Hi! I wrote this fic back in May of 2017 - it's almost 3 years old. Wow, how time flies. Honestly, it may be one of my favorite things I've ever written - definitely my fav out of all my Sherlock works, for sure. This was posted on Ao3, but in an effort to consolidate all of my stories on this website, I'm bringing it over.
WARNING: This is an A/B/O fic. If that squicks you out, this is probably not the story for you. John does miscarry here, and if that's something that could potentially trigger you, please proceed with caution! This goes hand in hand with brief mentions of depression and suicidal thoughts, but nothing is ever acted on. There is also no explicit sex as I don't write that, only heavy allusions. All of this makes up the rating. Please be careful.
The title comes from the song Wicked Blood by Sea Wolf. If you haven't listened to it before, you totally should.
I don't own anything Sherlock related, and this has also not been brit-picked. All errors are my own.
Enjoy and R&R!
It's ironic, in a way that's not funny in the slightest. John went through his entire life not wanting an alpha, sneering at the idea that one day he'd roll over and be somebody's bitch. And then he met Sherlock and got one, and they were happy, and it was torn away from him.
John really hates irony.
"'Confirmed Bachelor John Watson'?" John snorts, rolling his eyes. "What, just because I don't have a visible bond bite means I'm single? Seriously? Great, open season on me now. This is too much; we're going to have to be more careful." He grimaces and slams the newspaper down on the table in disgust, sitting back on the couch and crossing his arms. Sherlock flings his deerstalker in his direction, and on a reflex, John reaches up to catch it.
Sherlock tilts his head in his direction and leers. "Nice catch. But don't be absurd, John. We can always change that."
John wads the paper up, throws it in his mate's direction, and snorts. "Berk."
John tugs on his tie and straightens an invisible wrinkle out of his suit. He looks up and meets Sherlock's gaze in the mirror. Sherlock finishes buttoning up his suit and trots past John out of their flat, expecting him to follow. He does, and they go down the stairs, Sherlock pausing in front of the doors. John brushes past him and rests a hand on the doorknob, turning around to give his mate a look.
"Ready?" John asks. I'm not, he thinks to himself crossly.
"Yes," Sherlock replies. John hesitates for a moment, fingertips trailing off the door, and Sherlock rolls his eyes. "John, it's the media. You've survived worse."
"Nothing quite as annoying as this," he mutters, and Sherlock rolls his eyes again. He straightens his jacket again, and when John doesn't move, raises an eyebrow impatiently. Unwillingly, John braces himself and swings open the door, blinded immediately by the flashes from the large crowd of journalists waiting to ambush.
Instantly, he lowers his eyes to the ground and uses his good shoulder to push a way through the crowd.
"Sherlock! What do you think of Moriarty?"
"Over here! What do you think of the break ins? How did they happen!"
"Where's your hat?"
John ignores this and points Sherlock to the cab door closest to them. "Get in," he says. As Sherlock does what he says, the media suddenly turns on him.
"John! Where's your bond bite! How often are your heats?"
"Is Sherlock a good alpha? How big is his knot?"
"Are children in your future? Why aren't you pregnant yet?"
John walks around to the other side of the cab, gritting his teeth and keeping his head down. He straps in and they take off.
John really hates dealing with the media. It's ridiculous, some of the garbage they ask him. Sherlock gets the serious questions; he's the one sexualized and given the superficial questions. He gets reduced to an unimportant little omega that does nothing but follow docilely behind his alpha every time, and he hates it.
He doesn't realize how tense he is until Sherlock lays a hesitant hand on his thigh. John turns to look at him, but Sherlock is staring out the window, avoiding eye contact. John lets some of the tension drain out of him, letting his shoulders slump and unclenching his jaw. He turns and looks out his window, unable to fight the little smile that spreads across his face.
Not guilty... John still can't believe it. He brooded all about it at work, enough so that Sarah got annoyed and sent him off early. He shakes his head, huffing out a breath. He shoulders his way through the door, up the seventeen steps to the flat, hitching his medicine bag further up his shoulder.
"Sherlock?" he calls out.
"Mmm." John kicks the door shut behind him and turns to look at his mate. Sherlock is perched on the top of John's chair, hands pressed against his lips in his typical thinking position #17.
"Not guilty," John fumes, dropping his bag by the door and walking over to plop down in Sherlock's chair. "I still can't believe it. He was obviously guil-" John pauses mid-sentence and sniffs the air. He turns to Sherlock and narrows his eyes.
"Was he here?" John all but snarls. He scents the air again and turns and blinks at Sherlock, eyebrows raised expectantly.
Sherlock's gaze sharpens and focuses on John's face. "Yes," he says. He flicks his gaze up and down John's form and the corner of his lips twitch.
"Are you laughing?" John says in disbelief. "I told you he'd come after you! I can't believe he'd come here; this is our home!" He growls and trails off, and Sherlock's mouth twitches up into a smile again. John feels the need to hit something, or shoot someone, and his trigger fingers twitch.
"You're jealous," Sherlock says, looking far more amused than annoyed. In fact, he looks absolutely delighted with this development, and John narrows his eyes, knowing it's about to be held over his head for years to come.
"Jealous?" John scoffs. He leans back into the chair and crosses his arms, turning his head to the side and sticking his nose in the air. "I am not jealous, Sherlock." Sherlock opens his mouth to speak and John holds up a finger, cutting him off. "Don't you dare," he growls. He pushes himself out of the chair and stomps to the kitchen, where Moriarty's overwhelming sickly-sweet scent can't reach.
Sherlock chuckles lowly. "John, you of all people should know that there's nothing Moriarty has to be jealous of."
John hunches his shoulders and flicks on the kettle to begin boiling some water. Damn omega instincts.
John peeks past the curtains to watch Greg getting back into the car with Donovan, shaking his head and driving off.
John hesitates, takes a deep breath before turning back to his mate. "Sherlock, I don't want the world believing you're..." Sherlock raises his eyebrows and turns to look at John. John fights the urge to squirm under the piercing glare.
"That I'm what?" Sherlock says, narrowing his eyes and shifting towards John.
John swallows. "A fraud." Sherlock rolls his eyes and leans back.
"You're worried they're right."
"What?"
"You're worried they're right about me."
"No!"
"That's why you're so upset. You can't even entertain the possibility that they might be right. You're afraid that you've been taken in as well." Sherlock sneers, staring at John with cold, cold eyes.
John nudges the curtain aside again, staring out into the empty street. He wonders how long they'll have before Greg returns. "No," he repeats. "I'm not."
Sherlock leans forward again. "Moriarty is playing with your mind too." He slams his hand into the table, and John jumps, whirling around again, heart racing. "Can't you see what's going on?!"
John takes a deep breath, looks at him evenly for a few seconds, and looks out of the window again. "No, I know you're for real."
Sherlock sneers. "A hundred percent?"
John turns back and looks at his mate. "Well, nobody can fake being such an annoying dick all the time. I live with you. Hell, I mated you. I think I know you pretty well."
Sherlock blinks. That obviously wasn't what he was expecting John to say, and he gives him a small, soft, genuine smile. John tries to return it and looks away once more.
It's not long after when Scotland Yard shows back up. John hangs up the heads-up phone call from Greg, wipes gingerbread crumbs off on his pants, and leaves Sherlock standing alone in the living room to block them on the stairs.
Sally and Greg round the bend, Greg looking reluctant, Sally far too excited, and John's blood is already starting to boil.
"Well?" he sneers. "Have you got a warrant? Have you?" He can feel his lip curling back over his teeth. This is his flat, his territory. Sherlock is his alpha, and John wasn't going to let either of them get to him.
"Leave it, John," Greg says. John widens his stance and bares his teeth even more. He scents the air, and the double threatening alpha scents make the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
Greg seems to realize this, that his own pheromones are making John's reaction worse, and he motions for some unfamiliar beta officer to come and stand in front of him and read him a warning of what would happen if he tries to interfere. John can't do anything but clench his fists as they sweep past him into the flat.
John takes a shaky breath and turns to follow them up. Sherlock is still standing in the middle of the flat, coat and scarf on. He stands, silent, as the beta officer cuffs his left hand behind his back.
"He's not resisting," John says, gesturing wildly at Sherlock and glaring at Greg with all of his might. Sally drifts back to stand by the door, out of sight and out of mind.
"It's alright, John," Sherlock says quietly.
"He's not resisting," John pleads to Greg, the desperation evident in his voice. "No, it's not alright; this is ridiculous!" The scent of John's distress is oozing throughout the room, and Greg grimaces, reaching around to his back pocket to grab a breathing mask. Sherlock stands rim rod straight, taking great pains to breath through his mouth. He refuses to look at John; both of them know that things would only get worse if he struggled to break loose and go to him, to submit to the pull of his inner alpha - to comfort his omega in distress. John knows this, truly, he does, but he wants nothing more than to pull Sherlock towards him, undo the handcuffs, stick his face in the crease of his neck and breath him in.
"Get him downstairs now," Greg says, voice slightly muffled by the mask. The officer, making a face from discomfort, leads Sherlock out.
John can smell himself, his own distressomegadistress permeating through the flat, and the too-sweet smell of it makes him want to throw up. Sally's slipped on her own mask, still standing quietly to the right of the doorway.
"Greg, you know you don't have to do this," John pleads again, one more time. Greg heaves a deep breath and turns towards him, getting in his face.
"John, don't try to interfere, or I'll have to arrest you, too." Greg taps on his chest, before he grimaces, pupils dilating from being too close to the pheromones. He shudders and steps back, turning and fleeing down the stairs after Sherlock.
John stands there, fists clenched to his sides. He turns to Sally, who's been silent the entire arrest. "You done?" he asks, his voice steady, not revealing how truly shaken up he is inside. Only his scent gives that away, but Sally has enough self-preservation instincts to know that it wouldn't be smart to point that out.
"I said it," Sally says, and John just knows she's smirking underneath her mask. "I warned you. Sherlock Holmes is a psychopath, and you went and mated with him anyway."
They push him up against the cop car, a lot more gently than the way they slammed Sherlock. The beta officer handling him apologizes, asking if he's alright, eyeing Sherlock carefully, as if he's going to rip out his throat for manhandling his omega. John ignores him, focusing all of his attention on Sherlock.
"Joining me?" Sherlock says, his eyes alight with amusement.
John smirks back. "Yeah," he says. "Apparently it's against the law to chin the Chief Superintendent." Sherlock crinkles his nose up, eyes scanning the top of his head as if for a bruise before flitting over to the Chief Superintendent, who's hunched over and dropping blood onto the sidewalk.
"Any charges?" Sherlock asks, playing along. "If we're both in prison, who's going to keep an eye on Mrs. Hudson?"
John shrugs. "Greg was fortunate enough to remind him that I was an 'omega in distress' who'd just 'witnessed his mate being arrested.'"
"Ah, yes," Sherlock says, casting a scathing eye towards the officer currently transferring his right handcuff to John's wrist. "Because being an omega in distress means you're incapable of all crimes."
The officer behind them clears his throat, giving them a scandalized look, and steps back. John lifts his wrist and jangles the cuffs.
"Might want to save the sarcasm for later," John whispers. "We do need someone to bail us out." Sherlock rolls his eyes and grins at him, a smile John is more than happy to return.
He's handcuffed back to Sherlock, and his blood is singing. This is where he belongs.
Even if, you know, he's being held hostage while doing so.
"Do you even know how many charges of omega abuse you're about to be put through?" he asks as they're running away, the feel of the press of the gun to his temple fading.
"The system always favors the alpha," Sherlock pants back, barely sparing him a glance as he grabs his hand and drags him down tiny alleyway after alleyway. "Shall we focus on the matter at hand, please?"
"So that's your source?" John snarls. "Moriarty is Richard Brook?!" He bares his teeth and glares at Moriarty, absolutely furious, breathing heavy and shoulders heaving. He's letting off some major pheromones right now, and they only seems to rile Moriarty into more whimpering and pleading.
Kitty Riley scoffs, "Of course he's Richard Brook. There is no Moriarty. There never has been."
John stares. "What are you talking about?" He has no doubt that this so-called Richard Brook is Moriarty; it's the same sickly-sweet omega scent from the pool, from their flat. He recognizes it, and he knows Sherlock does too, from the way his nostrils flare.
"Look him up," Kitty says. "Rich Brook. He's an actor Sherlock Holmes hired to be Moriarty."
John watches Moriarty pretend to cower, to act the part of the poor, defenseless omega scared of the big, bad alpha who's threatening him. Moriarty turns towards him.
"Please," Moriarty simpers. "Doctor Watson, I know you're a good man. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. He tricked me. He tricked you, too." He covers his face with his hands and sobs, and John can only feel his anger growing. Moriarty blubbers on, dragging his hands down his face to clutch at his cheeks. "I'm sorry," he moans. "And now you're carrying his child. You fell for his act too."
Child?
John's mind stutters to a halt. Sherlock closes his eyes where he stands, shoulders slightly slumping. Kitty's eyes gleam, and she whips her head around to examine John more closely.
"What did you just say?" John asks quietly, voice low and hoarse all of a sudden. He swallows, but his throat is too dry. He turns to look at Sherlock, and his mate turns his face away.
"You... you didn't know?" Moriarty asks, tilting his head innocently. "It's in your scent. You're worked up. The pheromones." John whiffs the air, but he can't tell any difference. He turns back to Moriarty, who's no longer looking at John, but at Sherlock, and with a strange glint in his eyes.
John feels like the ground is going to swallow him up, and he staggers back, grasping Kitty's couch so hard his knuckles turn white.
"So, not only did you invent James Moriarty," Kitty says slowly, triumphantly, facing Sherlock with her chin in the air and a wild look in her eyes. "You also duped your omega into carrying your child." She takes one quick look at John's too pale face and sneers at Sherlock. "And he had no idea of who truly are." She shakes her head. "Sherlock Holmes, you repel me."
She's going to make it big for sure, John thinks faintly, especially with a story like this one. He sees Sherlock move towards Moriarty, and then it's all a blur, running after Sherlock, trying to catch up to Moriarty and failing. He has no time to think anymore about... it.
Somehow, at the end of it all, they end up in the middle of the street, and Sherlock paces past him, practically wearing a path in the asphalt. John's mind is still reeling, and he's still clutching the folder Kitty had given him of her article with a white knuckled grip.
"Sherlock?" he tries. "We need to-"
Sherlock cuts him off, turned away. "There's something I need to do."
"What? Can I help?"
"No. On my own." Without another look at his mate, he starts to stalk off. John is left dumbfounded, standing in the middle of the road.
"We're going to have to talk about it." he calls out to Sherlock's retreating back, slightly annoyed at the brush off.
"Oh, go take a pregnancy test," Sherlock scoffs. He doesn't bother turn around, and John can feel himself wilt.
He still can't believe it. He looks at the folder clenched in his left hand and straightens his shudders. There's one thing he still needs to take care of before he can do that.
John ends up at the end of his meeting with Mycroft even more frustrated than usual. He flings open the office door to stalk out when the tone of Mycroft's voice makes him pause.
"John," Mycroft says. John stills in the doorway, hand on the frame. He tilts his head to the left to look at Mycroft. He eyes John's stomach briefly, his face crumpling. John's stomach goes cold.
"I'm sorry."
He reaches inside a drawer and pulls out a small brown bag. He extends it in John's direction, and hesitantly, John walks over and takes it. He looks inside: it's a pregnancy test.
John clenches his jaw and turns around, holding his head up high and walking out. He doesn't look back.
It's positive. He doesn't know how he'll tell Sherlock.
"Three bullets. Three gunmen. Four victims. There's no stopping them now."
"Four?"
"What, you thought I was lying about John? Dear me, Sherlock. I wouldn't lie about something as... touching as this."
"Keep your eyes fixed on me," Sherlock's voice sounds tinny and frantic on the phone, and John has to squint against the sun to see up on Bart's roof. "Please, will you do this for me?"
"Do what?" John plays dumb. Sherlock hates it when he does, calling it an 'invaluable waste of brain cells', but he doesn't call him out on it now. He's desperate to keep him talking for as long as he can, maybe until Mycroft can get here, or even Greg, because this cannot happen.
He can hear Sherlock take a deep breath, a quaver evident in his voice. "This phone call: it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?" His voice cracks at the end. Sherlock's crying, and John isn't even there to comfort him. His inner omega crawls up in a tight ball of self-loathing.
John shakes his head, lowering his phone to his chest so he can inhale shakily. "Leave a note when?"
"Goodbye, John." John can barely see Sherlock begin to lower the phone from his ear, and a wave of desperation overtakes him.
"WAIT!" John screeches. Miraculously, Sherlock does, pausing and lifting his phone back up to his ear. "The test, it was positive." Sherlock's silent on the other end. "D'ya hear me?" John demands, sniffing loudly. "You're going to be a father. A father, yeah? Don't do this to me - to us."
Sherlock takes a deep breath. It sounds more like a sob, and John's vision begins to blur with hot tears.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispers, and then the line is quiet. John blinks hastily; Sherlock drops his phone onto the roof, and in one terrible, heart-stopping moment, spreads his arms and falls.
"SHERLOCK!" John screams, one hand covering his mouth as he falls. It feels like an infinity, but it only takes a few seconds for him to hit the ground. "Sher-" Immediately, he lets his phone clatter to the ground and staggers. He stumbles forward, making it just enough past the corner of the ambulance station to get a glimpse of the still figure lying on the ground.
John gags and promptly vomits all over the asphalt in front of him. He doesn't even see the biker coming, only feels the impact of the ground against his temple, and his mind goes fuzzy and roars with pain.
He grimaces and rolls over, stretching out an arm in Sherlock's direction and scrambling against the road for purchase. He forces himself to stand and stumbles toward the growing crowd, forcing himself to keep going.
"Sherlock," John whispers. He pushes his way through the crowd, fighting against two betas who try to hold him back. "He's my mate; he's my mate, let me through." His voice is more of a sob, and he finally manages to slip through.
He falls to his knees next to Sherlock's side, grasping for his wrist to feel a pulse, refusing to look at his face. His hand is still warm, and there's something wet soaking into his pants.
There's no pulse, and he lets out a high-pitched moans. He falls onto his hands and tries to move closer, to reach Sherlock again, to throw himself on top of him, but an omega woman pulls him away, forcing him back while medics load him up and take him into Bart's.
It's all a blur after that.
The day of the funeral is sunny. It's warm out, there's not a cloud in the sky, and the flowers are in full bloom.
John hates it.
He stands, steely-eyed, fists clenched, hunched over to the right of the grave. He's the picture perfect image of a grieving widow, the poor omega.
Sherlock never had many friends in the first place; not many people bother to show for the funeral - some members of the homeless network, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Mike, Molly, Greg - but the ones that do show give him nothing but condolences to his face, but pitying looks and muffled whispers behind his back. He hates that, too.
He shoves his fists into his suit pockets, blinking firmly and fixing his gaze off into the distance to the church in the distance. He refuses to cry in front of all of these people. Sherlock wouldn't have stood for it.
Save it for someone who actually desires your soppy displays of sentiment, he can practically hear him sneer. Molly cries, and so does Mrs. Hudson, and when Mycroft watches with something akin to disgust, John knows he probably made the right decision.
His scent's slowly starting to change more, to become even more sugary-sweet, knocked-up-omega-protect-me-please, and the guests begin to notice. It earns him even more pity once they get close enough to smell him. Mycroft, who already knows, doesn't say anything. He steadily keeps his gaze focused on John's chest and up, and for that John is actually a little grateful, even though he's still pissed to high heavens of his betrayal. Greg, whose expression is a mix of grief, sorrow, and regret, scents him briefly, eyes widening and jaw gaping before Mycroft pulls him away. Molly, who barely meets his eyes throughout the whole procession, accidentally scents him, turns green, and hastily flees the scene. Only Mrs. Hudson seems excited, the old beta chattering on about doctors appointments and vitamins and shopping until John firmly asks her for some time alone. She shoos the rest of the guests off, and he's finally left alone.
He stands, staring at the SHERLOCK HOLMES, a heady mix of angry and absolutely heartbroken. He squats down next to the grave and presses his forehead against the cool stone. He takes a shaky breath and closes his eyes.
He's pregnant, his mate is dead, and he's all alone. He can't bear to stay in 221B longer than he has to; Sherlock's warm, familiar scent saturated everywhere. It hurts more than it should, John's inner instincts wanting nothing more than to just bury himself in matemateSherlockmate.
"John?" John's shoulders slump, and he lifts his forehead from the headstone to look up at an obviously uncomfortable Greg, holding a bag and shuffling his feet.
"Greg," John says, so very, very tired. He musters up as much patience as he can, smiling at him weakly. His gaze drifts past Greg to Mycroft, standing far off in the distance by a sleek black car, and he doesn't move from his crouched position. "I just really want to be alone right now; I'm really not in the mood to..."
"No," Greg says, eyes wide. "This won't take long." He clears his throat and holds out the bag. John doesn't make any effort to move, just staring from his crouched position, and Greg hesitates before stepping forward and laying it before him.
Curious, John tilts the bag toward him, peering inside. His stomach falls out when he sees Sherlock's coat folded neatly inside, scarf placed on top. His hand begins to shake, and he slowly reaches inside and lifts it out. He lifts it to his nose and smells it - mostly lemon, a sharp, clean smell that bites against his nose, but there are faint traces of Sherlock beneath it.
Greg shifts once more. "We had it cleaned," he explains. "I thought... It does more good if you have it than some musty evidence box in storage. It deserves to be yours."
John can't help the high-pitched keen that escapes from his throat, and he presses the back of his hand over his mouth, choking it back. His eyes well up, and he lowers his gaze from Greg, focusing on his feet instead.
Greg's shoes step forward and John can feel the press of his hand on his good shoulder, the only semblance of comfort Greg can give. He murmurs an "I'm so sorry" out to John, turns, and walks away.
John sinks his face into the coat, buries his face into it, and finally cries.
His limp comes back, and his hand shakes, and he's powerless to stop it. There's no Sherlock to cure him this time.
He spends his days immediately following the funeral sitting in his chair.
Greg and Mycroft force him to go back to Ella the next week. What happened, John? What, don't you read the papers, Ella? It's been years since he's visited her. She still uses the same book that has "trust issues" written in it. That should make him smile, but it doesn't.
She presses him to talk about Sherlock, to say what he never had the courage to say before, but he just can't force himself to do it. He spends the hour with his jaw clenched, hands balled up and tucked under his armpits. She sighs.
At the end of the session, he stands up to go, shrugging on his jacket, swearing to never go back, and she pauses, laying a hand on his forearm. He blinks at it and narrows his eyes at her.
"Tell me, John; are the papers true? Are you...?" She trails off, and John swallows, throat dry, shoulders drooping. He knows what she was trying to say.
"Yes," John croaks. Ella's eyes are sad when she watches him walk out. He doesn't make a follow up appointment, and Mycroft doesn't say another word.
It's a week after Sherlock's funeral, and John's never felt more alone. It's kind of ironic, because the media has been living on his doorstep ever since Sherlock jumped, and he hasn't even had the chance to be truly left alone.
Sherlock's only been dead for a week and a half, but the media are still clambering for a sneak peek at Holmes's "duped omega"; at least, that's what the media are calling him. The newspapers are plastered with Sherlock's face, that once-loved picture of him in the deerstalker, with huge, bolded titles ripping his reputation apart. Some of the titles are absolutely terrible, full of lies and garbage and hate that Sherlock of all people didn't deserve: "SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS", "SUPER SLEUTH IS DEAD", and "FRAUDULENT DETECTIVE TAKES HIS OWN LIFE." And some of the ones about John are no better: "DUPED OMEGA" and "HOLMES KEPT HIM HOSTAGE!"
They make him sick, because nobody knows they're not true and nothing he can say will ever change that. Kitty's newest story - the one revealing the pregnancy - was published two days ago, and the sheer amount of paparazzi doubled outside of his flat.
It's made leaving during the daytime all but impossible, but then again, John can't leave the flat anyway for fear of being recognized. He's spent his days curled up in the middle of Sherlock's bed, trying to memorize his scent before it's replaced with his own.
Unfortunately, John's run out of actually edible food and the stale prenatal vitamins Mrs. Hudson had in her cupboard, and he's going to have to run to the store. Eating's been the last thing on his mind, but it's not just him he's trying to take care of anymore, and Sherlock's refusal to eat anything leafy or green has made their fridge look like a desert.
He waits until nightfall, pulling on a hoodie and tugging it to cover his face. He tucks his gun into the back of his jeans. (What? He's an omega, wandering around alone at night. Better safe than sorry). He peeks out the front window; a few reporters are sprawled out on the sidewalk and by the café, faces buried in their phones. Mrs. Hudson is offering one of them tea, and he rolls his eyes.
John takes Mrs. Hudson's back exit out, sticking to the alley wall and coming out on a fairly populated road. On his phone, he pulls up a map to the nearest mini-mart that isn't his usual and keeps his head down until he arrives.
He's the only customer in the store, the lone employee, a bored looking beta, staring at the TV in the top corner of the shop. She doesn't pay him any mind, just grunts an "evening" in his general direction and keeps her eyes glued on the screen. It makes him relax a little, but he still keeps his hood up as he grabs a basket and pulls out a list.
It doesn't take him long, only shopping for one person, and a non-picky one at that, and he gently sets the basket on the counter. With an aggrieved sigh, the brunette swings her feet off the counter and begins scanning his items.
John swings his attention to the candy bars section. Above it, there's a small selection of trashy magazines, including one with a blurry picture of him and Sherlock that circled his face and says "EXPLOITED AND EXPECTANT: KITTY RILEY BARES ALL!" He closes his eyes and turns away, suddenly nauseous.
The beta notices him looking at the magazines and shakes her head. "Pity, isn't it?"
Throat dry, John nods, making sure to keep his head down. "Yeah," he croaks. "I bet they're not leaving him alone."
She seems intrigued by his comment, absentmindedly scanning a bag of bananas. "Mmm, you gotta think about it, though; there's no way that omega didn't know what Holmes was doing. I bet he was in on it. People don't give you omegas enough credit." She grins at him, like she's telling a funny joke. John tries to force a smile, but it comes out as more of a grimace. "If you ask me, I think they deserved all that came to them."
"I don't think anybody deserves that," he says quietly.
She shrugs. "You may be right. What was that omega's name, anyhow? Jack, James, Josh... Josh White?" She finishes bagging up his goods and holds out her hand. "Cash or credit?"
He fishes his credit card out of his wallet and lays it on the counter. She makes a face, but picks it up and swipes it anyway. "Something like that," he says.
She waits for the machine to go through, and taps his card against the register, thinking. All of a sudden, she straightens up, snapping her fingers and pointing at him. "I got it! John Watson!" John's stomach drops.
The register dings, and she glances down to look. She does a double-take and glances at the name on his card again. Her jaw drops, and she looks from the machine to him and back again.
"Oh!" she gasps, eyes wide. John panics. He snatches his card from her hand and grabs his bags, bursting through the entrance into the crowded street.
"HEY, WAIT!" she follows him out the door, yelling and pointing in his direction. "THAT'S JOHN WATSON! THAT'S HOLMES'S OMEGA!" He can hear the curious and interested voices from the passerbys around him, his hood slipping off into his shoulders. He whirls around as the people around him turn towards him, forming a circle and blocking him in.
One man reaches out to grab his shoulder, an alpha by the smell of him, and John bolts, knocking down another male omega to get away.
He can't tell if anyone is following him, or if anyone took his picture. He only wills himself to run faster, trying to outrun the possibility.
He dashes around a corner, and a few people from outside of the store have circled around in front of him, having come around from the other side of the building. They point at him and start to run in his direction. John turns tail and prepares to run for the direction of Baker Street, screw the paparazzi out front, when a familiar looking black car pulls up to the side of sidewalk, windows rolled down.
"Need a hand, Doctor Watson?"
John doesn't think twice, throwing open the door and scrambling in. He almost falls into Anthea's lap, instead tumbling past to land on Mycroft's. Anthea slams the door shut just as the people run up, phones recording, and Mycroft motions for the driver to go.
John has to go to a different grocery store after that.
It's been two weeks since Sherlock's died.
John sits on the examination table, paper robe crinkling around him as he shifts. He's at the OB-GYN, at an omega specialist named Doctor Pritchett. She's an omega, too, and she seems thrilled to learn that John is also a doctor; she introduces herself with a wide beam, overly peppy, and John instantly takes a liking to her. She wears a spotless white lab coat and has a blonde ponytail that is constantly bouncing. She sits in a metal chair across from him, reading his file.
"So," she says, flipping up the last page on her clipboard and scanning it. "Doctor... Holmes, was it?"
He blinks in surprise. Nobody's ever called him that. Sherlock never bothered to make him change his name, and John never asked. "Watson," he corrects quietly.
"... Right." She turns back to the front page and reads the brief description of his status. Widowed, previously bonded. She fixes a pitying gaze on him for a moment, smiling sympathetically. He doesn't return it. She clears her throat, her bright smile diminishing a little, and turns her attention back to the charts.
"Well, it only just now looks like your hormone levels are beginning to ramp up; you're not very far along." She holds out her clipboard, and John takes it, looking at his blood work results. "When was your last heat?"
"A little over a month ago," he says, thinking of possessive hands on his wrists, shoulders, thighs, spreading them apart, messy kisses and wicked grins, the flash of blue eyes as Sherlock makes his way down lower and lower. Had he known it was going to be their last heat...
"Doctor Watson?" Pritchett clears her throat, a knowing look on her face as she breaks his train of thought. He flushes in embarrassment and drops his gaze. He hands the clipboard back.
She visibly scents the air and shakes her head. "You're only about five weeks along. Honestly, I can't even tell a difference in your scent. Those closer to you probably have noticed something different and may suspect it." John nods, the fact that Moriarty could tell before Sherlock still bugging him, and she continues. "You won't begin to show until twelve to sixteen weeks, so you have a while. I suggest you set up for a new appointment in about four weeks. We'll do more tests on that date, as eight weeks is typically the first prenatal appointment." She reaches to her desk and grabs a stack of brochures, holding them out. "If you have any more questions, feel free to read these and call." Pritchett gives him a business card, too, and she stands up to move on to her next patient.
He extends a hand out to her to shake, and she takes it. She walks to the door and hesitates, hand on the doorknob. "John," she says, a funny note in her voice. "I feel the need to warn you of this, but being a bonded omega with no alpha is going to make you a high-risk pregnancy. Your situation is going to be that much harder than the average omega's." John opens his mouth to snap something back at her, and she holds up her other hand, willing him to pause. "Now, I don't know the exact details of your situation with your alpha, but the stress and trauma you obviously went to is never any good for a child. The probability of a miscarriage is above average in your case, and you need to be prepared for all outcomes of this pregnancy, good or bad." John closes his mouth with a click, chilled, and with a final, awkward nod, Pritchett steps out.
John picks up the brochures again and looks at the cover: a beaming couple, the alpha wrapping his arms around the omega from behind, looking terribly proud and in love at the same time. John rolls his eyes.
It honestly doesn't sink in that he's pregnant until another week after his appointment. He goes to make a cup of coffee, and a suspicious nagging voice in the back of his mind that sounds a lot like Mrs. Hudson's warns him against the caffeine. His spoon clatters against the countertop; the coffee spills down the side, pooling on the floor, and he feels faint enough to go sit down.
He knew he was pregnant, don't get him wrong. Hell, he even tried to use it to get Sherlock not to jump. But it just hasn't truly sank in until now, six weeks along. He's not even showing, and he pokes at his stomach experimentally. It feels a little softer than usual, and he shivers.
He and Sherlock never talked about it, and even if they had, he doubts that having children was something Sherlock even wanted. Neither of them were prime examples of their sub genders, not feeling the need to just overwhelming give in to instinct and spread on the alpha/omega genes. Besides, dealing with anybody who wasn't able to reason for himself never jelled well with Sherlock, and John just assumed the same sentiment applied to children.
So no, he never imagined that he'd be having a kid, fathered by Sherlock, no less, but he definitely didn't think he'd have to be doing it on his own.
He wonders what he would've done with himself if there had been no baby. He briefly remembers his gun, tucked in a shoebox under a floor panel in Sherlock's room, out of sight out of mind, and he shudders.
Whatever the outcome had been, it wouldn't have been pretty. But now he's got this last little piece of Sherlock, and it's wholly and completely dependent on him, and he's not going to give it up without a fight.
It's the day before his next doctor's appointment when John wakes up, sweaty and aching and burning with a fever. He's eight weeks pregnant, and if there hadn't been a sudden influx of sick children at the clinic he would've assumed it to be a microheat.
He forces himself out of bed to the couch, bundled up in his sheets. He grabs a glass of water from the kitchen while he calls Sarah, apologizing for not making it in to work. She takes it in stride; hell, he could've said he just didn't want to go in today and she would've accepted it. She's been walking on tiptoes around him for weeks. He calls Doctor Pritchett, too, and cancels his appointment, much to her secretary's chagrin.
He settles himself in on the couch, watching telly and alternating between freezing - teeth-chattering, blankets to his chin - to burning up - kicking blankets onto the floor and shedding layers.
Two days of this go by, and his temperature slowly starts to rise. He can feel himself growing more and more out of it and is powerless to stop it. He sees old army buddies of his running and turning into bright pink bubbles, Mrs. Hudson dusting the flat with a penguin on a leash toddling behind.
The worst is when he starts seeing Sherlock. Sherlock, yelling at the telly, or Sherlock, fumbling around in the kitchen. He wears the deerstalker in John's hallucinations. It's absolutely hellish.
John is so out of it that when Mycroft shows up in his living room at two in the morning to check on him, he even mistakes him for Sherlock. Their scents are too similar in nature, and John is so absolutely desperate at this point for his mate, that he latches onto Mycroft's hand and refuses to let go for fear of 'Sherlock' disappearing again.
He only realizes his mistake in the morning when he wakes up still holding Mycroft's hand. Mycroft is sitting on the floor in front of the couch, arm bent backward at an awkward angle. He's tapping lightly on his laptop as best as he can with one hand, and he's studiously ignoring John.
When he notices John woke up, he lightly extracts his hand from his grip and gives him a simpering smile, flexing his hand. Immediately, worst case scenarios of all the things John could've inadvertently confessed to Mycroft flit through his mind, and his face burns with embarrassment. He meets Mycroft's gaze as steadily as he can, and Mycroft looks at him with something akin to approval.
"Your fever broke around six," Mycroft says, shutting his laptop screen. "Anthea set up a new appointment with Doctor Pritchett for you in three days." John opens his mouth up to reply, and Mycroft holds up a hand, closing his eyes. "No need to thank me. I am always cleaning up Sherlock's mess. Let's not talk about this again, shall we?"
John shuts his mouth, simultaneously feeling chastised and grateful, but he nods in agreement. Mycroft gathers up his things and walks out without another word, the umbrella tapping out a beat as he goes down the stairs. John does his best to delete this memory as quickly as possible, but Mycroft is true to his word, and they never discuss it further.
John wakes up one morning, panting, slick between his thighs. He groans, rolling over onto his stomach, sheets hot and scratchy against his chest. The urge to rut is growing in the pit of his stomach, and he fists a hand in his sheets, gritting his teeth. Well, this definitely isn't a fever, he thinks to himself sardonically, biting his lip.
It's three months after... well, you know. He's still not showing, and he's about to go into heat. Without Sherlock.
His heat cycle's been irregular for months. Pritchett said it was to be expected, that suppressants wouldn't work until after he toughed it out. She claimed it was only a microheat, lasting 36 hours at the most.
John pants and slings an arm over the side of the bed to fumble around for the box stocked full of various aids and toys, courtesy of one Mycroft Holmes. If Sherlock had been here - warm hands pressing down the small of his back, pressure against his arse, Sherlock panting into his ear, draped across his bag, reaching around the front to fist his - John groans as another wave of slick slips out, and he presses his palms to his eyes. He curls up on his side, miserable, and not for the first time, misses Sherlock.
Greg shuffles in his seat awkwardly. John presses his lips together in a firm line and taps out an off-beat rhythm on his thigh. He shifts his legs higher on the stirrups, where they're spread apart in preparation for the ultrasound, and Greg turns his head away to give him some semblance of privacy.
John never believed that Greg of all people would be going to one of his appointments with Pritchett. Over the last few weeks, Greg's been visiting him at least twice a week, going stir crazy from been put on probation while they investigated his record for all traces of Sherlock.
He'd been supportive, and a really good friend when John had needed it, and when John accidentally let it slip he had the gender reveal appointment the next week, the look in Greg's eyes was so wistful, that John found himself inviting him along before his mind caught up to what he was doing. But Greg's eyes lit up from the offer, and he seemed genuinely excited, and so John didn't say anything.
"You're sixteen weeks, right?" Greg clears his throat, trying to dispel some of the awkwardness. John nods. They both know Greg already knows this and just pretend they don't.
The door to the room swung open, revealing Doctor Pritchett's familiar blonde ponytail, face buried in his file. "Alright," she says, looking up at him and beaming. "We're about to-" Her gaze falls on Greg, and her mouth makes a small 'o.' "Mr. Holmes?" she says, giving him an unsure look. Greg's own jaw drops, and he looks at her like she has lost her mind.
"Noo," John says, just as Greg says "Ha! Definitely not." They look at each other, and Pritchett blinks at them, gaze shifting back and forth.
"Well," she says, trailing off, looking at him expectantly. John can see the questions practically rising in her mind, and he sighs.
"This is Greg," John says, gesturing. Greg gives an awkward little wave before flushing even more and sitting on his hand. "He's my friend."
She raises an eyebrow at him and turns to smile at Greg. "It's nice to meet you then, Greg," she says, holding out a hand for him to shake. He stands and accepts it, and she casts a surveying eye over him.
Seemingly satisfied, she turns back to John and smiles, giving John the OK symbol with her free hand when Greg's back is turned. "Are you ready to find out the gender of your baby?" she asks.
John nods, feeling the butterflies in his stomach grow. She pulls on some gloves and smooths some gel over his stomach. He hisses, jumping a little at the sensation, and she apologizes.
"It's cold," she warns belatedly. He just stares at her with an eyebrow raised, and Greg chuckles from the corner.
She places the probe on his stomach and moves it around, keeping a close eye on the small screen. Greg is vibrating on the edge of his seat, and he keeps looking from the screen to John's stomach and back again excitedly.
"Well," she says. "So far everything is looking good!" Pritchett pauses at a spot on his lower stomach and grins. She uses her free hand to point toward the screen, turning to look at John's reaction. "Congratulations!" she beams. "It's a boy."
John can't help the smile that breaks across his face, and he and Greg exchange ecstatic grins, the excitement in the room infectious. It's a boy, John thinks, totally in awe. A boy.
Greg slaps a hand on John's shoulder and squeezes it lightly. "Congrats, mate!" He leans closer to the screen, eyes tracing the shape of the baby. "Wow," he breathes, absolutely starstruck.
"Would you like a copy of the picture?" Pritchett asks John, and he nods. Greg is still staring at the screen wistfully, and John nods in his direction.
"Three," he says. Greg looks at him, surprised, and John gives him a lopsided grin. "What? We can't forget to give one to Mycroft."
Pritchett nods, telling them he can pick it up at the front desk. She hands him a handful of paper towels to wipe off his stomach and begins gathering up her materials. "I'm sure your mate would be very proud, John," she says.
Suddenly, the excitement in the room is much less tangible, and his grin slips away. So does Greg's, and John nods once and focuses all of his attention on making sure the gel is gone from his stomach.
Pritchett seems to realize she misspoke, and more subdued than she was moments earlier, shakes Greg's hand one last time, hurrying out.
It's tense now, and John feels a sudden rush of grief that Sherlock's not here, that he's missing all of this.
"He should be here," Greg says, like he read John's mind, and he just looks at him. "But she is right, ya know; I think she would be proud. Going on all about how it already has more IQ than the entirety of Scotland Yard, no doubt."
John snorts, the image of Sherlock boasting making him smile. "That sounds like Sherlock," he says. He bites his lip at the next image that crosses his mind - one of Sherlock looking at the ultrasound, hesitant, shy, and looking wholly and positively head over heels of what's to come.
Greg startles him out of his reverie, watching him carefully. "I miss him too, you know."
John shrugs one of his shoulders, swinging his legs off the stirrups. "Missing him won't bring him back."
"You never know," Greg says. He hands over his jumper and turns his back as John pulls on his clothes. "It is Sherlock, after all. If anyone could come back from the dead, it would be him.
They're walking out together, having picked up the pictures, when Greg suddenly bursts out laughing.
John looks at him like he's crazy, his lips twitching. "What's so funny?"
Greg waves his picture at John with a fierce grin. "50 pounds that Mycroft will faint," he says.
John laughs out loud, too; his excitement slowly starts to build back, deep in his belly, and his own returning grin is just as mischievous. "You're on," he says, and they shake on it.
Mycroft doesn't faint, of course, but he looks so incredibly touched that Greg gives him the money anyway.
"You're gonna need it," he says, shrugging, waving off John's protests and attempts to give it back. "Probably need to start saving for uni now. College is expensive, mate."
"Please," Mycroft scoffs from the couch, where's he's already trying to memorize each curve of the baby's tiny form. "The account's already been made, with monthly deposits set up until he graduates."
Greg makes a face at his partner. "Not out of my paycheck, I hope," he teases, and John laughs. He feels like everything is okay again, for once in a long time.
John dreams that night of a little boy with his eyes and Sherlock's curls, and he wakes feeling like he's never loved anything as much as he does this child.
John leaves a copy of the ultrasound on Sherlock's grave, pinned under a rock so it won't fly away.
The next time he goes back, it's gone. John doesn't quite know what this means.
John's about nineteen weeks pregnant when he wakes up in the middle of the night, gasping in pain from the burning agony in his lower stomach. It's crushing, debilitating, and it's all he can do to fumble around for his phone and press Mycroft on speed dial.
"John?" Mycroft answers it on the second ring, sleep tinging his voice, and John falls out of his bed onto the floor, curled up into a small ball. It's wet between his thighs, and the sharp tang of iron is in the air, and John knows what this means but no, no, no...
"I-" he gasps, hunches over even more as another wave hits him harder than the first time. He squeezes the phone even tighter in his hand and can't help the whimper than bubbles past his lips.
"John, hold on," Mycroft urges, and this might be the most uncontained John's ever heard him, and he can't even enjoy it because something all but tears in his stomach, and he howls and gasps in pain. He can hear Mycroft barking something to Greg, who's probably just as freaked out as he is right now. He can also hear Mrs. Hudson's thudding footsteps as she rushes up the stairs, having heard his fall. She gasps when she sees him, barking something to Mycroft onto the phone. She grabs his hand and brushes the hair off his forehead and whispers something into his ear, and he can't concentrate on anything and the pain is too much because this feels just as bad if not worse than when he got shot and he needs Sherlock -
When he wakes up, it's to the familiar beeping and hustle and bustle of a hospital, and Greg is passed out at the end of his bed, holding tightly onto his hand, jaw slackened in sleep. It's daylight outside, and John feels drained. What had happened? He closes his eyes, tilts his head back against the pillow, and covers his face with his hands.
He remembers the panic, and the pain, and the sound of Mycroft's voice, and that's about it. A sense of dread buries itself deep in his stomach. He lowers his hands and looks to his left; a dusty glass of water and a clipboard with his file on it are sitting on the bedside table. John slowly slides his hand out from under Greg's and reaches for it, grimacing at the sight of an IV in his wrist.
Hemorrhage, the file says. John feels hollow and cold. He knows what this means. He doesn't want to believe it. The door to his room opens, and in walks Mycroft, looking incredibly worn. He looks surprised to see John awake, not so surprised to see Greg asleep. He walks over and lays a hand on his shoulder, making Greg shoot up, hair flattened on the right side of his face. He looks so disoriented for a moment it's almost comical.
"John!" Greg says, eyes wide. He looks incredibly relieved, and then immediately guilty for looking relieved. "You're awake."
John turns his gaze on Mycroft, who's watching him solemnly. "Is it...?"
"Yes," Mycroft says. "My condolences, John." He means it, one look at his face and it's etched into every line, wrinkle, and glance.
John inhales, deep and shaky, and fists his hands in his blankets. Greg looks like he's going to cry, and he excuses himself rapidly. Mycroft follows him out, giving him privacy to cry.
John stares at the ceiling and knows he won't be able to. He wonders where his gun is and makes a silent promise to find it when he is released.
(The first thing John does when he arrives home at 221B is go dig up the panel in Sherlock's closet and pull out the box where he hides his revolver. It's empty, and John throws his cane against the far wall, cursing and damning Mycroft with every bit of energy he has left).
John meets Mary during his second day in the hospital.
She's his nurse on the graveyard shift, an omega, and she's grumpy and snarky and doesn't look at him with pity, like he's less because he couldn't carry to term, as some of the other omegas have done. She sneaks him an extra pudding cup for lunch, gives him a novel with half of the pages missing from list and found. She makes him feel normal, for once in his life.
He's disappointed when he checks out in the next few days, not getting a chance to say goodbye. But when he gets home (after his meltdown), he flips through the pages of her novel and out slips a tiny piece of paper with her number on it.
Over the next few weeks he and Mary pick up a texting correspondence, and he eventually works up the courage to ask her for dinner. She accepts. It makes him feel like he's cheating on Sherlock, and on the baby, but when she asks if he wants to go get coffee again on Tuesday, he agrees. She's a friend to him, and nothing more. He hopes she gets that.
"I lost my alpha, too," she says one day a few months into their friendship. They've both had more than a few drinks at dinner, and John thinks he's a little bit tipsy, because he can no longer remember his middle name. She tugs her shirt collar down and to the side and reveals an old, faded bond bite. "Car accident. We were young; kids still, practically. She was driving."
John tugs his own shirt to the side, showing her his own bite, and she giggles like it's the funniest thing in the world. "I know," she says. "It's why I chose you."
Even inebriated, this doesn't quite sit well with John, and he sets down his beer and squints at her. "Mary," he begins slowly. "I like you." She nods, getting a funny expression on her face and tensing her shoulders. "Meeting you was the best possible thing after..." he chokes, it's harder than he thought to get out, and she rests a hand on his, silently entreating him to continue. He decides to jump straight to the point. "I don't want another mate," he blurts out.
Mary's expression clears, and she relaxes, shoulders visibly slumping. "That's all?" she says. "Me neither. We're doing just fine on our own. Alphas - who needs 'em?"
Two males alphas at the next table over give her scandalized looks and move away from them, and John laughs and laughs.
He begins picking more shifts up at the clinic, now that Sarah doesn't treat him like he's going to shatter. He's spending more and more of his time off with Mary and less time with Greg and Mycroft (who still hasn't returned his gun, thank you very much). It hurts too much, after Sherlock and the baby and all, and Mary's giving him what feels like a fresh start in life.
At times he feels guilty; sometimes, it doesn't even feel like he misses them. He supposes that's part of moving on, but that doesn't mean he likes it any less. But on other days the grief is all consuming, and it's all he can do to just force himself out of bed and deal with the world. Those are the worst days, because they usually mean he dreams about the boy that night, and it's too much.
Mary likes to joke that they're "platonic life partners", and at one point even shows him several possible homes she wants to buy, having gotten promoted at the hospital.
"You're welcome to move in with me," she offers. "It must be hard to afford a flat by yourself on Baker Street."
It is, but Mrs. Hudson all but reduced his rent after Sherlock's suicide, and if he's ever short a month or so, money mysteriously appears in his bank account. But he couldn't bear to live anywhere else, and he tells her so, and when she finally moves in, he spends the day helping, laughing and flicking blue paint in her hair that's supposed to be going on her living room walls.
"I used to read your blog," Mary confesses to him one day. They're sitting on her couch, all sprawled out, watching the credits roll on a movie because both of them are too lazy to get up and switch out the disk.
"Yeah?" John asks, grinning lazily at her. "Were you a fan?"
"You caught me," she says, rolling her eyes. He throws a pillow at her, and it hits the side of her head. "But seriously, I have a question."
"Alright," he says slowly, his playful mood slowly fading. He purses his lips and furrows his brow, wishing he'd gotten up and put in a new movie so they wouldn't be having this conversation. "No promises I'll answer."
She nods, seemingly satisfied with that condition. "I've always wondered. Sherlock sounded impressive, don't get me wrong, and it was obvious you were in love with him, infatuated even from the start." She trails off, hesitant.
John raises his eyebrows expectantly. "Okay?"
"But did he really love you back? He seemed so cold, and I saw some of the comments on him being a 'high-functioning sociopath'." John's quiet for a moment, and she shifts awkwardly, poking him with one of her feet. "You don't have to answer," she says, shamefaced.
John's left hand twitches. "Yes," he says quietly. "He did."
"How did you know?" John studies Mary's face; she seems genuinely interested, and he chews on the inside of his cheek in thought.
The way he held up the tape for me at crime scenes; the look in his eyes at the sight of me in the Semtex at the pool; the way his face would light up whenever I called him brilliant; the way he made more tea for me than I ever did for him. John thinks all of this, and he knows he'll never quite be able to put it into words for her to understand.
"I just did," he says simply, "even though he never said it." She lets the subject go without another word.
John thinks Sherlock would've liked Mary. Sometimes, he thinks that if things had been different, he could've been with her instead. It's an easier future to think about, definitely, of life in the suburbs with a daughter named Rosie and not quite enough adrenaline pumping adventures for his tastes.
But then he thinks of Sherlock, alone, and no matter how much grief John was put through over his suicide, he wouldn't change it for the world.
One day, Mary gives him a flyer she found about some Sherlock fan club that was formed, something called The Empty Hearse. He's on his lunch break at work, and she meets him at a little coffee shop to grab a drink before her shift.
"I'm telling you, I saw it hanging up in the library." She's brandishing the flyer in his face, and he rolls his eyes, taking another bite of his sandwich.
"So you just took it?" he mumbles around a mouthful of food. He gets a glimpse of a silhouette of a figure in a deerstalker, and he blows a raspberry.
Mary shrugs as he takes a swig of his drink. "I thought maybe you'd like to go!"
He splutters, coughing and spewing tea all over her. "Why the hell would I want to go?"
"Likeminded people. I don't know." Mary makes a face and wipes up the table with her napkin, crumbling it up and putting it on the edge of his plate.
John sighs. "Sherlock's dead; I saw it. I know he's not coming back." Mary picks up the flyer again and flips it around to look at the front.
"#SherlockLives means #JohnWatsonLives." Mary reads, looking up at John with a raised eyebrow.
"What?!" John says, grabbing it out of her hands. "Give me that!"
True enough, that is what the flyer says, in big bold letters across the middle. On the bottom is an address for a little apartment on the opposite side of town, and what time they're meeting.
"What the hell," John says, screwing up his face and scowling. "Who even are these people?!"
Mary snatches it back. "Do you know anybody named Philip? He's the leader, I guess."
"Philip?" John frowns, sits back in his chair, and thinks. "I don't think so."
"Well, apparently he knows you," Mary says, and John scowls. "I still think you should go. Just sit in the back."
"If you're so curious then why don't you go?" John retorts.
"You know as well as I do that I have back to back shifts all week," she says.
John rolls his eyes. "We'll see." Mary tucks the flyer in his bag and steals his last bit of sandwich, and John yells in surprise, forgets all about The Empty Hearse.
In fact, John would've forgotten about it completely had he not seen another flyer when walking home from the clinic. It's hanging on the side of a mailbox, and John reaches down to tear it off. He straightens back up, looking around him.
He snorts, shaking his head at that same hashtag stamped across. He looks at the bottom - the next meeting's today, in about twenty minutes.
John purses his lips and makes a split second decision. He steps out on the edge of the sidewalk and raises a hand.
"Taxi!"
John pulls up to the apartment, ten minutes after the meeting has started. He hastily throws the driver some change and stumbles out. He runs up the stairs, following the signs pointing him in the right direction, and enters the room.
It's only got a handful of people in it, a various mix of men and women, a few wearing deerstalkers. They're talking amongst themselves, one man turned around and explaining something on a whiteboard, using a marker to draw a path over a map. One woman with dyed black hair and a nose ring spies him enter and sort of grins, but other than that he sits quietly at the back and goes unnoticed.
All of a sudden, the man at the board stops and sniffs, nose in the air. He turns around, scanning the room, and John's jaw drops in recognition.
It's Anderson, and his gaze finally falls on John. They both freeze, mirroring images of shock. He looks a lot more ragged than the last time John had seen him, a slightly crazed look in his eyes and an unkempt beard. John hesitates, hoping that Anderson - Philip, apparently - won't reveal who he actually is. Anderson seems to understand this, because when a teenage alpha asks him if he's alright, he nods, shaking his head slightly and moving on.
Anderson dives into his explanation again, passionate, excited, and motivated, but now, it's like he's talking directly to John. He traces what's apparently Sherlock's path across Europe and taps on London hard.
"He's coming back," he keeps repeating.
John figures it's just the guilt talking, but it's a nice gesture regardless. Anderson seems to really believe that Sherlock's coming back. He tries to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach, tries not to make eye contact with Anderson every time he looks at John like he's a marvel.
Anderson finishes his rant and sits down, opening the floor for further discussion. John's absolutely amazed by the complexity of some of these theories, but he doesn't know whether he wants to laugh or cry at some of the theories on how Sherlock hypothetically survived the fall.
The Moriarty one, he definitely could have done without hearing. Did these people even know he existed?
The hour flies by for John, and before he realizes it, the meeting's adjourned, people packing up their things and walking out. John does the same and stands up, turning to go, when he hears someone call out his name.
"John!" He turns and sees Anderson rushing towards him. "Well? What did you think? I didn't know you were coming; I would've let you talk."
"I didn't know I was coming either," John admits. He fumbles around in his pocket and hands over the crumpled flyer. Anderson's eyes light up, and he takes it. "I probably wouldn't have come, either if I'd known Philip was you."
"Ah," Anderson says. He wilts a little. "I see."
It's awkward for a moment, and John turns to go, when Anderson stops him with a hand on his arm.
"For what it's worth, I regret it every day." He's completely telling the truth, 100% genuine. John can tell, and he sighs, shoves his hands into his pockets.
"I don't think he ever made it very easy for you," John says. He's not really accepting his apology, but Anderson seems ready to take whatever he can get.
Anderson chuckles. "Not really, no." They both trail off, and Anderson just watches him with wide, wide eyes.
John gives him an awkward smile and gestures towards the door. "Well, I think I need to..."
"Oh! Yes, of course," Anderson says. "You're welcome any time. We meet once a week. Same time. You can come with your own theories, if you'd like."
John nods, pressing his lips in a firm line. "Right," he says. "Ander... Philip, I don't think he's coming back."
Anderson blinks at him, looking confused. "But you have to. It's all right here." He taps on the whiteboard.
John shrugs. "I saw him jump," he says, his chest tight. "You can't come back from that."
Anderson sighs, his shoulders slumping. "That's what Greg says." John imagines Greg sitting in one of these meetings and feels his lips twitch up into an almost-smile. "But I think you're wrong. He is coming back, you'll see."
John purses his lips and nods his head once. He doesn't say anything else, just turns on his heel and leaves. Anderson watches him go.
"We'll have snacks next week!" he calls out.
The anniversary of three years since Sherlock's suicide comes and rolls around, and John spends the afternoon at his grave, like usual. But for once, Mary goes with him. There are fresh flowers lying on the grave, and John ignores them, setting the bouquet Mary wanted to bring down on top. It's a nice change to see, the grave looking well-kept instead of strewn with trash and graffiti from angry people. John used to have to spend hours scrubbing down the tombstone, getting rid of paint and mud that spelled out FAKE and FRAUD.
"Who left those?" Mary asks, pointing at the original flowers. "I thought you said he didn't have any friends."
John shrugs. It's not the first time he's seen another bouquet. "Molly, maybe. Mycroft, probably."
"Ah," Mary says, as delicately as she can manage. She isn't Mycroft's biggest fan, and he hers, either. The one time John hosted a dinner and invited all of them, she and Mycroft got into a huge squabble over a game of chess that was almost reminiscent of the one Holmes family's Christmas dinner he was invited to. On the other hand, she and Greg hit it off fairly well, much to Mycroft's chagrin. Turns out they both have a pretty advanced gun collection and can talk for hours on the best target ranges to use for practice and best polishing fluid to keep the metal from rusting.
His visit this time is short; she walks away to give him some privacy and holds his hand on the way home. They arrive at 221B and traipse inside, yelling a chorus of hellos to Mrs. Hudson over Metallica and the vacuum. Mary ducks into the kitchen to make some coffee, and John flicks on the news, bombarded with the unwanted memories that always plague him on this day.
That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done.
And you invaded Afghanistan.
She jerks him out of his reminiscence when she presses a mug in his hand. It was one of Sherlock's favorites, complete with cheesy chemistry joke printed on the side and a chip in the rim. John had given it to him for as a joke one afternoon, but Sherlock had absolutely loved it. John traces his finger over it gently. Mary sits down next to him on the couch and studies him intently for a moment.
He looks up from the mug, catches her gaze, and scowls. "What?"
"I know exactly what you need," she says. "You and me, dinner at the Landmark."
"Mary, I'm not really in the mood..."
"No, trust me. We can celebrate Sherlock. You know the media just renounced their statement on his being a fraud." John's quiet for a moment, thinking it over, and she digs a bony elbow into his side. "Come on, John; I think it'll be good for you."
"Fine," John says, rolling his eyes. "But you're paying."
"Deal. I already made reservations," she smirks, ignoring his accusatory cry, "and I'll meet you there at seven."
John wears his nicest suit and blue tie as he walks into the Landmark. The tie was a birthday gift from Mary the year before; apparently it brings out the color of his eyes rather nicely. He's shown to a table, and Mary isn't even there yet. He checks his phone: 7:05. Typical.
He sits, orders wine, and plays Words with Friends against Mrs. Hudson while he waits. When he finally spies Mary walking down the stairs, hair done up in an uncharacteristically odd way to show off her bond bite, he gives her an annoyed look. His phone says 7:17, and she gives him a sheepish little waggle of her fingers.
"Last time I checked, it's considered rude to be late to your own dinner," John says when she gets close enough to hear, mildly annoyed. Mary rolls her eyes, gives him a swift peck on the cheek, and slides into her chair.
"I was dressing to impress," she sniffs, sticking her nose in the air.
"To impress who?" John says, eyebrow raised. "Cos I know it's not me. You wear those ratty old scrubs every time I go to your house." Mary rolls her eyes.
"Yeah, that's real rich coming from the one who only ever wears oatmeal colored jumpers," Mary snarks back. Now it's John's turn to roll his eyes, and Mary smiles sweetly, knowing she won this round. "And I'm here to impress Sherlock Holmes, that's who."
John raises an eyebrow again, and Mary picks up her wine glass. "That is who we're here to celebrate, right? Pretty sure it was my idea."
"Your arrogance astounds me," John says, but he's smiling anyway.
"Sounds like you have a type," Mary says, smirking. John's lips twitch up into a smile. She's not wrong. He picks up his wine glass and holds it in the air next to hers.
"If it hadn't been for him, I never would have met you," Mary says in all seriousness. "You're one of my best friends, John, and if he ever comes back, he's going to be hard pressed to get you away from me. To Sherlock Holmes."
John can feel hot tears pricking in his eyes, and he clinks his glass against hers. "To Sherlock."
John smells Sherlock before he sees him. He lowers his glass and scents the air, the familiar blend of cinnamon and vanilla and wool and home, and he thinks he's going crazy.
Mary notices his hesitance and lowers her glass, the sheen of wine on her upper lip. "What is it?"
"Do you smell that?" he asks. He breathes in again, and oh, how he's missed this. She sniffs the air and shakes her head, lips pursed, looking concerned.
"Smell what?"
"John," a familiar voice breathes, and John's heart stops beating. Slowly, he turns to his side, and there, dressed as a waiter with a drawn on mustache, is Sherlock.
He jolts back, his chair screeching across the floor. If if he wasn't already sitting down, he knows he would have hit the floor, because his legs feel like jelly. His vision swims, and the only emotion he can feel is utter, utter disbelief.
"No," John says shakily; he scrubs his eyes hard and blinks. Sherlock is still standing there. "You're dead." Hot tears spring to his eyes, and he staggers to his feet, bracing himself on the table, fist clenched so hard his knuckles turn white. Sherlock's eyes remain locked on his face.
He says something snarky, something so characteristically Sherlock, but John can't quite hear it over the sound of blood rushing through his ears. He shakes his head, without words. He looks over at Mary, making sure she can see him too.
"Oh my God," Mary breathes, a hand over her mouth. She looks back at him, eyes wide, and it suddenly sparks in John that this might actually be real.
Sherlock ignores her as John starts to tremble, and hesitantly, Sherlock holds out a hand towards him. John grabs it, feeling the warmth, the pulse that says his mate is very much Not Dead.
He giggles shrilly, unable to decide whether he wants to hug the man or throttle him, and both Mary and Sherlock give him concerned looks.
"Three years, Sherlock," John says. His throat closes up, and he hunches over the table, trying to compose himself. A sudden bloom of anger sparks in his chest, and he settles for throttling, straightening up and growling. "Jesus, I thought... I thought you were dead. How could you do this to me?"
Sherlock, it seems, at least has the dignity to look abashed. He opens his mouth, as if prepared to give one long explanation, and God help him, if Sherlock explains how he did it John's going to kill him. But Sherlock promptly shuts it when he sees the expression on his face. "I..." For once, in all the years John has known him, Sherlock looks unsure. "I had to take down Moriarty's network. To protect you, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and the baby." At the mention of the baby, Sherlock's expression changes to look an odd mix of shy and excited, almost puppy-like in his eagerness. Sherlock finally turns to look at Mary, and he gives her a funny look, looking back to John with hesitation. "Shouldn't you be at home with it? The infant years are the most important in establishing a secure attachment."
Mary gives a hysterical little laugh, looking at Sherlock like he's a madman. She swings back to stare at John sympathetically, jaw hanging slightly open.
John's anger explodes, and everyone in this entire damn restaurant can see it written on every line in his face, no need to be a master of deduction. "Sherlock," John grits out quietly. "There is no baby."
Sherlock's face falls. He steps back, reevaluates, scanning John from head to toe, no doubt learning all about the miscarriage from the press of his suit or the new wrinkles that have popped up since the (apparently fake) suicide around his eyes. If it's possible, his face crumples even more. He pulls a picture out of his pocket, and it's the ultrasound John had left on his grave so many years before. John can see the smeared blue of the ink of where he had written the date. More notes were on the back, in Sherlock's messy scrawl, of facts and research of babies and children that John can't completely make out.
He didn't know, John realizes, and his rage evaporates. He realizes he's still clasping Sherlock's hand tightly, like it's a lifeline and he's a dying man, and Sherlock makes no move to retract it. Sherlock looks afraid, as if he's worried that John is going to hit him, to reject him, and he lowers his gaze from John's.
John bites his lip, feeling the tears well up again, and he yanks Sherlock towards him into a hug, pulling him down to his level. "You wanker," John breathes. He buries his face into Sherlock's neck and just breathes him in, it hitching in his throat.
Sherlock startles, but it doesn't take him long to press John even closer to him, nose pressed to the top of his head, whispering his name reverently, "John, John, John."
They must be making a scene, but John just can't bring himself to care. Things aren't okay just yet, and they won't be for a long, long time, but it's a start.