Mourning
Words: 992
Rating: T
Spoilers: Through series 3 (but with addition of non-canon events)
"For Sale:
Baby shoes. Never worn."
E. Hemingway
Sherlock woke that morning knowing something was wrong. Sherlock, who slept very little in the first place, always woke before John. And Sherlock would wait for John to blearily awaken, and would kiss him the moment he did so he was the first thing John saw in the morning. It was cheesy and he would never admit the ritual to anyone, but there was something satisfying in knowing that John wouldn't even see the ceiling above his prone form before he'd feel Sherlock against him. It was the least Sherlock could do, really, considering everything he had done to hurt John in the past.
John was happy with Sherlock. Sherlock knew that much. John was glad they had the chance to be together and wouldn't change that for the world.
But his past still existed and still sometimes haunted him.
So when Sherlock woke up and John's side of the bed was empty and cold—implying it had been empty for a while—Sherlock knew that John was upset. He got up and only threw on a clean pair of pants and his blue dressing gown as he left the room in search of John.
He wasn't in the front room, and had not sat there this morning, obviously. He looked to the kitchen, where there was evidence that he had made a cuppa about an hour earlier. No fry-up though, which he often fancied on a Saturday.
Something was certainly amiss, Sherlock knew that.
And he didn't need deductive genius to guess what exactly was the matter. It was almost always the same thing, in the seldom occasions John got like this. In the evening, he might be found in various pubs with Lestrade. This early, however, it was a toss-up.
Sherlock made an educated guess and climbed up the stairs, opening John's door quietly.
There he was. He was fully dressed in his customary oatmeal jumper and jeans, and he was holding it there in his hands, looking down at it.
It was always there in between his fingers when he thought about this.
It was a tiny red shoe. Never worn.
Sherlock may have been lost on human emotion much of the time, but even he felt the heaviness of that object in John's grasp. He never knew her, the same way John never did, but they knew Mary. And she was Mary and she was John and she was never going to be. Sherlock felt that.
And Sherlock always felt for John anyhow.
Sherlock lingered in the doorway. Consoling was never his forte. Even now, when he and John had been together as long as they had been, he never knew what to say. As a rule, he said nothing at all. He knew it wasn't what John wanted, but what could he say to fix it? And John knew that too, which was why he never asked for anything more.
Sherlock usually didn't even go into the room when John was like this, honestly. When he did, he tried to change the subject, and John would pretend to be okay. Sherlock sometimes wondered if John honestly thought he was convincing. Either way, they never said a word, but Sherlock knew.
But now Sherlock was standing there, and he hadn't thought of anything to bring up, any experiment to suddenly begin. His mind was unnervingly blank.
"She deserved to live, you know. They both did."
Sherlock opened his mouth as if he might reply even though they both knew he wouldn't. His jaw snapped shut again.
He didn't know how long it was before John looked up at Sherlock, but Sherlock almost stepped back when he saw the look on the other man's face.
He was livid.
And it wasn't at some third party.
He was livid with Sherlock.
"How do you do it?" he demanded venomously.
Sherlock was, as infrequent as this event was, sincerely confused.
"I'm sorry?" Sherlock replied, tasting bile at the back of his throat at asking anything in honest bemusement.
John stood up. "How can you feel nothing? You knew Mary. You even liked her, unless I read all the signs wrong. And you just stand there and don't feel a fucking thing. She was my wife. That thing inside her wasn't a thing, it was my daughter." John was shouting now, his whole body gone rigid—but that red shoe was still cradled in gentle fingers. "And you just fucking stand there with that blank look on your face! What makes you so invulnerable? Where the fuck do I get whatever you're smoking? And then I fell for you, and how romantic it must seem that I found happiness in a bad situation, but you just—why are you just fucking standing there?! Do something! Feel something!"
Sherlock just stared for a long moment. And still, there were no words. Thoughts, yes. Thousands of thoughts. But not even the vastest vocabulary could even begin to voice them.
And maybe John wasn't a genius. Far from it. But he knew Sherlock more than anyone, and Sherlock watched as John understood all the things the detective didn't know how to say.
John let out a startled breath, taking a step back. "I'm sorry," he breathed out quickly, not meeting Sherlock's eyes.
Sherlock stood there for another moment before he stepped forward and just barely raised his arms.
John was in them in a second, breathing heavily into Sherlock's chest.
"Damn it," he muttered into the pale skin.
"I know," Sherlock replied, quietly enough that it was a deep rumble more than it was a sound.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
"I know you—"
"I know."
"But I just—"
"I know."
John looked up, his eyes shining. And then Sherlock's mouth twitched upward. "Fancy a fuck? Because I do."
Sherlock wasn't sure for half a moment if it was the right thing to say. Not until John let out a watery laugh.
"Always."