Hello Readers!
Firstly, I'd like to promise that I AM going to finish Even Dead. I just need to get time to sit down with my laptop. But a friend was acting in a play of The Hound of the Baskervilles over the weekend and... well... it made me long for a Sherlock and John Oneshot.
As always, this is non-slash, but you do you. Please leave comments, but no flames. Please? If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.
Thanks!
Enjoy, comment, and God Bless!
Rebekah
Sherlock didn't talk about those two years. Not to John, who had treated his injuries until they had healed. Not to Mary, who had concernedly made sure that there was always safe food in the flat and that Sherlock was eating it. Not to Mrs Hudson, who for three weeks had loitered around him, being the "not the housekeeper" she was: straightening things up, bringing him tea, much to his chagrin, and attempting to engage him in the poorest ways possible.
He didn't talk about it to Mycroft, who only knew where he had ended up at the ending of his excursion and called John daily to ask after his little brother. Not to Molly, who ran by every few days with an eyeball, or an ear, or one day, in a desperate attempt to bring back a small piece of the Sherlock they'd known before the fall, an entire foot. Not to Lestrade, who stopped by several times a week, occasionally for a cup of tea, or a tale of a recent case, or a cold file for Sherlock to look over.
John pretended to ignore the obvious signs of depression, anxiety, and PTSD, but they were all there. Instead of sitting still as a statue for extended periods of time, as he'd once done, Sherlock fidgeted, his eyes shifting at lightning speed, much too quickly to take in any of the details he had normally been so fond of spouting out.
He had highs and lows, occasionally leaving the flat to pick up take out, or showing up at a crime scene uninvited, rude and harsh, though Anderson and Donovan rarely spoke out against him.
He solved the damn cases, and that was finally good enough for them.
And then there would be days when John would arrive from his flat with Mary to 221b Baker Street close to noon and Sherlock would be nowhere to be seen, the dishes from the night before still on the table. Upon closer investigation, Sherlock could usually be found lying awake in his bed, desolate, staring up at the ceiling.
"I'm fine, John."
He wasn't fine
He was so clearly not fine.
Sometimes, John felt so useless.
John had gotten home late that night, expecting Mary to already be in bed asleep, her breathing deep as her chest rose and fell with every inhale and exhale. But instead, she was leaning against the kitchen counter, a bright smile on her face as she talked animatedly on the phone.
She paused, muted the microphone, and unnecessarily mouthed: Lisa's going into labour! She nodded her head like a bobblehead before unmuting the phone and saying aloud, "When do you want me to come over?"
John skirted the counter, pecked her on the cheek, and then ripped his tie off and took the stairs by threes to his bedroom to completely undress and decompress in the shower.
Lisa was the wife of Mary's elder brother. The woman was two years her junior, bright and chipper as a four-year-old and a complete airhead based on the one and only time he'd met her the Christmas after he and Mary had started dating.
The blast of freezing water reminded him of his military days and he let it run for a minute before turning it to warm and starting to wash himself.
He wouldn't lie: he'd stopped by Sherlock's on the way home, and he'd not been well. The detective had been asleep on the couch, and John hadn't the heart to wake him. He'd simply gone about, heating up the instant teapot, and making something that constituted as a decent meal to put in the oven to keep warm, and when he was quite sure that Sherlock was not about to be awakened, he searched the entire flat to ensure that it was clear of drugs and needles.
He hadn't thought Sherlock was using, but he had to be sure. If anything were to happen... he'd have never forgiven himself.
The three tasks completed, John had gone to grab his coat from the back of his old chair where he'd left it and then hesitated, one arm through a sleeve, staring at his hold flatmate, his partner-in-crime. His friend.
"Sleep well, Sherlock," he murmured. "I'm just one call away..."
And without a second thought, he'd thrust his second arm into the coat, dropped to one knee, and gently ran a hand through the curly dark hair, dropping his forehead to the cool, pale cheek.
The water started to run cold and John shut it off, reaching around the shower door to snag his towel. He dried himself off and then wrapped the towel around his waist as he stepped out of the shower and faced the mirror.
As a child, he could recall huddling in his bath towel in front of the space heater until Harry had shouted at him for hogging it. Over time he'd learned to bear the cold that came after the shower in the same way that he'd grown out of all childish habits. But when he looked at this new Sherlock... gosh... it was like staring at a child.
It was like watching a child shivering in front of a space heater after being in a storm. It was like watching a little boy hiding under his bed, terrified by his father's drunken rage. It was as if he was staring at a toddler that looked anxiously toward the closet door, waiting for it to burst open of its own accord and all the evil within to come toward him.
In the reflection of the mirror, he saw Mary enter behind him, her arms wrapping arms his waist as his hand moved to cover hers.
"It'll be okay, John..." she told him softly. He smiled at her slightly in the mirror and turned swiftly to capture her lips in his, resting his forehead against hers.
"How are Lisa and James?"
"Great!" Mary told him excitedly. "I'm going to head over there. You going to be okay here alone?"
"Of course." John nodded, but Mary still sensed the concern and unsureness.
"John?" She said gently. "Why don't you pack a bag and go stay with Sherlock for a couple of days until I get back? It could be good for both of you."
John forced a smile.
"You're probably right. I've been abandoning him to his own devices too much, lately."
"You've got a life, John," Mary reminded him. "No one can blame you for that. Sherlock certainly doesn't. He knows you still care."
He saw Mary off in the cab and then returned indoors to pack an overnight bag and grab his doctors' kit.
With Sherlock, you could never be too safe.
His revolver in his pocket, an old habit that was rather hard to break, he chose to walk the three blocks from his flat to 221b Baker Street. The spare key was still on his keychain, Mrs Hudson having refused to take it back even before Sherlock had returned from the dead.
"As long as my cats still have a home there, you will too," she'd assured him.
He was still trying to wrap his head around that one...
The streetlights reflected off his wedding ring and he smiled, glancing down at it. When he'd lost Sherlock, his life had been over. He'd been sure of it. And then Mary came along, and he concluded that the world was cruel: that he had to lose his best friend to gain the love of his life...
And then Sherlock had returned, and with him and Mary together, John felt complete again. But he was ever aware of the small fact that perhaps not all of his Sherlock had returned to them.
John fumbled for the front door key and unlocked it, stepping inside and ridding himself of his coat, laying that burden upon the coat rack before he turned to ascend the stairs to the apartment he'd once occupied.
It was almost exactly the way he'd left it a few hours before: Sherlock asleep on the couch, his blanket thrown off at some point and lying in a small puddle beside him, the food still in the oven, and the teapot still steaming.
John grabbed the blanket from the floor and covered his friend with it, tucking it around his shoulders and laying one hand to the cool forehead to check temperature out of habit.
Sherlock moaned and turned over on the couch, his brow creased in an odd frown as John's heart twisted within his chest at the realization that the dreams in that dear friend's mind were not pleasant ones.
He went about for the next half-hour, taking his bag up to his bedroom, placing his doctor kit in the corner ad the top of the stairs, and making himself a cup of tea. He pulled his chair up close to the fireplace and settled into it with a novel to read for a while.
For an hour, everything was silent. Mary texted him to let him know everything was well and he had responded to keep him updated and that he loved her. It was then that Sherlock's breathing first quickened.
John's eyes and full attention shot from the pages of his book to his friend in a second as he closed the cover and set aside the mystery, watching as Sherlock's chest rose and fell in quick succession, each breath laboured and harsh; scratchy.
His mouth remained tightly closed, lips rigid in a line. But even that was not enough to block the painful sounds he emitted, sounding more like a beaten puppy or a distressed child than the stone-cold consulting detective with an ego the size of Alaska.
John sat stiffly in his chair, completely unsure as to which action to take as the panicked detective suffered through the night terror, facing a foe John could neither see nor defend him from.
And then it all came to a stop.
Sherlock's breathing slowed, his expression still guarded, but more relaxed. And then with a cry, he jolted upright and John moved from his chair at the speed of light to grab him.
"Hey," he soothed. "It was a dream. You're okay. You're safe..."
"John!" Sherlock gasped, and for a moment John smiled that Sherlock recognised his presence so quickly. "I need-to check-on John. The-the gun, and Moriarity-is..."
He was choking over his words, chest heaving as he struggled to get each syllable through his lips. But it was Mary who had held John through nightmares, and though John could suture thousands of complicated wounds, deliver babies, restart a heart, and perform surgeries on any given day with little forewarning, this was new territory.
Getting yourself through a nightmare and getting another through one were two very different things.
"I'm-" John swallowed painfully. "I'm right here. And you are, too. And we're both alright, and-Sherlock?"
The harsh breathing still filled the room, but now he felt Sherlock leaning forward, tucking his forehead into the crook of John's neck. The doctor's arms went around him, holding him close and running a hand up and down his back as though he was soothing a small child.
He felt the jerky breaths begin to calm down, grow more even, and with it, Sherlock's exhaustion seemed to quite overtake him. Nonetheless, John held his tightly, each breath murmuring comforting words to his ear until Sherlock pulled out of the embrace and looked around, embarrassed at himself.
"What are you doing here, John?" he questioned.
"Mary's brother and his wife are having their baby," he said quietly. "She suggested I come here for a night or two until she gets back."
Sherlock pulled back even further.
"If you're looking for a vacation, I'm afraid you know quite well that with me is no place to find it."
"I wasn't," John said calmly. "I wanted to be with you. Mary didn't want me to be alone. It all fit together. Besides," he shifted to sit beside the couch. "Besides, we've been worried about you."
"Who has?"
"All of us, Sherlock!"
There was a moment of silence, and the two companions stared at each other, back and forth until John broke the stare, exhaling.
"Your deductions fail you, My Friend," he said all in one breath. "Mrs Hudson, Molly, Greg? Mary and I, certainly..." he turned his gaze to the ceiling for a moment. "Mycroft..."
"Oh, please!"
"It's true! Accept it!" John shot back. He lifted himself up off the floor and turned toward the kitchen. "Hungry?"
"No."
"Too bad."
Neither of them spoke for ten whole minutes until John returned with tea and toast for them both.
Not that he was hungry, but he'd figured he had to set an example for his friend. If he was making Sherlock eat, the polite thing to do was to make sure he was eating, too.
Even being "not hungry," Sherlock quickly devoured the first piece of bread and started on the second, pausing intermittently to sip his tea between bites. And then when he was finished, Sherlock simply sat there, curled up on the couch and watching John replying to a text Mary had sent him.
"Would you like more?" John asked after sending the text.
Sherlock shook his head, but John eyed him carefully.
"Is this like last time? Does that mean 'yes'?"
Sherlock cracked a smile for what seemed like the first time John had seen since his friend had returned from the dead.
"No," Sherlock confirmed, and there was a hint of affection in his tone once more. John stared up at him, his heart beating easier now that Sherlock appeared to be slightly more like his old self, even just at that moment.
He checked the time.
"It's late," he commented. "We should both probably get some sleep."
And then when he saw that Sherlock planned to argue this...
"I'll even stay with you."
At this Sherlock shut his mouth tightly, turning his face from John as he mumbled: "You don't have to do that..."
"I know I don't," John conceded gently. "But unless you specifically don't want me to, I'd like to."
Finally, Sherlock nodded.
"Go get changed," John ordered. He got up off the floor once more and headed for the stairs. "I'll be back in a minute."
He took the stairs slowly, his leg bothering him with each step until the top where he entered his bedroom, changed into his pyjamas, and grabbed his toothbrush.
He brushed his teeth in the upstairs bathroom and then washed his face, prepared for bed completely before he returned downstairs to seek out his friend.
Sherlock was already in his room, buried under a grave of blankets that had absolutely no rhyme or reason to the way they laid, and John rolled his eyes as he ordered Sherlock up.
"Why make the bed?" Sherlock protested, even as he helped John stretch each blanket over the bed frame one at a time. "We're just going to sleep in it right away!"
"That's why you should have made it this morning," John noted with no real conviction.
"Military OCD," Sherlock grumbled as they moved onto the final blanket before the comforter.
John did not grace it with an answer. They finished making the bed and then slid in on opposite sides, laying back on their respective pillows and closing their eyes as John turned off the lamp.
For several minutes, all John heard was quiet breathing and he assumed that Sherlock was already asleep until the other body shifted, first merely rolling over, and then carefully edging his way over onto John's pillow.
John felt him rest his head on his shoulder and carefully put an arm around him, accepting the closeness.
"I missed you, too, you know," Sherlock whispered. It was as though there was an unspoken rule that opposed speaking aloud in the dark of night. There was something sacred that was not to be broken by loud voices.
"What happened, Sherlock," John responded, just as softly.
At first, Sherlock rolled onto his back and sighed, and John thought he would refuse. But then Sherlock spoke again, his voice not a whisper, but hushed nonetheless.
"Moriarity beat me at the game," Sherlock admitted. "When I revealed that I could use him to call off the snipers, he shot himself, and then I was stuck. I had two choices: jump, or allow you, and Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson to be shot."
John knew about the snipers. It was the one part that Sherlock had explained, but even that was begrudgingly done. It had cleared his name, in John's book, but it seemed that this was all the more reason that Sherlock had wished to keep it a secret.
He didn't want redemption.
He wanted John to hate him.
He felt like he deserved it.
"So I jumped," Sherlock continued calmly. "Mycroft was a good brother, for once."
"He's always a good brother," John interjected, and then when Sherlock turned toward him in the dark: "Mycroft's usually a good brother?"
It might have been a laugh, but then Sherlock continued with his story.
"Mycroft had already planned for in case I needed to escape the rooftop by jumping. It could easily be altered to indicate suicide."
John shuddered and Sherlock fell silent, putting his cheek to the doctor's shoulder and tucking himself against his side.
"And then?" John prodded after a moment.
"I went to Mycroft's," Sherlock went on. "He quickly put together a list of Moriarity's henchmen... companions... friends, whatever. He gave me a coded phone with just two numbers on it: my points of contact. The only two people who knew of the plan."
"Who were?" I questioned.
"Mycroft," he named, and then silently more tentatively: "Molly Hooper."
"I suppose that makes sense," John conceded. "She acted least surprised after you returned."
"I went from place to place taking down the network," Sherlock told him. "Africa, France, Switzerland, to name a few. Mycroft arranged everything. The final place was Serbia, and it was there that I was captured and Mycroft was forced to intervene."
Again, John reacted the this part of the story, his hand suddenly shying away from the back of Sherlock's shoulder as though fearing causing him any pain.
"It's healed now, John," Sherlock attempted to calm him.
"Scars can hurt years after the injury," John argued back. Harry cut her finger with scissors when she was seven and the scar was always sensitive after that. I remember her bumping it against a door, or a book and the look on her face was so painful..."
His tone trailed off precariously.
"You won't hurt me," Sherlock comforted him. "Not really."
"Moran was the last one," Sherlock finished quietly. "You know what happened after that."
He'd left out major parts of the story, he knew. The other time he'd been captured and escaped. The nights of agony, curled up in a freezing hotel room just wishing that John was beside him, as he was now.
All he'd wanted was John back. He just wanted his closest friend.
But he also wanted him alive...
"Sherlock?" John said gently, but seriously. "Never again. Okay?"
He expected Sherlock to argue. He was prepared to let Sherlock win that argument when it inevitably came...
"I promise," Sherlock breathed. "I promise, John."
"We're together from here on out," John went a step further. "You, and me, and Mary."
"And the baby?" Sherlock questioned.
There was a moment of silence, and then John flipped over and flicked on the lamp.
"What?!"
"Oh. You still didn't know." Sherlock leaned over him and flipped the light back off. "Ne-ver mind..." he singsonged. "It's late. We should probably both get some sleep."
John ignored the fact that Sherlock had literally just quoted his earlier words. He signed and relaxed into the pillow, resting his cheek on the top of Sherlock's head.
He'd worry about calling off work the next morning. He'd worry about texting Mary to take a pregnancy test and how that would go over. But for right now, he was fine right where he was at.
The detective and the doctor: both damaged, and heartbroken, and put through more pain than the other could stomach...
But they were together, and that was okay, too.
AUTHOR NOTE:
The finger story was me. When I was seven, I was sewing a doll dress and cut my finger really bad. The scar still bothers me when the weather is bad and whenever I hit it against something. It was the only reference point I could think of writing that scene.