is glad to have you home." Mrs. Hudson is saying, her eyes rimmed red, and Sherlock has no doubt that they had been discussing John's MIA story. He still isn't sure whether the story holds any truth, but that isn't something that he wants to think about right now.
Putting that thought out of his mind for now he stalks over to stand behind John and places his hands on the man's shoulders. Smiling blandly to his landlady, he nods and tightens his grip slightly.
"Very. Now, if you wouldn't mind, John and I will be going." He tells her dismissively, to which John elbows him in the thigh.
"Yes, of course. You two must have a lot to catch up on." She says, unperturbed as she waves them off with a smile that is much better than the near pity of earlier. Nodding to her, Sherlock all but pulls Johns from his chair and guides him to the door.
"You didn't have to be so rude. Mrs. Hudson is lovely." John says in a hushed voice as they leave.
"Don't be drawn in by her charms, John. She can be a downright menace when she wants." Sherlock warns though he couldn't deny the fondness he held for the woman.
"I don't know about that. She made biscuits. And cakes too. I don't think menaces of society do that." John answers with a growing smile.
"Not all, no. Only the smart ones." Sherlock quips back with a small grin of his own.
The rest of the trek up to the flat is done silently and Sherlock can feel the growing itch of unease under his skin as he grows closer and closer to finally being alone with John.
This will be it. The deciding moment. They'll be alone in the flat for the first time in 500 years. They'll decide whether they will be staying together or if they're going to part for good or if they're going to continue traveling together but end their romantic relationship once and for all.
It's reminiscent of that time so long ago when Sherlock worked up the courage to admit his feelings to John over the fire. The point of no return, the moment of truth, the coup de grace. There were many words for moments like these and Sherlock found himself going through a list of every one he knew as a means of distracting himself from his growing anxiety.
When they were finally stepping into the sitting room of 221B and the door was shut firmly behind them, the tension seems to grow and expand in intensity to the point that it almost felt hard to breathe.
"Sherlock-"
"Sit," Sherlock says so quick that he wasn't entirely sure if he'd said a word or merely made a sound. He doesn't mind though, so long as he was able to forestall whatever it was that John was going to say.
"You should sit. Sofa or chair? I find the sofas rather comfortable, but it may be easier to talk facing each other in the chairs. I usually sit in that one there, but you can take whichever you prefer. Tea? No, wait, there is no more tea. Maybe I should go and get some. Wait here-"
"Sherlock, calm down," John says, grabbing Sherlock's arm as he spun away to leave for Tesco. Blinking out of his stupor, Sherlock scans John's face for any indication of how their conversation was going to go but couldn't see past his own tumultuous - tedious - emotions.
"Yes, of course." He says to fill the air with something other than his almost too heavy breathing.
"You're panicking a bit there," John notes. He was smiling, but there was concern in the doctor's eyes as his hand moves to Sherlock's wrist to check his pulse.
"Ridiculous," Sherlock mutters, pulling it out of John's grasp and regretting it immediately when he saw the smile fall from John's lips.
"Right. Well, um..." John trails off, turning to observe the rest of the room which leaves Sherlock's wince unnoticed.
"Nice place. It's very... you." The doctor says as he steps further into the room, and Sherlock can see the moment that John's eyes land on the skull still sitting on the mantel.
"Considering I'm the one who lives here, I should think so," Sherlock says. He still hasn't moved from his spot in front of the door, but he doesn't quite know what to do with himself and is waiting for John to take the lead.
Another silence falls over them, this one filled with just as much awkwardness as there is tension and Sherlock berates himself silently for being so abrasive to John of all people.
Clearing his throat, the doctor finally moves to one of the chairs and sits, turning to look expectantly at Sherlock who stutters to a start and heads to his own chair across from John. Face to face, the chairs are close enough that if they stretched their legs into the space between them they could tangle their feet together.
They don't, but it's not because Sherlock doesn't want to.
"So..." John starts before trailing off.
"I've missed you." The words are out of his mouth before Sherlock even has a second to think about them. He would be annoyed with himself if they didn't cause another, this time softer, smile to form on John's lips.
"I missed you too Sherlock," John replies, voice just as soft as his smile. Sherlock swallows and nods, forcing himself to keep eye contact despite wanting to look anywhere but at John at this very moment.
When Sherlock doesn't continue, John seems to understand that he needs to be the one to keep going if there's going to be any actual conversation.
"I don't want there to be any misunderstandings between us." John starts again, and while ice begins to form in Sherlock's chest, he nods in agreement.
"Neither do I." He agrees, the words feeling like lead on his tongue.
This will be it then. The moment John tells him, 'It was great, but I don't think it should continue,' or, 'Actually, there was this woman in Scotland,' or even, 'After the whole witch fiasco, I realized that maybe you aren't what I was looking for after all,'. Maybe even a mixture of all three.
"Good. Then, in the spirit of getting it all in the open; I love you, Sherlock." He says, stealing the breath from Sherlock's lungs.
"But?" The detective asks breathlessly, watching as confusion morphs on John's face.
"But?" The doctor repeats as Sherlock catches his breath again.
"What's the but? 'I love you, Sherlock, but...'. But what, John?" Sherlock asks almost desperately, needing to know how the sentence ended. Needing to hear it once and for all.
'I love you, Sherlock, but this isn't going to work.'
'I love you, Sherlock, but you're an awful partner.'
'I love you, Sherlock, but it's more trouble than it's worth.'
"But nothing. Sherlock, I love you- have loved you since 1438. Before that, even! For me, nothing has changed." Of all the answers for John to give, this one wasn't even a possibility in Sherlock's mind. This scenario had been more of a dream than a possibility to Sherlock, and so to hear it come true was startling and unexpected.
"Sherlock? Hey, look, like I said, I didn't want there to be any misunderstandings. If you've changed your mind, that's alright. It's been 500 years after all; I won't fault you if you realized that this wasn't something you wanted after all." The soothing was unnecessary as Sherlock processes exactly what John was saying to him.
"Changed my-? Honestly, John. If I had changed my mind, why would I be wearing this ring?" Sherlock asks, channeling how off-kilter he was into annoyance as he raises his hand to show the ring still sitting on his left hand.
John blinks at the sight, faltering from where he'd leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, and opens his mouth a few times.
"Well I-... I wasn't sure, really. I didn't want to jump to any conclusions. For all I knew, it was a convenient way of keeping suitors off your back." He admits with a shrug, scratching his cheek bashfully. Sherlock scoffs at that, setting his hand back down on the arm of his chair.
"Yeah, I know. You don't need a ring for that when all you have to do is open your mouth. Bet they go running after that." John quips, to which Sherlock finds a smile tugging on his lips once more.
"Most times, yes. The ring is a rather good deterrent, though." He admits, remembering back to a few cases in which those interested in Sherlock had been willing to overlook his abrasiveness. At that point, flashing his ring had done a splendid job of scaring them off.
"Still, you usually wore it around your neck. I wasn't sure if there was some reason you changed it to your finger." John says, pulling them back to the main discussion. Sobering, Sherlock frowns and nods to John's hand.
"The same could be said of you." He says, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. After all, John had already said he loved him still. The ring was just a symbolic piece of metal and didn't have any bearing on how much John loved him.
"Ah, right," John says as if he had forgotten it was gone.
That means it hadn't been a recent change then. The ring had long since left John's hand.
"Sorry, I almost forgot. I meant to put it back on properly on the way here, but then I got a bit distracted and all and... well..." He shrugs again, at a loss for words as he pulls out the ring from under his jumper, held securely around his neck by a leather cord, not unlike the one Sherlock had had all that time ago.
"Oh." He says dumbly, eyes wide at the sight of the familiar ring out in the open once more.
"Oh," John repeats in an amused tone as he pulls the cord over his head and unties it. He pulls the ring off and slips it over his finger, flexing it a few times.
"Strange. To be wearing it again." He says as the both of them watch the ring, one with wide eyes and one with a smile.
They don't say anything for a moment after that, both of them too lost in their own thoughts and emotions to continue the heavy conversation. Eventually, its Sherlock's lips moving before his mind can stop them once again that breaks the quiet.
"I love you too. Still. By the way." He tacks on, fighting a wince at just how disjointed the sentences were. Any and all eloquence that he normally possessed was gone in the face of John and it would normally be despicable if it weren't for the fact that he was finally with John again.
He would rather have John and be forever cursed to have the grammar of a four-year-old than have even a moment of the opposite.
"Good. Really? Good. That's... that's-"
"Good." Sherlock finishes with a small smile of his own that John matches.
"Yes. Good." John repeats, eliciting giggles from the both of them. Before Sherlock knows it, they're both standing, and then suddenly they're hugging, and even more startling, kissing.
It had been so, so long since he'd felt like this. This comfortable. This happy. It feels like coming home and he would give anything not to lose it again as his hands fist the back of John's jumper.
By the time they separate, they're both gasping for air and clinging tightly to each other. Resting his forehead on John's, Sherlock takes a deep, calming breath and tries to settle the chaos in his head.
"Sometimes I don't talk for days on end," Sherlock says eventually, his voice hushed. The words confuse John and he moves his head back so that he can see Sherlock's face.
"And I play the violin when I'm thinking." Sherlock continues with a hint of a smile on his face.
"What?" John asks, not quite sure where Sherlock was going with this.
"Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." Sherlock finishes. This elicits another bout of laughter from John as he steps out of Sherlock's embrace.
"Potential flatmates, huh? I was thinking more along the lines of potential life partners." John corrects to which Sherlock raises an eyebrow.
"Oh? How presumptuous. With our life spans that is quite a bit of time." He says, feeling the warmth traveling from his gut to his entire chest now.
"I'm counting on it."
0-0-0-0-0
The rest of their day is spent with both John and Sherlock sat on the sofa together telling each other in words no louder than a whisper what it is they've been up to for the past 500 years.
Sherlock tells John about his time spent trying to find a way to break the curse immediately after they'd separated. About how he'd poured over the tomes he'd stolen, about how he'd stolen even more from other suspected witches. How it had all culminated to nothing except an angry town that he'd had to flee to avoid imprisonment. He tells him about traveling all across Europe, Asia, and America and always coming back to London to watch it grow. He tells him about the Holmes' he had watched come into this world, and then consequently leave. About Charlotte and William and Margaret and Sigurson.
And in turn, John tells him about the many wars he had been a part of. The hospitals he had practiced at. His time across Europe and Asia and America as well. He tells him about his own search for an answer, and how he'd had even less luck. How the closest he'd gotten was befriending what was most likely the last true witch back in the 1700's and how she had told him that there wasn't much to be done about the curse. He tells Sherlock about his own family line that was now down to a woman named Harriet who had a drinking problem and would most probably end the family line, just as Sherlock suspected Mycroft would.
When it grew dark and their stomachs began making themselves known, they ordered take out and ate together there on the sofa, changing the topic to what they had been doing lately. Sherlock told John about his work with New Scotland Yard, while John told him about the hospital in America he'd been working in to pass the time.
And when the food was gone and the yawning began, they headed to Sherlock's room without so much as a word.
"At least we can stay in the same room together now." John quips as he pulls back the duvet on his side and crawls in, thinking back to the days of separate rooms - or even homes - due to their relationship being outlawed.
"Now we only have to worry about Mrs. Hudson popping in unannounced," Sherlock says as he joins the doctor in the bed.
"She seemed alright to me," John says, his eyebrows furrowing, and Sherlock can see him reevaluating his time with Mrs. Hudson, looking for any sign that she wasn't as accepting of same-sex relationships as he'd first thought.
"Mrs. Hudson is a joy, rest assured. As earlier mentioned, however, she's a menace. Expect breakfast in bed tomorrow. I'm sure she'll be wanting a peek." Sherlock says as he slides closer to John until he can wrap his arms around the smaller man.
"A peek of what, exactly?" John asks in amusement as he wraps his arms around Sherlock in turn.
"Mm, anything. She'll be telling Mrs. Turner all about it. And Mr. Chatterjee. The whole neighborhood, really." Sherlock murmurs. His eyes are closed now and he can feel sleep pulling him under after days of going on empty during the case.
The sound of John's laughter sends him off, and the last thing he feels is the kiss that's pressed to his forehead.
0-0-0-0-0
It's not breakfast in bed, but it is breakfast.
When they wake up the next morning it's to the sounds of Mrs. Hudson puttering around in their kitchen, and when they both get up they find her setting out tea and pastries alongside plates full to the brim with food.
"Did I wake you? I was thinking that you two might like a good homemade breakfast." She says, wiping her hands on the apron she's wearing and smiling warmly at them both.
"You're a saint. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." John tells her as he moves to kiss her on the cheek before sitting down at the table.
"Oh, poo! It was nothing." She says cheerily, waving a hand in John's direction.
"Do stop meddling, Mrs. Hudson. It's entirely unnecessary." Sherlock tells her with a frown, though he joins John regardless at the table as well.
"Don't try that on me young man; I saw the state of your fridge. It's John's first morning back home, he deserves a good meal." She tells him. Her hands are on her hips now as she looks down on Sherlock and he finds himself sighing.
"And when I said clean up the flat, I didn't mean hide everything away. Your dishes were a mess, and there was a trail of biscuits under the sofa. I cleaned it this one time, but I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper." She says, finishing her admonishments. From behind her, Sherlock sees John watching on in amusement and glares.
"Yes, yes. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." He says through clenched teeth, though he truly does appreciate everything she's done for him - not just today either. It seems that she sees this as well as she nods and smiles at him, patting his shoulder.
"I'll leave you both to eat now. But honestly, Sherlock, what in the world did you do to your telly?" She asks. Without waiting for an answer though she's leaving, and Sherlock lets out a sigh of relief as he hears her footsteps slowly fade away.
"She's lovely," John says, popping the last corner of his toast in his mouth with a wide grin.
"Menace. You'll see soon." Sherlock assures, begrudgingly picking up his own slice of toast and taking a bite of it.
"Yeah, right," John says back good-naturedly.
As they eat, Sherlock is suddenly struck by the fact that he is finally reunited with John. The two of them are finally in the same room together with no ill effects and everything seems to be unchanged. It's almost as if the past 500 years hadn't happened.
And yet, he can sense the change regardless. Where the two of them used to move around each other as only well-established partners could, there seemed to be a gap between them now. It wasn't one of their intentional making, but time had stretched the once close-knit relationship to the point of tearing and Sherlock wasn't sure how he was supposed to act around John anymore.
It had seemed so much easier yesterday when they were only just reunited. The euphoria of seeing John again had overshadowed everything else and the distance between them hadn't seemed so big and menacing. But now, in the new morning's light, he could see that they wouldn't be able to just pick up exactly where they had left off. There had been too much time. Too many experiences shouldered alone. It was disheartening, and Sherlock could see the moment that John seemed to realize this as well.
"Sherlock-"
"I do hope I'm not interrupting." Why was it that everyone had to bother them? Normally, Sherlock could go days - weeks even - without seeing a single other person, but now that he actually wanted to be left alone with John it seemed everyone was keen on visiting.
"Mycroft. You almost made it a full day. How considerate." Sherlock spits out, taking care to ensure Mycroft could hear his contempt.
"Time is of the essence, Sherlock. I'm sure you will have plenty of it to do what you so wish later." Mycroft says indifferently as he walks over to the table. He remains standing and Sherlock is unsure whether that angers him more than if he'd sat down. On one hand, now he was quite literally looking down on him and John - and Mycroft oh so did love literal metaphors - but on the other, sitting meant staying and there was nothing Sherlock wanted less than for his relative to remain here for an extended period of time.
"Good morning, Mycroft." John puts in, reminding the two of his presence at the table where he was still casually eating.
"Dr. Watson." Mycroft greeted congenially with a tilt of his head. Sherlock scoffs, knowing Mycroft was only attempting to stay in John's good graces so as to learn more about him. If John hadn't been immortal like Sherlock, he had no doubt in his mind that Mycroft would use more underhanded tactics to get information about the doctor rather than having a nice chat over breakfast.
"Get on with it, Mycroft. What do you want?" Sherlock asks impatiently hoping to quench Mycrofts curiosity and get him out the door as soon as possible.
"I merely had a few questions regarding your partners existence. You have managed to keep him a secret for far longer than our family can remember." Mycroft says, to which Sherlock sneers.
"And why should I answer any of your questions? If I didn't want you knowing then, why would I want you to know now?" He retorts. From the other end of the table, John has finished eating and is standing, grabbing his plate and mug and taking them to the sink where he continues to listen.
"I do believe you owe me, no?" Raising an eyebrow, Mycroft all but looks down his nose at Sherlock and the detective's skin crawls at the air of smug superiority that the younger man is exuding.
"And this is what you wish to use my favor for? I rather thought it would be for something more interesting than this." Sherlock says, only half meaning his words. When he had offered a favor in turn for Mycroft finding John, he had expected this may be what his nephew used it for, but there had also been the small hope that he would instead use it for something regarding his government work.
"Interest is relative. Information for retrieval is a fair trade, no?" Mycroft asks, turning to head into the sitting room where he takes a seat in the armchair across from Sherlock's. The immortal scowls, because not only had Mycroft stood there, but now he was sitting.
Staying.
"Lovely family you have," John says in a hushed voice. Turning to look at the man, Sherlock can see the hint of a smile on John's face. The doctor is leaning against the counter with his arms folded over his chest and Sherlock can all but feel the amusement radiating off of him.
"As lovely as a pack of rabid wolves." Sherlock sneers as he stands from the table. He turns his head to glare at the back of Mycroft's head, and while his relative is unable to see the glare directed his way, the detective wouldn't be surprised if he knew of it regardless. That's not to mention that, despite their hushes voices and Mycroft's back being turned to them, Mycroft is assuredly attempting to listen in on them.
"Like that one back in 1439?" The lighthearted tone of his partner pulls Sherlock from his stewing and he can't help but smile at the memory despite it not having been a very fun time for either man.
"We were rather unlucky seeing as it is uncommon for wolves to contract rabies in the first place." Sherlock remarks which elicits quiet laughter from John.
"It didn't help that you fell down that hill just before that either." Scowl back at full force, Sherlock turns his glare to John now.
"There were leaves covering the roots and it was raining. Mud and obscured vision resulted in the fall." Sherlock says through clenched teeth which only earns more laughter from his partner.
"You don't have to convince me, I was there. Though, as I recall, it didn't help that you were staring at my arse either." He adds, placing a finger to his chin and looking up as if in thought. Grabbing the first thing at hand - which was thankfully a tea towel Mrs. Hudson had left behind rather than the fork or knife sitting beside it - Sherlock chucked the cloth at John's face and ignored him as he roared out in laughter once more.
"Let's get this over with," Sherlock says loudly for Mycroft's benefit as he joins his nephew in the sitting room.
"Are you sure? I don't mind waiting." Mycroft assures politely, and while Sherlock can see that he means it, he also sees that the man had been listening in and would no doubt be wanting to hear more. Sherlock wasn't going to indulge him, though, and instead began glaring silently until Mycroft seemed to get the message. His relative was grating on the last of his nerves, and it didn't help that he could still see John fighting laughter in the kitchen.
If he doesn't get some time alone with John soon, he will most probably explode.
And whether that is an explosion of the verbal sense, or of a more literal sense is still up in the air.
"In that case, why don't you start by telling me just how long you and Dr. Watson have been acquainted," Mycroft asks, reining back Sherlock's temper slightly as they finally get on with things.
Speaking with Mycroft is always a battle of wits. Mind games are nearly always present and for both men, every word they use is carefully thought of and planned for before leaving their mouths. The game of what is giving away too much and what is too little is one that takes immense concentration lest it becomes obvious there's something you're hiding. The fact that Sherlock is now bound by his favor to answer means he can't deny answer either.
"We've known each other for just over 600 years now." And then John comes in and ruins the whole game.
Groaning aloud, Sherlock and Mycroft watch as John walks over to the desk and pulls one of the chairs over so that he can join the conversation properly. Sherlock is pleased to note that he sets it beside Sherlock's chair, and while it doesn't soothe all of the detective's irritation, it's a good enough balm that Sherlock doesn't feel quite so antsy anymore.
"That's quite a time. And yet you were no longer traveling together despite your obvious... affection for one another." Mycroft says after a pause. The glance to their matching rings isn't hidden in the slightest either, but Sherlock only sits straighter in his chair for it, unashamed of his relationship with John. There wasn't anyone - Mycroft especially - that could make him feel any different in that case.
"We ran into some trouble," John says, answering the unspoken question with ease and a smile.
"It must have been trouble indeed to have kept you apart to such an extent that you no longer knew the other's whereabouts. For immortals such as yourselves, I wonder exactly what it could have been." Unease pools low in Sherlock's gut at the thought of the witch, because even though he and John had talked last night, they hadn't broached the topic of their separation just yet and so Sherlock was unaware of whether John held resentment for that situation or not.
Looking at the man out of the corner of his eye, he was nearly startled to see John doing the same and realized that he was just as hesitant to broach the subject.
"There are some things, Mycroft, that are not so easily explained. This being one of them. We answer you this question, and the favor is fulfilled." Sherlock warns.
And that seemed to give Mycroft pause, as it should. To learn about the existence of magic was something Sherlock - and as he had just noted, John as well - had gone to great lengths to hide. More so than his lengths to keep John a secret. Because, frankly, it scared him.
Not that he would ever admit that to anyone out loud.
It didn't make it any less true, however. For there to be a force out there that could have dealt him such damage - he, an immortal being - terrified him. Just the glimpse he had seen into the practice of magic had been leaps and bounds ahead of anything he had thought possible - and again, he was immortal. Magic could do a great deal, the least of which being curses that could have such an impact on him.
Which was the crux of all of this. Sherlock had become used to being impervious. He could not be mortally wounded, he did not become ill, he bounced back from life-ending scenarios just as a child tripping over their feet might. He was invincible, in a sense.
And yet, magic broke that illusion of invincibility. It showed him just how wrong he had been to have thought such things. Because, while his body may heal from any physical harm inflicted onto it, magic had the ability to circumvent all of that.
He had seen some of the curses in that witch's tomes. He had seen not only the curse of separation but the curse of amnesia. The curse of paralysis. The curse of indefinite slumber.
And in the end, he counted himself lucky that his only consequence had been the separation.
While he and John didn't believe there were any more witches alive, that didn't mean they knew for certain. There was the possibility that magic had survived the witch trials and there was someone out there with the power to curse and bless, but Sherlock honestly never wanted their paths to cross. He never wanted to take a chance like that again.
So to allow Mycroft the knowledge of such a force was something Sherlock most certainly did not want. He knew his nephew; curious to a fault and willing to do whatever it took to quench that thirst for knowledge. He was much like Sherlock in that case, and not for the first time Sherlock rethought his decision to have had such a heavy impact in this generation of his family line.
If Mycroft became aware of magic, he would do just as Sherlock had and research everything there was to know about it. And with his power and status within the government, he would have the resources Sherlock did not to dig even further into the subject. He may even find a witch of his own to put on his payroll.
He was brought out of his thoughts by John's hand resting over his on the arm of his chair. Breathing deeply - and finding that he had been unknowingly holding his breath - Sherlock slowly unclenches his fist - something else he'd done unknowingly - and turns his hand palm up to grasp his partner's hand.
Turning to Mycroft again, Sherlock was at least pleased to see that the man seemed to be thinking his options over carefully, but the detective knew regardless what his response would be.
"If it is as serious as you suggest, I believe I would like to know." He says, one hand grabbing the handle of his umbrella as if to steady himself for what was to come.
Having expected the response, Sherlock merely nods and grips John's hand all the harder.
"In that case; a witch cursed us," Sherlock says without any inflection whatsoever. Instead of bursting out into hysterical laughter or demanding a real answer and not jokes, Mycroft took the words just as seriously as they were said and frowns.
"And before you ask; no, that is not what caused our immortality, or so I believe. I can't be sure, of course, but there has been nothing to indicate that being the case." Sherlock continues, answering the question before it could arise.
It was a logical step, after all, to think that Sherlock and John's state of being may have been caused by magic once hearing of its existence. However, during Sherlock's obsession with witches and magic, he hadn't found even an inkling of a spell or curse or blessing that would grant immortality of the likes of him and John. There were some that healed wounds and ailments or extended someone's life span a couple of days or weeks if lucky, but nothing that would account for their invincibility and long life.
"What did this curse entail?" Mycroft asks after a moment. While Sherlock was grateful the man wasn't going to have a mental breakdown over the existence of magic, he was also rather disappointed that that meant he had to continue having this conversation.
"Oh, the usual. Spiteful words, blah blah blah, never be within a towns distance, blah blah, unable to speak, blah, 500 years." Sherlock said with a flippant wave of his hand, aiming to be more unphased than he truly was.
"Sherlock." John admonished with a glare, this one with more intention behind it than the one he'd given him the day before in front of the police.
So the grace period was over, then. It was nice while it lasted at least.
With a great sigh and roll of his eyes, Sherlock looked back to Mycroft and saw that, despite his earlier attempt at making light of things, his relative was still hanging onto his every word with interest. He hadn't seen Mycroft like this since he was a boy and Sherlock would come to visit and teach him how to observe and deduce.
"Spiteful words from a sharp mouth; Two shall heed these words where one is to blame; To never be within a towns distance; Lest the flesh burn from the bone; Unable to speak through voice or written word; Or lose the ability altogether; For acting with the foolishness as a child of five; May the next 500 years force you to understand consequences; By morning's light; So be it." The words were heavily accented, spoken exactly how the witch had said them back in 1510, and Sherlock was struck by just how much time had passed since then when he compared it to the tongue of today.
Living through change as he had, it was sometimes hard to notice it. The evolution of accents and fashion and societal norms were so slow and gradual that they stayed largely the same, until one day you suddenly realized they weren't.
"Basically, we couldn't be within a certain radius of each other for 500 years," John explains as he watched Mycroft work to translate the accented words into a more modern version.
"I assume you attempted to regardless?" Mycroft questions with a raised eyebrow.
"Of course, but she wasn't lying when she threatened the burning of our flesh from our bone. It wasn't a very pleasant experience, that." John says with a quirk of a smile and a push of their joined hands.
"That was entirely your own doing." Sherlock accuses, not bothering to look to the man as he says so.
"Well if someone wasn't so keen to stick around London forever, maybe that wouldn't have happened." John accuses right back.
"If you knew I was going to be around London, why did you keep coming back then?" Sherlock asks, turning to raise an eyebrow at him now and pleased to see John seems to be more amused than angry.
"Because maybe I wanted to spend some time here for once you berk." He retorts, to which Sherlock merely hums.
"Entirely your own fault, then." He concludes, ignoring when John kicks his foot in retaliation.
"So magic is real, then?" Mycroft asks, seemingly not impressed by their antics.
"Very. However, we don't believe there to be any more witches alive at this point. While the witch trials are thought to be the act of mass hysteria and discrimination, they were in fact very good at eliminating those who were different." Sherlock assures, remembering his own trial and execution. While he hadn't been a witch, he had been exactly what the townspeople had feared; different.
"Not to mention, there weren't very many of them to begin with," John adds, remembering his own conversation with the witch he had befriended. She had mentioned to him that witches had always been a dying breed, far before people had begun hunting them. Having magic wasn't a guarantee that your child would as well. It was spotty and showed up in random people, until suddenly it seemed that it wasn't showing in anyone anymore.
"Precisely. So, in conclusion, magic is real, there are no more witches, we were cursed, and as a result, we were forced to be apart for half a millennia. Anything else?" Sherlock asks, his impatience making a return. As much as he loved chatting with Mycroft - which was to say, not at all - Sherlock would much rather be doing anything else. Preferably, something that involved John.
Which reminded him of the conversation Mycroft had interrupted earlier.
"I believe that answers all of my questions for now." Mycroft says as he stands from his chair and thumps his umbrella against the rug. John and Sherlock don't bother getting up and instead stay seated as Mycroft heads for the door. Just before he leaves though, Mycroft turns to address them once more.
"By the way, we have obtained a birth certificate and identification for Dr. Watson but will need more time building him a military service record. It would be within your best interest to avoid anyone pursuing a background check on him for the time being until we have everything sorted in that respect." Mycroft informs them.
"There's our afternoon plans shot." John quips to Sherlock much to the detective's amusement and the lack of Mycroft's. After all, this wasn't Sherlock and John's first rodeo. They knew to stay away from anything that may cause someone to go searching into their histories. It was only now, thanks to Mycroft, that they wouldn't have to worry about that for a short while.
"Hm. A pleasure as always, Sherlock." Mycroft says dryly. Sherlock doesn't bother responding to that and instead watches silently as Mycroft leaves the flat and makes his way down the stairs.
With him gone, John stands from his seat and puts it back at the desk before moving to sit in the now-empty armchair across from Sherlock. The doctor's expression looks to be carefully neutral, but Sherlock can see that there was an effort put in to look as nonthreatening as possible.
So they were moving straight into that conversation, then.
"Sherlock-" Not wanting to hear what was to come, Sherlock interrupts him before he can even truly start his sentence.
"It's fine, John. I won't hold you to your words. We were both emotionally impaired yesterday, and as such, we said things we didn't mean." He doesn't mean the words even as he says them, because everything he had said yesterday had been true. He had missed John, and he did still love him. He wanted to spend the rest of his immortal life with him, just as he had said.
However, John had clearly realized, just as he had earlier, that their separation had taken a toll on their relationship. Now that the haze and adrenaline of reuniting were gone, there was no doubt that John was second-guessing his words yesterday and was only just realizing now that the effort wasn't worth the outcome.
"Emotionally impair- what?" John asks, his calm face of neutrality leaving in an instant and morphing to one of surprised confusion. Sherlock ignores this reaction though and continues on undeterred.
"Clearly we both were highly anticipating and romanticizing our reunion and as such got caught up in the moment. Our relationship isn't like it used to be and the work needed to mend it is too much. You don't have to make excuses or-"
"Now hold on a minute, Sherlock." Surprised at being interrupted when he was giving John an out, Sherlock stops talking in an instant and blinks at John.
"I meant everything I said yesterday. Everything." John assures right off the bat much to Sherlock's surprise.
"There wasn't a single thing that I said then that I would take back now. What about you? Did you really not mean it? When you said you missed me and loved me and wanted to spend the rest of our eternal lives together?" John asks with an intensity behind his words. There's anger and hurt and conviction hiding behind a mask of determination that tells Sherlock that he's landed himself in a minefield that needs to be tread carefully.
"I-"
"Think about your words before you say them, Sherlock, because sometimes your mouth gets ahead of that big brain of yours. Don't say something that you'll later regret." John warns, a frown playing on his lips. Sherlock swallows and does as told, thinking over his words carefully before opening his mouth again.
"John, I-. I meant it. What I said yesterday. I meant it, too." Sherlock confirms haltingly. He watches John carefully as the doctor nods and rolls his shoulders, trying to settle himself.
"Good. Next time, before you try and preemptively hurt us all, let me talk first. That way we can avoid all of the unnecessary hurt." John says, going for light-hearted but coming out stern and somber instead. Sherlock only nods mutely in response, still unsure of where this conversation is going. If it isn't that John is going to leave after all, then what?
"You were right, though, about one thing. Our relationship isn't like it used to be," So it was as Sherlock suspected, then. John was going to try and let him down slowly. He had meant his words yesterday, but today he felt differently. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with Sherlock, but he didn't want to continue with their romantic relationship. He loved Sherlock, but not like he used to. He-
"Now hold on, Sherlock. I can see you overthinking things again." John says, leaning forward to grab one of Sherlock's hands in an attempt at drawing Sherlock out of his head and back to the present.
"Let me finish. Our relationship has changed, yes, and we will need to work on it more than we had to before. It used to be easy between us back then, but now we've gone 500 years without each other and - well... It's... different, right? We've both done so much in that time without each other and now we have to get used to being together again. But that doesn't mean I'm going to leave because I'm scared of a little work." The words are reassuring and soothing, yet Sherlock can't let himself believe them.
It all feels too easy. Too perfect. It's exactly what he was hoping for, and yet he's worried that he'll be pulled in by these fantastical words and promises only to be let down later when John realizes this isn't what he actually wants.
After 500 hellish years alone, being with John had been the only thing keeping him going. And now he has to make the risky decision of whether he accepts John back - along with the risk of losing him again - or continue on as he has the last half a millennium without the risk of any more future pain.
"Sherlock?" Blinking back to the present, Sherlock takes notice of the cup of tea cradled in John's hands and wonders where its come from.
"Finally back then? I nearly forgot the effect these kinds of conversations have on you." John says as he takes a sip from the mug with a smile on his lips.
"What on Earth are you blathering about?" Sherlock asks, bristling defensively at the words.
"Nothing, it's just- you know, when you get lost in your head. You have a tendency to think too much when I make big emotional declarations." John says with an unbothered shrug as he sets his mug aside and smiles fully at Sherlock.
"I've no idea what you're on about," Sherlock says just to be contrary. They've gotten off-topic somehow, but Sherlock finds that he doesn't mind all that much.
"I suppose I don't make them often so it's no wonder that they catch you off guard each time." John continues as if Sherlock hadn't said anything.
"I wasn't caught off guard," Sherlock denies with a frown. When John only laughs in response, the frown deepens and he leans back sulkily in his chair.
"John." He says the name with as much contempt as he can muster.
"No, you're right, sorry, sorry." John apologizes through fits of laughter that only make Sherlock sink back further to stew.
"Right, no, really, I'm sorry." The doctor assures as he stifles his laughter and clears his throat in an attempt at calming himself down.
"Your laughter was entirely disproportionate to my words. There was nothing funny about them." Sherlock says, still entirely unamused as he watches John rearrange his features into a more serious mask.
"No, you're right." He assures, and after a few more seconds where Sherlock can see the doctor composing himself, he continues.
"I really am sorry about that. I think it was more relief than actual humor. You were gone quite a while." John admits with a much softer smile than the face splitting one from before.
"I haven't moved," Sherlock says incredulously as he gestures to his chair.
"Not physically, no, but you did leave. You went in your head again, like you did when I first called you my best friend, and then again that time I gave you your ring, or even the time when-"
"Yes, yes, alright, I get it," Sherlock says, his irritation rising as they get further away from the point.
"All I'm saying is that you were here but you weren't... I don't know, present. You were thinking so much that anything outside of your head didn't register. I tried snapping you out of it for almost five minutes before giving up." John says with an unbothered shrug as he picks up his mug again to sip from it.
Silence falls over the both of them as Sherlock absorbs these words and John waits patiently. Sherlock can understand what John is trying to tell him, and while he'd like to continue sulking and pouting to ensure that John understands the point he's trying to make - the point being that he won't tolerate idiocy from John of all people - he also wants to finish this awful conversation so that they can move on already.
And so, without warning, he jumps right back to the previous conversation and expects John to follow.
"I am also willing to work." He says, waiting for John to puzzle out what he's on about now. Clearly, he had romanticized John's mental capacities - or else they had declined since being separated from Sherlock - because the doctor gives him a baffled look and hesitantly lowers the mug from his mouth.
"I... thought you already were? Weren't you telling me something about being a detective yesterday?" He asks in confusion which elicits a groan from Sherlock at how slow he is.
"Consulting detective, John! And that's not what I meant. I am willing to work on our relationship. I do not wish for it to end now after waiting so long to have it back." He painstakingly explains. Thankfully, when it's put into plainer words, John understands and the hesitation and confusion clears.
"Oh, right. Well, I'm glad. So that's that settled, then?" He asks with a pleased smile that Sherlock matches in an instant.
"Yes, I suppose so." The detective agrees, finally sitting up out of his sulk.
And finally, it feels like he can breathe again. It's still light out - he hadn't been in his head all morning, then - and they've still got a whole day ahead of themselves. There's no one here to interrupt them anymore, and they've finally worked through the last issue regarding their rocky relationship status.
Finally, they can enjoy being back together again.
"So what do you want to do today, then, hm?" John asks, clearly having the same thoughts as Sherlock. A list of different ideas spring to Sherlock's mind in an instant, but the second he opens his mouth to suggest them he hears the sound of Mrs. Hudson climbing the stairs followed quickly by a second pair of steps that he recognizes as well.
Smile stretching on his lips and a sparkle in his eye, Sherlock knows exactly what it is they'll be doing today.
"How would you like to join me in The Work?" He asks almost ominously. John looks as if he's going to question exactly what Sherlock means by that question, but then the door is opening and Mrs. Hudson is berating Sherlock for breaking their doorbell. He ignores her entirely though - when she realizes this she leaves with a huff - and instead looks to Lestrade who looks just as frazzled as Sherlock had left him - more so even. The DI stands in the doorway for a moment eyeing him and John warily before he seems to remember his reasoning for being here.
"Sorry to intrude, especially after-" He stops himself and eyes John again with a more careful look this time, but Sherlock's impatience doesn't have time for Lestrade's attempts at politeness.
"Do get on with it Lestrade. We don't have all day." Sherlock says with a roll of his eyes.
"Right. Well, you said something about the serial murders being the work of Giles, not Hewitt, right?" The DI asks, and for a moment Sherlock thinks this is going to be boring after all.
"Yes, the gardener. There was soil, Lestrade." He says in an attempt at avoiding the questioning of his deductions.
"Then explain to me how Giles was just found murdered in the exact same way as the rest of our victims." Lestrade finishes with a proud, smug look on his face. Sherlock can't even find it in himself to be irritated by the look and instead perks up happily at those words.
"Wood shavings?" He asks hopefully, to which Lestrade nods.
"Yup. And Hewitt is nowhere to be found, either." He adds, which is the icing on top of this beautiful cake.
"Text me the address," Sherlock says with a dismissive wave of his hand as he begins heading to his room. Lestrade nods - not that Sherlock can see it - and pulls out his mobile to do just that when he remembers the other occupant in the room.
"Uh, right, sorry, we weren't properly introduced before. I'm Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade." He says politely to John. The doctor stands, a pleasant smile on his face, and grips Lestrades offered hand firmly.
"John Watson, Sherlock's husband." He greets, recognizing Lestrade's name from the stories Sherlock had told him yesterday.
"Yeah... So you really are, then?" The DI asks after a hesitant pause. John raises an eyebrow at the question and can see Lestrade trying to back peddle.
"That came out wrong, sorry mate. I just meant - well... Sherlock never mentioned you is all. I knew he was married but..." He trails off, rubbing the back of his head and looking as if he regretted bringing up the topic at all.
"No, I get it. Sherlock doesn't seem the type to settle down." John appeases, to which Lestrade nods hurriedly, thankful that John seemed understanding.
"Exactly. Anyway, it's none of my business. It's good that you're back now." Lestrade finishes firmly, still slightly awkward. John nods with an amused smile on his face as the two lapse into silence.
"So... I'll, uh, be leaving... now." The DI finishes, jutting a finger over his shoulder and turning to leave. Holding in his laughter, John gives the man a wave.
"It was nice to meet you, Detective Inspector." The doctor calls. When the man has fully retreated down the stairs, John allows himself a few chuckles which is how Sherlock finds him when he comes flying out of his room.
"I told you they weren't at all competent. Careful that the stupid doesn't rub off on you." Sherlock warns as he wraps his scarf around his neck, his coat and gloves already on. John laughs more at this, which amuses Sherlock as well as the corner of his mouth lifts.
"Anyway, have fun solving crimes. I think I'll pop out to Tesco. Do some shopping seeing as you destroyed anything edible in this flat." John says once his laughter was under control. Sherlock hums noncommittally at that and John is just about to put his coat on when the man speaks up.
"Come with me." Blinking in surprise at the offer, John looks at Sherlock carefully.
"To the crime scene? Unless it's at a shop, I don't see why I should." He says in an all too amused way.
"Don't be obtuse, John. You understand me and my deductions. Furthermore, you're a doctor, a good one. I need someone to help me with my cases and Anderson isn't going to cut it." Sherlock says with a shudder at the thought of Anderson being any sort of helpful.
"Sherlock, I can't just show up to a crime scene. I'm not police, and I'm not a consulting detective either." John says patiently. However, despite his protestations, Sherlock only looks all the more amused.
"No, I suppose not. You are, however, a consulting detective's assistant. That should hold up just fine." He says, to which John rolls his eyes.
"Oh, assistant am I now?" The doctor asks, a hint of warning in his tone that Sherlock immediately disregards.
"Better than Anderson, though that isn't a difficult feat to surpass." The detective says. With a sigh and a shake of his head, John finally shrugs on his coat.
"You really know how to make a man feel wanted." He laments, and now it's Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes.
"Come, John. Don't be boring." And with that, the man is leaving the flat and hurrying down the stairs.
"We couldn't have that," John mutters, but a pleased smile is lighting up his face and the familiar rush of excitement is thrumming through his veins as he follows after his husband.
They may still have a relationship to mend and a 500-year gap of time to make up for, but that could wait for now.
After all, they both had waited for so long already, what was another few hours?
And it's done! Thank you all so much for reading!
I had a lot of fun writing this and I hope you enjoyed it just as much. I still have a few ideas for some stories that will be within this same universe, but I haven't even begun writing any of those just yet so I wouldn't expect them anytime soon. In the future though, I will most definitely be expanding on this universe, and I hope to see you all there when I do!
