Chapter Three

"Shattered"

"Sherlock, wooh-hoo! Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson called softly, lightly rapping her knuckles on the opened door. "Are you going to stand there all morning, or should I make you a cuppa?"

Sherlock still stood in the same spot he had occupied since before dawn, facing his puzzle on the wall. He snapped back from the depths of his palace, and focused dry eyes on his landlady. apparently he hadn't been blinking while away, and from the stiffness he felt all over, he hadn't moved either.

"Ah, Mrs Hudson. A cup of tea would be sufficient, as long as some biscuits accompany it." he said coldly, yet with his customary wink softening his reply. Mrs Hudson smiled fondly at him before retreating back down the stairs to her flat.

Sherlock stretched, raising his arms high above his head, and bouncing lightly on his feet to wake himself up. He'd never act this silly with company, but as Mrs Hudson wouldn't be back for several minutes, he felt free to shake out his muscles and chase the wayward thoughts from his mind. He quickly ceased his antics as deep spasms of pain radiated from the deep bruises and cracked ribs he had received from the brutal Serbian enforcer two weeks past. His wounds had yet to fully heal, and he had quite typically forgotten about his injuries, and only when he moved carelessly was he reminded.

He was pleased that he'd retained enough of his wits to distract his abuser before the iron pipe had been brought into play. Impatient with his brother's obvious lack of concern, Sherlock had let spill the secret of the adulterous Serbian housewife, which was enough of a catalyst to get the brute out of the room and way from his aching torso. He had managed to get himself out of harm's way without lifting a finger. Mycroft had thought he was clever, sneaking into the compound the way he had. What was really clever was waiting for news of his completed final mission absorb up the food chain of his brother's organization, staging a break in, and running just to get caught. Knowing a beating was standard, and that his brother would never impersonate someone low on the criminal hierarchy, he knew Mycroft would be in that room too. He had just overestimated his brother's concern for his welfare. The tacit endorsement of the enforcer's beating to such a degree was something of a surprise. He knew Mycroft's perverse sense of humor could be inconvenient, especially to Sherlock, but he still grew annoyed when thinking back to the day of his "rescue". His still sore muscles and the partially healed ribs wouldn't let him forget either.

The sound of a cab drawing up to the curb distracted him from mentally berating Mycroft further. Sherlock wasn't expecting his brother for another hour. Mycroft was never early. Late, often; early, never.

"A client?" thought Sherlock, his blood stirring at the thought of a new case to divert his frustration from the one weighing down his wall. He went to the window, but whoever it was was already inside and closing the inner door. The bell hadn't been rung, and there had been no knock either, so who was it? Mycroft never waltzed in during the day, he delighted in being annoying and making Sherlock or Mrs Hudson open the door. Whoever it was had a key...

"Whoever it is has a key...!", he screamed inside his head. If it was possible for Sherlock Holmes to freak out, he did in the nanosecond it took him to realize who was slowly coming up the stairs to his flat. "Am I dressed, where's my socks?! No socks, wearing my robe, do I smell? When did I last take a shower?! Dammit man focus he's here!"

"Ah, John. Do come in. Mrs Hudson just went for tea, I'm certain we can arrange a cup for you as well." Sherlock was impressed and proud that his voice was so calm, as if the last two years, two weeks, and one well aimed head butt hadn't occurred.

Sherlock turned to the doorway, where his recent mental obsession was carefully removing his gloves. He nervously glanced at John's hands, wondering if a repeat of last week was about to happen. He'd take his punches, but the nose was off limits and he would defend it. Sherlock was again glad of his emotional control, as the sight of John was enough to make his heart leap in his chest.

"Freshly shaven, no mustache thank GOD!- dark clothes picked out carefully, tense shoulders, circles under his eyes...he hasn't slept. Why hasn't he slept?" he ran through his observations almost idly from habit, " leaner, more muscles, staying healthy for Mary, regular office hours but no sleep..."

John cleared his throat, "No tea thanks, I'll have some at the office. Just came by to...yeah...I came by to talk...", his voice trailed off into nothingness, his eyes skating around the room, from the case on the wall, to the lovingly maintained violin perched up like a person on Sherlock's chair. Everywhere but at the man he'd come to see.

Sherlock risked a step closer. "John, come in, have a seat?" he was within touching distance now, and with all his self control he withstood the urge to reach out and just feel him- feel the body heat and strength that separated a cold memory from the reality of his beloved doctor. His fingers twitched, and it was the only betrayal of his current state he would allow.

John couldn't avoid him anymore, he was too close. His eyes drifted over the tall, leanly muscled frame of the man he'd thought so long dead. Over a head taller than himself, John had to tip his head back just to see the detective's face. He looked into the most brilliantly beautiful eyes he had ever seen. A miraculous blend of blue, green, and true, real gold combined into eyes that were literally breathtaking. Eyes that could, and did, convey a myriad of thoughts and emotions so clearly to anyone who knew the younger man well. Skin still palest white, a faint, vague hint of freckles, and a wild crown of gorgeous, untamable curls graced the head of the most intelligent human he'd ever met.

It was like a punch in the gut, looking into those eyes. John's righteous anger was swept aside by a tidal wave of joy, grief, and disbelief. Awe and an unnamable emotion flooded through him, as if electricity was building a charge under his skin. His thoughts and carefully chosen words vanished beneath this sensation, and he swayed slightly forward, buoyed by what he was feeling. His heart started to beat faster, his senses narrowed down to just those eyes. The younger man was so close he could smell the oil he used on the violin bow, the soap from some distant shower. His own eyes began to water, so long did he gaze at this man. The man Fate had cruelly taken away, and then so capriciously tossed back. John struggled for words, any words to free him from this moment that he felt like he was drowning in.

"John?" came that voice; deep, melodic, beautiful. A voice of commanding strength, that could express everything from cold detachment to violent fury with a clarity unmatched by any other voice John had ever heard. He shivered, and he found himself a step closer to Sherlock, a step so close he could lift his hand and place it on the detective's chest.

Which he had! John felt the heat, the lean strength beneath the flat of his hand. Sherlock's heart beat strongly under his palm, hard and tempo increasing. John stared at his hand, stretching out his fingers and gently pressing the tips deeper into Sherlock's night shirt.

"John...", This time it was a whisper, as Sherlock breathed in the presence of this person he held so dear. He lowered his head, til his curls lightly brushed against the forehead of the other man. They both breathed in again, together. Held it, as gentle tension slowed time and bound them closer. Only the pressure of John's fingers on his chest grounded Sherlock, as his control shattered and his emotions escaped. Tears gathered, then gently began to fall down his pale cheeks, to match the rainstorm brewing in his heart.

A single tear fell from Sherlock's chin, and landed on John's wrist. John stared at it, lost as how that crystalline drop had gotten there. He lifted his eyes from his hand, and saw the impossible.

Sherlock Holmes, the most cynical, detached, ruthless and emotionless man John had ever known, was weeping. Silent, and almost helplessly, he cried. Heavenly eyes overflowed, tears winding down the strong planes of his face to fall unnoticed to the floor. It was if he didn't notice his own state so focused was he on the doctor.

John's other hand lifted from his side, without prompting. He laid it against Sherlock's cheek, cupping him closer, letting the taller man's forehead rest fully against his own. The hand he held to the other's heart flowed up his shoulder, along his neck to gently hold Sherlock's face between his palms.

"Sherlock...shhhhuusshh now, Sherlock sherlock sherlock-" his name became a litany of everything he had no words to convey to the shattered man before him.

His name seemed to be the release valve, for what was likened to a rainstorm was now a torrent. Voiceless sobs shook the taller man, tears a river unstoppable in the flood of all that he'd been repressing. His control wiped away, pride gone, Sherlock was left bare before John Watson.

"Oh God, Sherlock... breathe, just breathe!... I'm sorry I didn't want the tea, I'll have some. C'mon Sherlock, sshhhhh...it's okay now, I swear it's okay now!" words that echoed from a distant moment, said once by the man he now held weeping to his shoulder.

Gently he guided Sherlock to the couch, callously brushing stacks of paper to the floor. There he sat Sherlock down, the younger man unaware he'd even been moved. His hands gripped tightly to John and refused to let go. The older man sat next to him, and at loss, he gathered the lanky detective to his chest. To his surprise Sherlock turned into him, curling up like the child John was certain he had never been allowed to be. Arms wrapping tightly around John's neck and shoulders, Sherlock buried his face into the crook of the other man's neck and continued to cry. His knees drew up into the back of the couch, his feet tucking into the spaces between the seats. There he wept, quiet and desperate. He wept like he had never learned how; ragged, tortured breaths, face scrunched up tight, red and splotchy and frankly a bloody mess. Sherlock Holmes wept like a man freed from Hell and fearing to return.

This was not how John had expected this conversation to go. Fully intent on saying his piece, and maybe even hearing Sherlock's side of things, John knew that he was a fool for believing anything with Sherlock would be so easy. Though this explosion of emotion was so far removed from expectation that he relied instead on instinct. He did what his healer's heart told him- he held firmly to the shaking form in his arms, murmuring nonsense words of comfort. It was if Sherlock had shattered. One moment his control perfect, then the next it was torn asunder. John had the feeling that his one gentle touch, instead of the punches he had thrown last week, was what did it. So strong was the need to care for his detective - yes, his detective - that his own emotions quieted into the background of his heart.

Sherlock was caught up in the maelstrom, unaware and uncaring of where he was. He held tightly to John, a lifeline in the nightmare of emotions he was drowning in. The smaller man was stronger than he looked, his resolve unwavering. Sherlock wept out twenty four months worth of stress, fear, loneliness and loss. John's patient shoulders bore it all. Sherlock hadn't know to what depth he was capable of feeling, and he was afraid he might never return to the man he was before his Fall.

Gradually, Sherlock's sobs began to lessen, the tides receding. Exhausted, spent, he cried his last tears onto John's now wet jacket. He was beyond tired, and he had never felt so empty. The warmth of the man who held him stole into the emptiness, and lulled him into a slumber he sorely needed.

So there was John Watson, late for work, sitting on the couch of the greatest mind alive, holding said man as he wept, and now slept, on top of him. He felt no urge to move, and knew Mary would rearrange his schedule without asking. Smart woman, was Mary. It was in this position that Mrs Hudson found them, holding the tea tray next to the coffee table. She had a silly grin on her face as she lightly settled the tea service on the table before leaving as quietly as she had come in. John laughed quietly, knowing it was entirely possible that the rumors were about to get much worse than they had ever been.