Return to the Light
Author: Lady Sam Mallory
Disclaimers: Boys not mine; I just borrow them from time to time when the muse moves me.
Special Thanks to: My Beta Queen, Zoe, without whom I'd be doomed to a life of grammatical inaccuracy. You are truly my conductor of light. Thank you for nearly over 30 years of friendship.
For my beautiful friend, Heather, whose incredible command of the English language allows her to provide me with individually needed words at a moment's notice.
Warnings: H/C, Smarm, Some violence, and usually a bit of colourful language.
Spoilers: None
Author's Comments: This story takes place immediately following Hunting in Shadows. Would behove you to read Surviving the Fall, Hunting in Shadows, followed by Return to the Light, but it can stand alone if need be.
Apologies for the long hiatus but thank you for your patience. Season's three and four threw me off my game, but I think I can get back to it now.
'I'd spend every hour of every day, keeping you safe.
I'd climb every mountain and swim every ocean…
To fix what I've broken…you are the reason.'
~ Callum Scott
"He's back," John whispers astonishingly. "I can't bloody believe he's back."
Steaming hot water sluices down his face as he scrubs away the exhaustion. The world has not always been kind to John Hamish Watson. His scarred body holds evidence of this fact, more than anything else.
He sighs as the heat penetrates his muscles taking away the ache in his shoulder from the mad dash that was getting Sherlock back to Baker Street.
John shakes his head in disbelief that this one miracle he asked for has suddenly come true. Sure, it took for-bloody-ever, but his wayward flatmate is unconscious in his bed at this very moment.
Rolling his shoulders back to ease the tightness in his back, he rinses off one last time before shutting down the shower to grab a towel. A towel that's still on the bar because his flatmate hadn't used it to clean up an experiment. He secures the towel around his waist and steps to the sink with its mirror.
Grabbing a flannel, John clears the fog and takes a hard look at himself.
He looks positively knackered, his eyes bloodshot and dry. Grabbing the drops from the meds cabinet, he douses each eye before looking any further at what he knows he will see.
He runs his hand over the scars from the one hundred and fifty-four burn marks on his chest, the remnants of Moriarty's torture on that fateful night when the detective appeared and saved his life.
He knew at that very moment he would follow Sherlock anywhere and protect him with every breath in his body.
Then all those months later, to watch him fall had taken a part of him and utterly destroyed it. Mary was the only reason he managed as well as he did, and now she was gone. Thank God he still had his baby girl, Rosie, or he'd probably have lost his bloody mind.
John sighs as he runs his hands across the scars and closes his eyes. He snags a tee and throws it quickly over his chest, temporarily obliterating the message he sees there every time he looks in a mirror. Pulling on his trousers, he fastens them quickly and grabs a clean, soft jumper stretching into it as he reaches for the door.
The world's only consulting detective had made a promise that he better damned well keep this time.
"Careful, you git. I didn't put you back together for you to wreck it all now," John
admonishes Sherlock, rushing to help the younger man to sit up.
Sherlock bristles at the unexpected touch, "I've got it! I'm not an invalid," he rasps tugging on his dressing gown stuck beneath him.
"Oh, I know. You've mentioned…repeatedly," John reminds him. "I'm sure your broken ribs disagree. Now, apparently, we need a bit of a refresher? What are the rules to avoid hospital?"
Intense blue eyes roll, and a slight huff of disgust expels from his mouth before meeting John's impatiently waiting gaze.
"Sherlock?" The doctor prompts, "the rules?"
The stubborn detective sighs defeatedly before answering tightly, "Shut it and do what you say."
John's wide smile only serves to annoy him further as he strokes his fingers through his ginger hair.
"Cheers. I need to change your dressings again. We have to stay on top of it, or you'll get an infection, especially in the leg. We are still working to keep it, yeah?" John inquires, his eyes flashing with momentary anger before the mask falls into place again.
A heavy sigh punctuates the air as Sherlock tilts his head to the side and searches his friend's face. Seeing the fatigue and general weariness in his once again flatmate, he concedes, nodding and rolling his right hand suggesting the doctor get on with it.
John's steady hands move knowingly over the dressings across Sherlock's chest making quick work of it before replacing them with clean sterile ones. "Go through it again so I can check on the concussion," John orders as he continues checking over his obstinate flatmate with a critical eye.
Sherlock's put-upon sigh allows John to relax slightly as the deep baritone rumbles through the list, "Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street, faked my death…"
"Cause you're an arse," John interjects as he continues his examination.
Sherlock's eyes shift to his flatmate as he responds, "So you've said. Shall I finish or will these incessant interruptions continue?"
The look John gives him resonates with the soldier more than the doctor, so the lanky detective wisely continues, "South America, Mexico, Middle East, Far East, Paris, kidnapped by Moran, killed the idiot, escaped, saved by a very good doctor, and here we are. How long must we keep doing this?"
Watson nods as he moves to finish up his "rounds'' grabbing the V.A.C. bandages from the tray he set up earlier while Sherlock was sleeping. "Until I'm satisfied you've healed up. The leg should take 2-4 weeks for wound closure because of the special bandaging I'm using. Not sure your head'll ever be right though," John murmurs with a sarcastic smile as he moves towards the aforementioned leg, before glancing back at his flatmate. "Breathing exercises?"
Sherlock shakes his head, and the doctor tosses him the incentive spirometer.
"Your bedside manner is rubbish, John," the detective criticizes as he looks at the simple machine with loathing.
"Can't go tearing through London if your lungs are rubbish," John reminds the stubborn detective looking down once again upon the spirometer with disdain, before glancing over its components. "No. You're not to take it apart again and fling the ball about the flat," John scolds noting the pout before continuing treatment.
Sherlock inhales and exhales in the infernal machine, showing his disgust with the effort it takes.
"How long have you been avoiding Mycroft?" Sherlock inquires, a knowing look in his intense blue eyes as he utilizes the spirometer once again.
John shakes his head and looks heavenward for patience.
Sherlock's mouth flattens at the deflection. "Now really, John. You're being ridiculous; we took a taxi to get here. Given my state of disrepair and your status as a good doctor..." the detective begins, fixing his gaze on his former blogger.
"You wouldn't allow a bloody ambulance. What was I supposed to do, Sherlock?" John interrupts indignantly, sparing an annoyed glance during his examination.
"The military grade medical supplies, the delightful yet worrisome lack of my brother. Shockingly, we're on speaking terms for the moment and yet…he…is...absent. Therefore, it is you, not me, that has precipitated the decision. So, I ask again. What happened between you?" Sherlock continues as if John has said nothing at all.
"Not my finest moment," he admits without providing any tangible information.
Sherlock smiles predatorily, his eyes positively gleaming. "Oh, now that sounds intriguing," he notes slightly wheezing from the completion of both physical and mental exertion.
John finishes repacking the wound with V.A.C. bandages and gently repositions the ankle back to the cushions. "There we go. That'll do for now," he says gently before turning towards the kitchen. "Tea?" The doctor asks expressionlessly, giving the detective his answer.
"Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock bellows at the top of his lungs from the sofa.
John sighs before reminding him, "Still at her sister's, Sherlock. I know you're bored, so have a read." The doctor tosses him a copy of Poisonous Plants in Great Britain that Mary bought him as a joke after the bracelet debacle.
John allows himself a small bit of joy as he remembers the moment she gave it to him and the peals of her laughter at his shock when he opened the gift. Going back to his paper, he continues to ignore his flatmate.
Sherlock snatches the book out of the air, albeit with a wince for the ribs and checks out the cover as well as the inscription on the inside cover before chucking the book onto the table with a thud and dropping his head back onto the cushions. "Maybe later," he offers as he looks around the room for something to occupy his racing mind.
Glancing over at the mantle, he takes in the stills and large shadow box that Mary had carefully chosen and placed there. The black frame on the right displays a prominent newspaper clipping of one of their more notorious cases. He's wearing that bloody hat with John just to his right, the quintessential right-hand man.
His eyes take in the other stills once again and he decides he wants a closer look. Of course, that requires moving. He sighs heavily, measuring the pain in his body which battles his boredom, and the pain loses for the moment.
Sherlock grabs the floor lamp to his right using it to pull one of his "hateful" axilla crutches towards him. Snatching it quickly, he stands up cautiously sliding his feet to reach the other crutch he tossed aside earlier in abject frustration.
Once balanced and ensuring that his four broken fingers are not subject to additional pressure, Sherlock makes his way to the mantle for a closer look into John's recent past. He knows the doctor's angry, and they need to find a way to compromise soon, as he's frankly exhausted by the discordance.
The first decorative frame contains a snapshot of John and Mary together taken by Angelo in his restaurant. Taking in John's more formal attire, along with the way she's done up her reddish-brown curls, he mutters, "First date," then moves on to the next, quickly dismissing the second as it seems to offer no new information.
"Wait," he pauses, then adds, catching a small detail from the corner of his eye, "Mrs. Hudson took this photo in the flat just after you were married."
His blue eyes widen appreciatively when he studies the shadow box in the middle of the mantle.
"The Medal of Valor, the Distinguished Service Order, the Conspicuous Gallantry Cross, the Military Cross, Operation Service Medal for Afghanistan, the Medal for Long Service and Good Conduct and a Victoria Cross with bar, indicating that it was awarded more than once," Sherlock lists them out, making it a bit more difficult for John to ignore him. "A very good doctor, indeed, and apparently a very good soldier as well," he recognizes in hushed respectful tones.
The detective pauses momentarily, closes his eyes and files it away in his mind palace in the room saved for John Hamish Watson, a decorated Captain and Army doctor. As an afterthought, he adds husband as well.
Sherlock's blue eyes pop open as he continues to deduce information from the shadow box. "You would not display these, so a gift from Mary, which would take effort to find out about," he continues, his intense eyes darting to the still of Mary sitting in John's chair with her left elbow braced on the arm and her hand turned outward in front of her mouth.
"She was a chef," Sherlock begins, his fingers steepled under his chin as he studies the photo on the mantle, checking John's reaction from the corner of his eye.
John carefully folds down the newspaper he's reading and turns towards his flatmate.
"Your Mary," Sherlock gestures, speaking directly to the doctor who's glanced up at him. "She was a chef."
John remains silent, his mask firmly in place, before picking up his paper and resuming his reading.
"You can see by her left hand in this still," Sherlock starts picking up the picture from the mantle. "The flattened fingertips from handling hot service plates and the chopping mark at the base of her left forefinger, marks clearly indicative of a chef," he finishes the deduction smartly.
Still observing his silent flatmate, he continues, "Like you, she was left–handed."
Another pause in the shuffling of paper and the detective realizes that his friend indeed pays attention.
Sherlock glances over at the shadow box once again, noticing a folded letter beneath the corner with military letterhead markings.
"A chef who excelled at her craft, garnered favour with a patron, a retired military officer of the upper echelons who would provide the necessary documentation for her request. Then simply a matter of finding your medals. You served God and country proudly, but humbly, so tucked away in a box, but kept close by, probably under your bed," Sherlock surmises as he turns to face his flatmate.
"What is this?" Sherlock whispers as his eyes take in the little pink collage frame of three pictures of a little baby in a little pink dress. Further examination of the baby's facial structure and blue eyes and he knows unequivocally that this is John and Mary's baby.
Noting suspiciously wet, angry, blue eyes locked upon him, the gimpy detective inquires, "Not good?"
Receiving no answer, Sherlock turns away and moves around the flat restlessly taking in other minute changes that have been made since he left. While he wants John's attention, he doesn't intend to cause harm to achieve it.
He stops with surprise at the Cluedo board knifed to the wall and chuckles. "She left it, with the knife in it. I like this girl. Sharp intellect and a sense of humour, a perfect match," Sherlock notes, his voice rasping, full of emotions he seldom expresses.
John glares up at him before returning to his paper.
"Don't suppose you fancy a game of Cluedo?" His deep baritone voice resonates through the quiet room in an effort to lighten the mood.
John jumps up from the chair quickly. "No. What part of never again escapes your vast intellect?" He asks, shaking his head as Sherlock taps the board with his crutch.
"Ah, he speaks," the detective utters, glancing at the man in question.
The detective crosses back to the mantle and places his left hand reverently on the skull that rests there. Pushing it over with splinted fingers, he sees that there's a nicotine patch hidden there and plucks it from the inner cranium using his right hand.
Hearing the sudden silence, John checks to see what his flatmate has gotten up to and crosses the room tweaking the patch from nimble fingers. "Not a good idea, Sherlock," the fair doctor states as he pockets the patch in his trousers.
"Ah, he speaks," the detective utters, glancing at the man in question.
Closing his eyes, John tips his head back and counts to ten in French while trying to remember to breathe.
"Mary taught you French," Sherlock notes before continuing, "As a chef, this close to Paris, well, you know the rest."
Slowly, John's eyes open, sadness apparent in their ocean blue depths. He chokes on his heart which seems lodged in his throat and collapses back into his chair under the weight of it all.
"Yes, she did. She was amazing, and I loved her so very much," Johns starts breathlessly, unable to say more for the moment as he takes a swipe at his eyes.
Sherlock's eyes close in relief, before popping open guardedly as he makes his way to his own chair. He settles quietly, flinching at the pull in his ribs, but unwilling to break the spell that's been woven through John's admission.
"She was so beautiful, in….every….single…way," the doctor whispers, his voice breaking unsteadily, as he covers his face with his trembling hands to stop the torrent of emotion threatening to break him.
Sherlock reaches for his friend tentatively, but ultimately withdraws, remaining silent as he waits for John to continue. After several moments, he prompts in a strangled whisper, "How did you meet?"
John shakes his head and chuckles softly. "I ran into her in Regent's Park. I quite literally knocked the woman off her feet as I crossed the York Bridge. It was only a few weeks after you….died…and I was…done in," he explains, glancing over at Sherlock to see he has the man's focused attention.
The intensity with which Sherlock concentrates on him, slightly unnerves him until the younger man tilts his head with a small smile, asking without words that he continue.
"She just laughed, asked if I was ok and for a second I was so gobsmacked, I just stood there like an idiot. I asked her to walk ,and we talked as we made our way to Cambridge's, where, as you've deduced already, Mary was a chef. It was simply brilliant," John finishes, a fond smile playing about his lips as he looks over at Sherlock, a sudden flash of anger crossing his face.
The man nods, a small smile of his own on his angular face as he confides, "I deserve your anger, John. I even understand it."
The doctor glances over at his flatmate leaning forward in his chair and sighs heavily. "I doubt that, but let's save it for another time. You need your rest, mate. Let's get you back to your room," John states, standing up from his chair to help the ailing detective to his room.
Sherlock smiles as he recognizes that John called him mate for the first time since his return to Baker Street.
"John?" Mrs. Hudson calls out quietly as she taps gently on the door before opening it.
"In here, Mrs. Hudson," he responds from the kitchen as he waits for the kettle. "Hiya, how was your sister?" John inquires, crossing the space and placing a gentle kiss on her cheek before guiding her to a chair at the table.
Mrs. Hudson smiles softly, placing her hand on John's shoulder, she answers, "Just so, dearie. I'm sorry that I skipped out so soon after the funeral. You know I loved your Mary dearly, and little Rosie, how I've missed her."
"I do, but you needed a hand to get sorted and I wasn't fit for it," John reminds her as the kettle whistles, and he jumps up to fetch it. "Mya has been an incredible godsend," the doctor notes as he smiles at the older woman.
She smiles fondly at him as he gathers the service. "She's a remarkable nanny, and she adores baby Rosie. I don't blame you, John. You had your own sorting to get through. You seem more together now," she notes as he nods in agreement.
He quickly pours them both a cuppa, grabbing an additional cup for Sherlock. "Speaking on it, I need to tell you something somewhat shocking," he begins, leaning across the table to take her small hand in his.
Mrs. Hudson closes her eyes and whispers, "Not sure my heart can take another shock right now, dearie."
John pats her hand reassuringly, pushing his cuppa to the side to take her hand in both of his. "It's alright. I give you my word. Just take a breath, Mrs. Hudson," he orders sincerely, gauging her responses closely before continuing.
Examining her with a keen doctor's eye, he continues, "Sherlock's alive."
She grasps his fingers a bit tighter and shakes her head sadly, "Oh, John. Oh, dear, I know things have been difficult..."
"No, Mrs. Hudson. No, I'm fine and I'm bloody serious. Sherlock has returned, although a bit worse for wear," he states adamantly, getting up from the table and leading her back to Sherlock's room.
He opens the door quietly to show her the detective kipping there, then closes it when she gasps and takes her back to the kitchen.
"Another cuppa, Mrs. Hudson?" He inquires with a weary smile.
She glances at him exasperatedly and scoffs, "Something with a bit more kick, dear, and start from the beginning."
"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock bellows from the doorway to the flat as he spies a package on the floor. He uses a single crutch to pull the package closer. "Mrs. Hudson," he barks again as John comes flying down the stairs from his room.
"For God's sake, Sherlock. What do you need? I'm right here," John exclaims with a heavy sigh.
Sherlock smiles as Mrs. Hudson hurries into the flat with a tray of tea and biscuits and he tosses the package on the sofa, causing John to roll his eyes at the detective's antics.
"Dear, there's no need to wake the entire street. I was coming," Mrs. Hudson scolds, her face disapproving, yet grateful he was alive to misbehave.
Turning towards John, Sherlock relates, "We need a few things from the Tesco."
The doctor shakes his head with a smile replying, "Still need the list, Sherlock."
The lean detective hobbles to the sofa, seats himself and holds the list up, waving it in the air obnoxiously until John snatches it from his long fingers as he rolls his eyes and grabs his jacket.
John turns when he hears jabbing sounds from the sofa. "No, absolutely not, Sherlock," he admonishes, grabbing the knife from the detective's right hand. "We do not maniacally stab packages to open them," he reminds his errant flatmate as he moves to the kitchen to place the knife by the sink.
"Sherlock, we'll have to do something with this ginger hair and that beard has to go, dear," Mrs. Hudson says from the other room causing John to smile and the lanky detective to groan.
"I'm off," John notes with a wry tone and a kiss to Mrs. Hudson's cheek. "You behave for Mrs. Hudson," he warns, pointing at Sherlock.
"Not a child, John," Sherlock shouts, causing John to smile even more, before heading down the stairs and out the front door of 221B Baker Street.
He's scarcely three minutes from the flat when he notices the black sedan trailing slowly behind him.
Sighing, he turns towards the window as it descends. "Anthea, tell him to sod off,' he curses before seeing the man himself sitting there.
John's eyes open slightly in surprise at seeing Mycroft Holmes doing his own dirty work.
"No. Not interested," the doctor warns, his eyes flashing with remembrance of their last encounter in his office just over two years ago.
Mycroft Holmes lifts a file folder with the words Top Secret emblazoned across it. "Really, Dr. Watson?"
John Watson rolls his eyes and flips off the British Government as he turns to go.
A throat clears and Mycroft entices John's compliance when he knowingly spouts, "You do want to have the knowledge to help him?"
John stops mid-motion, turns after careful consideration, curses, and gets into the car.
Mycroft inhales as if to speak, but a rude gesture from the army doctor quickly stops him.
Several miles go by in silence as the sedan pulls into a warehouse and the engine cuts.
John gets out of the sedan without a word as does Mycroft who walks several paces away before turning towards the irate doctor.
"Doctor," he starts before he's knocked off his feet by the man in question with a single uppercut to the left jaw.
The doctor shakes out his hand and smiles. "I've wanted to do that for over three years," he remarks as he holds his right hand out to help Sherlock's brother from the concrete floor.
Mycroft reaches for the hand simultaneously signalling his guards to stand down.
John's eyes never leave the other man's face. "You might want to ice that when you get back to the office," he advises, tilting his head to get a better look at his handiwork and sparing it a smile.
"Ever the doctor, I see," remarks Mycroft, rubbing his jaw with his right hand. "There are rules, Dr. Watson, for this file."
John shakes his head knowingly, adding an eye roll for good measure. "There are always rules where you're concerned, Mycroft," he adds caustically, grabbing the file from the elder man's hands. "Tell no one or you'll have me killed. I got it!"
"Medical is on top," Mycroft adds as the doctor walks briskly toward the sedan.
John reaches out for the door and starts to get into the back seat, before turning to the most powerful man in all of Britain. "You can get the next one," he notes as he climbs in and closes the door with finality.
"Mya?" John calls out as he makes his way into 221C Baker Street.
He smiles when he hears her Irish lilt from the back, "In here, Dr. Watson."
Laying the nappies and baby wipes on the table, he makes his way to the back of the flat. Seeing Mya rocking little Rosie, his face breaks into a grin. "Hiya," he says quietly in deference to the baby who turns at the sound of her father's voice.
"Just stopped by to check on you. Left some nappies and wipes on the table," he informs as he bends down to kiss his sweet girl's downy head. "Hello, my Rosie girl," he coos before glancing back to Mya's questioning gaze.
"How's your mate?" his nanny inquires politely, gently rocking the baby to sleep.
John nods before answering, "He's coming along, but still has a ways to go. I can't thank you enough for all your help. I was just telling Mrs. Hudson what a godsend you are. I'll send Mrs. Hudson down with more clothes for my Rosie. Is there anything else you need?"
Mya shakes her head as she stands and places Rosie gently into the cot causing John to smile before he takes his leave.
John steps into the flat, his arms laden with groceries, and turns towards the kitchen, before removing the file from one of the carriers and tossing it on the table.
He begins to put the items in their places, smiling softly as there's no head in the fridge and there's actually milk that doesn't resemble a science experiment.
Placing the tin of Bird's custard for Mrs. Hudson on the sideboard, he puts on the kettle and strides into the living area, pausing suddenly when he sees Sherlock's freshly shaven face and dark hair once again.
"You should take care of that," Sherlock's voice advises from the sofa after taking in the scraped knuckles on John's left hand.
"Now there's a familiar face," the doctor mentions as he crosses the living space.
John plucks the med kit from the coffee table and sprays disinfectant on his left hand shaking out the sting and hissing out a curse beneath his breath.
"How was my brother?" Sherlock inquires, his knowing blue eyes twinkling with delight at the fact that John punched his insufferably annoying older brother.
The doctor steps back towards the sofa to look at his flatmate with irritation.
"You took 49 minutes to go to the Tesco, generally only takes you 22, 25 if you have a row with the chip and pin machine," Sherlock correctly deduces with little effort.
John Watson laughs out loud before answering, "No row this time, just groceries, a small stop at 221C and, of course, your aggravating brother."
"Where we found the sneakers? Why waste your time there?" Sherlock inquires of his flatmate.
The doctor passes Sherlock the package of chocolate digestives across the coffee table before answering, "After your death, I couldn't come back here, so Mrs. Hudson offered me 221C if I fixed it up. Later, after our daughter was born, we moved her nanny, Mya McClure, into the flat. She takes care of Rosie, so I can care for you."
Sherlock's eyes widen minutely before he stuns John to near speechlessness with a barely audible, "Thank you, John."
After a moment, John finishes putting away the shopping and returns to the living area.
"The man actually fetched me off the street himself," John notes, dragging the chair from the desk to sit across the table from Sherlock, when the kettle whistles and he moves to rescue it.
John makes two cuppas, before spying the file on the table and setting down his cup to snatch it from the scratched and scarred surface, tucking it under his arm. Grabbing up his tea, he heads for the living space.
"What did he want?" Sherlock inquires as the doctor returns to the room, handing him a tea before setting his own on the coffee table and sitting in the desk chair he'd placed earlier.
He pulls out the file given to him by Mycroft and hands it across to his flatmate.
"I would like the medicals," the doctor elucidates as he watches the lanky detective staring at the bulky packet.
"Of course, John," Sherlock states, opening and handing the medical file to his flatmate and friend, who leans forward to grab it before settling back in the chair.
Sherlock glances roughly through the rest of the file turning the pages with trembling fingers.
He remembers the three weeks of intensive spec ops training and meeting Mac. The mission logs begin to stir up memories of what feels like another man's life. Sherlock shuts the thick file representing two years of his life and places it on the coffee table in front of him.
Dropping his head back into the cushions, his eyes close as he whispers, "There's so much, John."
The doctor nods his head and remains silent, waiting for his friend to make the decision.
Sherlock's eyes rove over his flatmate as he meets the man's expressive blue eyes. "So much to tell, so many things I've done. You will be furious," the younger man elucidates as he takes in John's current expression.
"I'm already cross every time I think of it," John reminds as if further repercussions do not matter.
"I can't wish that you were there. I never expected to make it back to Baker Street, John. Never," he admits hastily, his vision never leaving that of his friend.
John Watson shakes his head as his eyes tear up. "And that makes you a right bastard. You took away my choice and it wasn't even yours to make," the doctor argues, his soft voice rough with emotion.
Sherlock eyeballs the file, before remarking, "It was the only choice and other than the pain I've caused, I can't bring myself to regret it. I would do it again and again if it meant that you lived."
"Bollocks! Your argument is sentiment, Sherlock?" His friend accuses, his blue eyes flashing, running a hand over the scars on his chest through his shirt.
The detective watches his every move and considers the statement thoughtfully. "I told you that much after the pool," Sherlock reminds his friend before bracing his ribs to stand.
John sighs and looks over at his flatmate standing by the coffee table looking almost as if he's a little bit lost in his mind palace. The idea makes him smile for a moment before those intense blue eyes focus only on him.
"I have always had faith in you, my dear blogger. It is I who must regain your trust," Sherlock states quietly as he glances down at the files. He closes his eyes, considering this next move cautiously.
"Moriarty once accused me of being on the side of the angels. What's in there," he says pointing to the file. "The things I did to untangle his web, dismantle his machinations, the man I had to become…"
John nods in understanding before reminding his friend, "I was a soldier, Sherlock. I understand the cost of war."
"Precisely. The files are yours. Learn what you must," the haggard detective proposes as he begins to shuffle to his room. Pausing he turns back to John adding, "When you are ready, I would be honoured to meet her."
The admission astonishes John for a moment before he slowly nods, and Sherlock makes his way to his room and shuts the door.
John glances at the files as if they hold all the secrets in the universe. He reverently picks them up off the table and retires to his own space where the answers he seeks may actually be found.
Late that evening finds Dr. Watson in his bed looking through the medicals from Sherlock's departure from Baker Street. He glances over at Rosie in her cot and smiles down at the sweet baby sleeping with her little bum in the air.
He lays a gentle hand on her back as he looks back down at the file.
As a doctor, he automatically checks the name and date of birth on the file, pausing when he sees the name JW Baker. "Not sentimental, my arse," he spits out, flicking the file with his hand.
He notes that the detective sprained his wrist from the fall itself and shakes his head in annoyance, "Stupid wanker," he whispers as he continues his perusal.
Flipping the page, he freezes as he recognizes Molly Hooper's impeccable handwriting. He glances through the notes of the drugs she gave his friend to make him appear dead.
"Mary, you're not gonna believe it. Molly Hooper, sweet, innocent Molly, apparently has a deceptive side," he criticizes as he turns to her side of the bed, only to remember she's no longer there.
It gives him pause, but only for a moment. When he sees the phrase 'injected with Raplon', he tosses the file to the side disgustedly. "Bloody git, that shit's wicked awful. Hypotension, tachycardia, respiratory depression, bronchospasms," the doctor catalogues the dangerous side effects wanting to throttle the younger man sleeping downstairs.
"Molly Hooper, you better hope I'm on tranks the next time I see you," he hisses, before picking up the file to read where he left off.
Rosie starts to fuss in her bed, so he picks her up to soothe her. "I'm sorry, sweet girl. Dada got a bit riled, but you're ok, love," he says sweetly rocking her against his chest. He props her up on his shoulder and takes up the file once again.
He turns the page, angrily looking at the UKSF sheet, his eyes expanding in shock. United Kingdom Special Forces training is brutal, and his daft flatmate spent, he double checks the paperwork, three bloody weeks doing it. He starts to match up medicals with the mission reports and shakes his head at the vastness of Moriarty's network.
Skimming through each mission log followed by the medical report, he notes that Sherlock underwent a physical exam after each one. Each one has a three-letter code followed by a series of numbers.
John sighs when he hears the dulcet tones of Sherlock's violin stream through the flat. Apparently, his flatmate no longer sleeps. The doctor smiles as he recognizes one of his favourites, Beethoven's "Fur Elise" and begins to rock Rosie in time to the melody.
The first job, wetwork in Colombia, has him shaking his head. The Janus Car Rental lead must have taken him there to start dismantling Moriarty's organization. "Oh, shit. Wetwork, mate? What the hell did you get yourself into, Sherlock?" He asks, shutting his eyes mournfully before closing that file to open the next. He sees that Sherlock shut down a counterfeiting ring in Caracas.
Several mention minor lacerations and contusions until he gets to the RDJ229431 report, Rio de Janeiro, and sees the nine stitches to Sherlock's left side from sharp force trauma and something about a psych consult.
"What the bloody hell happened there?" John wonders as he turns the page to find that the psych eval report isn't in the file. "Mycroft, you arsehole, now you try to protect him?" He grunts, his jaw clenched. "Where was that fucking brotherly concern two years ago?"
John grimaces as he recognizes that he's cursing in front of his baby, "Don't tell your mum," he whispers before his brain can catch up with the statement.
Grabbing a pencil from his night table, he decides to make a list and jots down the file number, figuring he may add a few more before he's through.
Turning the page, he sees that there was a level I thermal burn to the back of Sherlock's right shoulder post I.E.D. in mission report CJM316106. "What the hell would you be doing to get exposed to an improvised explosive device?" John asks, closing his eyes and shaking his head.
"Of course, taking down a drug cartel," he answers his own question several minutes later, noting that Sherlock no longer plays, probably because he doesn't have the strength back in his hand. He hears the detective's door close below and hopes he's gone off to sleep as his body's still healing.
For a while the medical briefings go back to superficial wounds, and John relaxes as he reads through the jargon he's come to find almost comforting in its familiarity. He adds a few questions to the notes he's making to ask his flatmate later.
There's a white slavery ring in Dubai, blood diamonds in Sierra Leone, a documents forger in Paris and a child exploitation network in Cambodia. John shudders at the thought of those children preyed upon and feels pride that Sherlock was the one to help shut them down.
Glancing at his watch, he sees that it's nearly half 2:00 in the morning and knows he should get some sleep and work on this tomorrow, but a quick shuffle through the papers and he realizes he can complete the file in another hour at most.
He kisses Rosie on her soft face and places her gently in her cot once again. Once she's settled, he picks up where he left off.
Flipping to the next page, KDH316657, he can barely contain his anxiety at the words Kandahar Combat Hospital, an American facility that he knows very well from his time in the desert. He'd pieced many a kid back together on the fly in godforsaken places like Musa, Qala and Sangin.
As he reads the doctor's notes for the government, his hands begin to shake with how very close his friend had come to dying. He's seen the injuries on Sherlock's body as he's treated his wounds. The puckered pink flesh on the detective's left side from the bullet that had to have nicked his liver, along with the jagged damage from the knife to his right leg.
The confirmation of his fears sends him to the loo where he nearly spews his dinner. The doctor splashes cold water on his face before deciding he's had enough for tonight.
The new father checks on his little girl once more before climbing back into his bed. Finally, giving in to exhaustion, John closes his eyes, thanks God for bringing Sherlock home and falls asleep.
John moans, twisting in his bed sheets, his face beading with sweat as he clutches the blanket around him.
He cries out softly upon seeing the blood covered face on the cold wet ground. Lifeless blue eyes gaze up at him as he falls backward onto the hard concrete. He fights to get to Sherlock, only to note that Sherlock's body has been replaced with the broken body of his wife.
Her green eyes, made cold in death, stare at him before her body flings forward reaching out to him. He stretches towards her, but she keeps falling backwards just beyond his reach.
John gasps as he sits bolt upright in the bed throwing the covers to the floor. He swings his legs to the side of the bed allowing the cold floor to ground him once again. He absently rubs his left shoulder remembering so clearly the pain from his knockdown by that bloody cyclist and seeing his wife like that has left him shaken.
Inhaling deeply, he scrubs at the tears on his pale face and coughs lightly attempting to clear his throat. Reaching for the picture on his nightstand, he gently touches Mary's face. Her smile and shining green eyes calm the thundering of his heart, and he begins to breathe normally, although he feels sorrow at the absence of her calming touch.
John's blue eyes dart to the right catching the framed sonogram of his baby girl born just five months ago. Tears prick his eyes, and his throat closes momentarily. Brushing his fingers gently against the words on the frame, Baby Under Construction, John glances at the picture of Rosie with her mum taken just days before her death.
"I miss you, my love," he whispers, replacing the silver coiled frame with a melancholy sigh. "You would have called me a git for reading those files in bed."
Needing comfort, he lays his hand gently on Rosie's back. At least this nightmare didn't wake her up as he's done several times in the past.
He's considering whether to shower or sleep, when a crash from downstairs has him on his feet running down the stairs before he even realizes what's happened.
"No….." Sherlock bellows from the room down the hall, before repeating the action once again.
"Sherlock?" John shouts as he rounds the corner past the loo and comes to the detective's door. Opening it slowly, he steps inside to find his flatmate sprawled on the floor, trembling. He crosses the room carefully, his arms stretched wide, hands out in front of him, hoping to offer a calming presence, though his heart nearly beats out of his chest.
Sherlock's long fingers spread on the floor discerning the materials beneath them in an effort to assure he's indeed home. He drags his head up off the floor to look at John discriminatingly, noting the dishevelled appearance and placating gesture.
"Do shut up," Sherlock grouses as he attempts to pull himself from the floor with help from his concerned flatmate.
John huffs a chuckle as he inquires, "Right, was I thinking too loudly again?"
Sherlock glances up at the doctor, his head tilted slightly. "If you know, why do you persist with the action?" The lanky detective asks with a shrewd smile, each hoping to prolong the moment before they will actually have to discuss what happened.
"You were shouting, Sherlock, and then, of course, there was the loud crash," John offers as he carefully indexes his flatmate to determine if he's been injured further.
"Obviously, one does tend to make a clatter when hitting the floor, John," Sherlock snidely remarks, his eyes taking the sting from the caustic comment. He turns a critical eye towards the doctor, evaluating the man before him.
John remains steady under the perusal before catching the detective's watchful eye that takes in the crinkles of worry at the corners and his pale features indicative of not only concern but also exhaustion.
"Really, John. I'm fine, there's no need for all that uneasiness. Go back to bed," Sherlock reassures his flatmate readily.
The blond doctor shrugs, reminding his friend, "You saying it, doesn't make it happen, Sherlock. You've been through so much…" He starts before pausing, knowing that sentiment will not be appreciated.
Sherlock tips his head to the side to study John's expression even further before the doctor interrupts his evaluation.
"Let's get you back to bed, mate," the doctor suggests as he steps even closer before he hears his baby start fussing.
Reaching down toward the floor, John grasps Sherlock's arm firmly and helps the man to his feet, checking to ensure balance and steadiness before releasing his arm as the detective sits on the side of his bed.
Noting the damp hairline and wrinkled pyjamas, Sherlock reveals, "You had a nightmare." The detective deflects, his piercing blue eyes drilling into his flatmate's lighter ones.
John glances away quickly, before resuming eye contact with the taller man. Looking down at the clock, the doctor sees that it's nearly five in the morning.
Sherlock maintains eye contact, before shifting his eyes towards his healing leg.
Rosie cries in earnest causing Sherlock a moment's alarm as he glances towards John's room.
John releases the breath he was unaware he'd been holding, slaps his hands together and declares, "Right, so obviously, neither of us plan on any more sleep right now. I need to get her, but let me know if you need anything."
John pats Sherlock's shoulder as he walks out the door, rushing to get to his upset baby.
The tapping on the stairs draws Sherlock's attention from his book as John steps out from the kitchen to meet their company.
Mrs Hudson, leading an agitated DI Lestrade, appears on the landing. John shakes his hand before inviting him into the flat.
"Have a seat, Greg," John invites, pulling the desk chair towards the sofa.
Sherlock clears his throat. "Not even a hello," he rebukes, causing the older detective to turn around.
"You're looking better," Lestrade notes, stretching his right hand out to shake the young man's. Avoiding the chair, he turns towards John saying, "Sorry, I can't really stay. I'm actually here on official business."
Sherlock glances at Lestrade's expression, then turns to John and points to the empty chair. "John, have a sit…. please. Mrs. Hudson, come sit by me," he states with quiet authority.
The fair doctor takes a seat as Mrs. Hudson settles onto the sofa. They both turn their attention towards the Detective Inspector, waiting patiently as the sympathetic inspector finds the words.
"It's about Mary," Greg begins, and the smiles fall from their faces in rapid succession. "We've found the person responsible for Mary's death."
"Oh my God," Mrs. Hudson cries through her tears, as John's stunned expression renders him speechless and he turns towards Sherlock, then back to Lestrade before once again settling on Sherlock.
The Consulting Detective, his left arm securely around a weeping Mrs. Hudson, leans forward slightly to beckon, "Please continue, Lestrade."
The Detective Inspector lays a compassionate hand on John's shoulder. "A garage called the Met about a suspicious auto brought to them. When it came back to a flagged case, they rang me. God, I'm sorry, John. I know it doesn't bring Mary back, but I hope it offers you some peace that he'll go away for a very long time. I'll see to it personally."
"You don't have that kind of power, Greg," John whispers, finally finding his voice.
Sherlock interrupts Lestrade when he goes to answer. "Mycroft does and Lestrade can be convincing," the detective notes whilst simultaneously comforting Mrs. Hudson.
Lestrade nods a few times, pats John's shoulder one more time for good measure before taking his leave.
"I'll ring ya later to check up on you," he says, as he quietly closes the door behind him.
Mrs. Hudson curls into Sherlock's side before pulling away. "Oh, Sherlock, thanks for that, but I've made a mess of your dressing gown. Let me take it to wash and have another cry," she says softly grasping the fabric in her fingers as he hands it over and she rushes from the flat.
Sherlock watches her leave before turning to his best friend. "John," he starts waiting for the man's eyes to engage his own. "Are you alright?" He asks before raising his hand at John's expression. "Yes, I know. Rubbish question, but I need the answer."
John slowly pulls himself up from the chair like a puppet on strings. Turning slowly, he glances over at the detective still seated upon the sofa.
"No. Not really. Fancy a cuppa?" asks the fair doctor, making his way to the kettle in the kitchen.
"Of course, John. We're British. It's what we do," he finishes, placing the forgotten book on the coffee table in front of him.
Several days later, Sherlock enters the living space from the kitchen carrying two cups of tea. He places one on the desk near his chair before stepping over to his flatmate's chair.
John glances up at Sherlock clearly startled by the man's sudden appearance.
"Sorry, mate. I was lost in my thoughts," John confesses while accepting the warm tea with a sigh. "You made tea," he exclaims, taking a cautious sip before settling back into his chair once more.
"Yes, John. I have made tea before," Sherlock claims, then chuckles at his flatmate's incredulous expression as he takes his own seat.
John lets out another sigh before glancing over at his mate. "She was the love of my life, Sherlock" he whispers with tears in his pale blue eyes. "And my baby girl…will grow up without a mother."
Sherlock nods and strains forward in his chair, glad that his ribs finally allow him to do so. He searches the face before him and responds, "I'm…sorry, John, that I wasn't here, that nothing more can be done, I'm sorry for all of it."
The doctor wipes a trembling hand across his face before lowering it to his lap and shaking his head. "Wow! Never thought I'd live to hear the great Sherlock Holmes apologize let alone admit he was wrong," John teases with a small smile trying to shake off his dispirited sadness.
"Atone, yes. Wrong? Whatever are you on about, John?" Sherlock inquires thoughtfully with a small smile, setting aside his tea once again to fold his hands together.
The doctor chuckles, his mood lifting as he takes another sip of his tea before setting it aside. "I need to ask you something," John states, breaking eye contact, unsure if his questions will be welcome.
Sherlock tips his head to the side. "You may ask me anything," he offers, raising his hands from his lap to steeple under his chin.
John gets up from his chair to grab the notebook and Sherlock's medical file out of his bag before settling back into his chair. "What happened in Rio? They ordered a psych eval which isn't in the file," John notes as he shows his flatmate the missing pages.
"Excellent. Mycroft's good for something," Sherlock replies a bit contemptuously, eyeing John to gauge the seriousness of the request. When his blogger waits patiently for the answer, Sherlock does not disappoint.
"More wetwork. The target was inside a mansion. My job was to secure the east sector so that Mac could infiltrate and kill the mark," the deep baritone voice rumbles transfixing the doctor.
"Sounds pretty S.O. P., so why the psych eval?" John requests, studying his flatmate and friend.
Sherlock glances away as pink tinges his high cheekbones. "Mac completed the objective. Only on exfil, he found me kneeling on the ground next to one of the mercenaries that I had killed," he mumbles quickly, eyes roving the flat until they come to settle on his friend.
John looks at him for a moment longer before he gleans the truth. "He looked like me," the doctor notes, reaching his hand across to tap his friend's hand offering comfort.
Sherlock lifts his troubled blue eyes back to John's before nodding silently.
"The same thing happened to me after you died. I would catch glimpse of a long coat or a tall man with dark hair, and it took days to shake it. It's a very human response, Sherlock," John remarks sitting back in his chair.
The detective's head comes up quickly, blue eyes meeting blue eyes. "No need to be hateful, John," Sherlock expresses his disdain with the statement.
The doctor huffs out a laugh at his friend's indignant expression. "Wasn't trying to offend, mate," he replies through a chuckle before his expression turns deliberate
and he leans forward in his chair demanding eye contact. "I am not your sidekick, Sherlock. We are partners. We work so much better together when you actually remember that," John advises, his steely blue eyes holding the detective's gaze hostage.
Sherlock acknowledges the statement with a slight bow of his head. "I have filed it in your room in the mind palace," he assures his friend, his expression serious.
John glances up at his friend in surprise before asking, "I have an entire room in the mind palace?"
Sherlock rolls his eyes huffing a dramatic sigh. "Do you listen at all? I file the important information in the mind palace," he elaborates once again, his eyes never leaving his friend's face.
John reaches into his pocket for his military I.D. disks, glancing down at them before he reaches forward to hand them over to his flatmate. "Emma found these in your pocket when I was trying to put you back together in the warehouse," John reveals, patiently waiting for his friend to retrieve them from his open hand.
Sherlock concentrates on the small discs resting there before tentatively reaching out to pluck them from John's unfurled fingers. His gaze meets the doctor's understanding eyes, and the detective curls his finger around the discs tightly before placing them in his own pocket.
"I nicked them before we left Baker Street," Sherlock notes in a subdued manner, his features pink with the pronouncement.
John lifts his hand once again revealing another set of service discs, the chain hanging from his nimble fingers. "These were in your very impressive file, Sherlock," the doctor says quietly, handing them to the taller man seated across from him.
Sherlock examines the discs in his slender hand, remembering how they felt hanging around his neck. While he'd thought at first they would be an albatross, they actually offered solidarity and even a modicum of comfort.
Rubbing his fingers over them, he smiles fondly before reaching out towards his blogger once again. "They are yours. In a way, they always were," he remarks respectfully as John takes them from his hand and places them in his own pocket.
Sherlock deftly runs the bow over the strings of his Strad, the melodic notes of "Brahms' Lullaby" weaving a spell throughout the flat.
John enters quietly with Rosie in his arms as he makes for his chair and sitting quietly, not wanting to interrupt the magnificent piece.
When the last note sounds, Sherlock gently lays his violin in the stand in the corner before turning to see John seated there.
"Who do we have here?" The detective asks his deep baritone drifting throughout the room.
John smiles at the babbling sounds Rosie makes before making eye contact with his best friend. "Sherlock Holmes, World's Only Consulting Detective, meet your niece Sherylyn Rosamund or Rosie, for short," he introduces carefully watching the curious expressions flitting over his flatmate's face.
Standing up from his chair, he cautiously places Rosie in Sherlock's arms as the detective gazes down in an expression that can only be described as wondrous horror.
"Hello," he tries, glancing down at the small bundle in his arms. "What if I drop her?"
"Well, don't do that," John suggests as he smiles up at his mate. "I'll be right back," he says as he walks towards the kitchen causing Sherlock a moment's panic. "Just getting a bottle for her," he soothes and returns momentarily with the aforementioned item.
"Do you want to…" John asks, holding up the bottle.
Sherlock hands off the baby, before taking his own chair. "I'll be fine over here for now," he states, watching John's ease with his daughter with a fond smile. "She's remarkable," he notes, closing his eyes to access the mind palace. Opening the door to John's room, he files all he's learned about Mary and John, before creating another room simply called Rosie.
John leans back in his chair with a smile as Sherlock's mobile rings and his flatmate pauses before answering it at his nod. "Sherlock Holmes," his deep baritone resonates through the line.
The doctor shakes his head as he recognizes the expression on his flatmate's face.
"Once more into the breach," John mumbles, jumping up from his chair and grabbbing the deerstalker with a knowing smile.
Tossing Sherlock's deerstalker in his direction, which he deftly catches and throws over his shoulder as he rings off with a hurried, "Got it. We're on our way."
"We've caught a murder," the world's only consulting detective announces with glee as he flies through the door of the flat with John on his heels.
"You're positively glowing," John chastises as he runs down the stairs.
Sherlock turns towards his friend without missing a step. "We have a case, John,'' he rambles excitedly, before jumping the last few steps and hitting the door full force. He hails a taxi, and they climb inside.
"You'll want to tone down the maniacal enthusiasm before we get there, Sherlock," John advises as he watches London fly by in the window.
"Of course, John. I hunted in shadows for so long, it's nice to return to the light," Sherlock manages as they reach the crime scene and Sherlock is off and running, leaving John to pay the cabbie.
John sighs with a smile as if the world tilted off its axis has finally, after so very long, been righted. Glancing up at the departing back of his best friend, he quickly makes up the distance as they cross the barrier of police tape together.
The End