Chapter 3

Nothing compares. No worries or cares.
Regrets and mistakes their memories make.
Who would have known how bittersweet this would taste?

Five days later, John Watson found himself in the back of a black cab, heading from Victoria Station to Baker Street. It was raining fairly lightly, and the end of August was already showing signs of turning into a dreary autumn. He looked up at the buildings through the window as he passed them by, thinking how London hadn't changed one bit since he'd left nearly five years ago. It was still noisy, and busy and great. And yet John couldn't help but feel that he didn't belong there anymore; he was a stranger now. The buildings look back down with disinterest at the man who had deserted them all those years ago.

The cab pulled up a few doors down from 221B and John paid the taxi driver with a word of thanks. He took a few slow, deliberate steps towards the familiar black door, as the taxi drove off behind him. Home, he thought sadly. His hand hesitated over the knocker and he looked up to the first floor window. There was a faint light spilling out onto the street. John waited for a moment longer. He wasn't sure what he was waiting for. Eventually, he knocked firmly on the door and waited as the rain soaked through his suit jacket. From within the house, John heard the rhythmic thudding of feet against the stairs and moments later the door was wrenched open to reveal Sherlock Holmes, dressed in formal black trousers, his white shirt open at the neck. For a brief second, a look of surprise flashed in his eyes as he stared a John. It was instantly concealed, and Sherlock glanced away, immediately disinterested.

"I can't do my tie," Sherlock announced as a greeting, shoving the material towards John without a second glance as he headed back to the stairs. John looked down at the dark red silk tie in his hand, as he stood on the doorstep in the rain. Sherlock had already disappeared up to the first floor. John let out a deep breath and stepped into the hallway, shutting the door behind him. As he headed for the stairs, he slowed and made his way to the door at the far end of the hall. He stood at the dark, wooden door and traced the brass letter 'A' with his finger before resting his head against the cool glass pane. John lingered there for a moment. The tie hung limply in his hand. He closed his eyes and tried to forget the reason he'd come. From somewhere deep within his memory he could hear Mrs Hudson's voice, giggling at something they'd been watching on television. He could hear her chastising her tenants for yet another dangerous and inconsiderate act. He could remember the look of affection in her eyes when she looked at 'her boys'. And then he remembered the last words she ever said to him. He hated himself for leaving her, and never saying goodbye. Now it was too late.

With a trembling hand, John brought his fingertips to his lips and then placed them gently on the door. Above him, he heard the floorboards creak under the weight of agitated pacing. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and then headed upstairs to the place that had been his home for many years.

The flat was a state. John took in his surroundings as he stood in the living room doorway. Very few things had changed since he'd moved away; the décor and furniture remained the same apart from, John noted, a different coffee table. It was larger and higher than the one John recalled, and he was absolutely certain that Sherlock would have put his foot through the previous one.

"Take a seat," Sherlock muttered from the other side of the room, distracted in his search for something. John looked around for a clear surface to perch. There was none. He tentatively moved towards the sofa which was covered in a blanket of strewn newspapers. Sherlock let out a sudden exclamation.

"No! Don't touch those. Sit anywhere else but there."

John fought the urge to roll his eyes before pushing at the pile of junk on the coffee table to create a free corner.

"What are you looking for?" he asked Sherlock, before realising that this was the first time he'd spoken to him since arriving. Before Sherlock could answer, a muffled ring of mobile phone could barely be heard. Sherlock gave a sigh of relief and scrambled to one of the arm chairs. After several cushions were moved aside, Sherlock smiled with delight as his phone came into view. The smile soon faded as he noted the caller on the screen.

"Mycroft," he muttered, jabbing his thumb to end the ringing. "I suppose he has some uses after all." The phone was shoved roughly into his trouser pocket, and he marched into the kitchen.

John rose from the coffee table and walked tentatively to the kitchen, where he stood in the doorway and watched Sherlock pour a questionable liquid down the sink. John began to wish he'd gone straight to the cemetery. He opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock raised a hand to silence him as his mobile rang again. This time Sherlock answered it.

"What?...Yes. No of course I haven't forgotten. Can you please not be an arse just for one day? I don't have the patience for you today...No, I don't need a car, I've booked a cab...Yes I'm sure!...Stop talking Mycroft, I'm hanging up now...Fine, I'll see you there...I'm hanging up...No, I'm fine. John's here." At this comment, John looked up from examining his shoes. So, Sherlock had noticed then. He suddenly felt mildly needed for the first time since he'd arrived.

Sherlock had ended the call and began to stare at John, who was still staring back.

"What?"

"What? Nothing."

An awkward silence filled the kitchen. John wanted to leave but couldn't bring himself to. He tried to remind himself that he was here for Mrs Hudson. He had come to say goodbye; five years too late. She deserved that much at least.

"What did you do with my tie?" Sherlock asked, breaking his reverie. He strode passed John to the living room.

"It's on the sofa," John replied pointlessly, as Sherlock had already spotted it. He passed it back to John with a hopeful smile this time.

"You can do your own tie Sherlock."

"I want you to do it," Sherlock insisted. John placed the tie around his own neck, and tied it up without fuss, deliberately avoiding Sherlock's gaze. He lifted it over his head and handed it to Sherlock. The faint sound of a car horn could be heard, and Sherlock physically jolted.

"Are you ready?"

"No."

"Sherlock..."

They stood for a brief moment, staring solemnly at each other. The house sounded quiet around them; a bitter reminder of what was to happen that day. John cleared his throat and moved purposefully to the door, steering Sherlock as he went.

The cemetery was only a short drive away, but the traffic had become heavy, and the journey stretched out ahead of them. The two men stared out of opposite windows. John stole a look at Sherlock in the reflection of the window; his jaw was locked in a determined silence. John took several breaths, in preparation of speaking words which he hadn't yet found. Eventually, he settled on a topic.

"Do you see anything of Greg Lestrade?"

Sherlock looked around at the sound of John's voice, and looked briefly surprised at his presence. How many times had that happened in the back of a black cab? John almost wanted to smile.

"No, not so much," Sherlock replied vaguely. "He's on secondment. Manchester, I think, maybe. North, somewhere, I don't know. He occasionally texts, to check I'm behaving myself." Sherlock failed to mention that he never sent a reply. John just nodded, satisfied with his own attempt at making conversation, and turned to look out of the window again.

They reached their destination, and left the cab slowly, regardless of the fact that the ceremony was moments from starting without them. Their feet crunched noisily against the damp gravel as they made their way towards the beautiful, stone building ahead. As they neared the church Sherlock slowed to a halt. John turned on his heels to acknowledge him.

"Come on, we're late as it is."

"I can't...Or rather, I don't want to." Sherlock heaved a sigh. "Look, you go. I'll stay out here. You should say goodbye." Sherlock knew it was what John wanted. He knew that his past actions had forced John away from Mrs Hudson, and his incapability during her illness had meant that he'd robbed John of his last chance to say goodbye. If he'd had been capable of feeling anything at that moment, he would have felt incredibly guilty. But Sherlock couldn't feel a thing.

"No," John said quietly. "No...It's fine. I'll stay here...with you."

Sherlock nodded his appreciation. They made their way to the church and leant against the cold stone wall, listening to the organ beginning to play as the service started. Sherlock frowned as he thought of Mycroft in there, judging him on his failure to get through the day in an orderly fashion. He closed his eyes and listened to the muffled voice as the sermon began.

John turned his head slightly to regard Sherlock.

"Don't bite your nails," he said automatically, before his brain could stop himself. Old habits had died hard for the both of them. Sherlock eyed him with a hint of amusement, but lowered his hand back down to his side.

"Are you sleeping?" John asked and Sherlock shook his head. "Do you want me to sort something for it?"

"What, you mean like pills?" Sherlock said, wrinkling his nose in distain. It wasn't pills that would make it better. "No, don't bother." He began to chew on his thumb nail again. "I miss her," he said bluntly. "She was...useful...sometimes anyway. I miss her ridiculous lack of urgency. I miss her dreadful tea."

"It really was dreadful," John agreed and they smiled sadly at each other. Neither of them had told her so, in all of the years they'd known her. It had made her what she was.

"The house is just so bloody quiet now. I can't think. It's driving me mad."

"Well...maybe you should move out?" John suggested quietly, not really wanting to suggest it at all. Sherlock scoffed, and his eyes stung with tears for the first time that day.

"And go where, John?" he said bitterly. "I have nothing else. I have my job and I have an empty house with memories of people that leave me and yet won't leave me alone."

John didn't respond. Both men stood there silently, frowning at their own internal thoughts as the service went by without them. Eventually, Sherlock spoke up with a laugh.

"God, I need a cigarette."

John's reply was halted by the sound of the congregation rising from the pews. For a brief moment Sherlock looked panicked.

"We need to move before Mycroft spots us and tries to talk to us." He said this as if it would be the worst thing to happen to them that day. John thought that burying their friend was a far more traumatic experience than a few civil words with Mycroft Holmes. He decided it was best not to say so. Several people began to file out of the church and John took Sherlock by the elbow, guiding him in the direction of the crowd.

"We have to say goodbye Sherlock," he insisted and Sherlock nodded vaguely. They walked together through the cemetery and the group assembled around the open grave. Sherlock tried to pull away at John's grip, but he held his arm tighter. "Please," John hissed, looking around at the group, hoping not to make a scene. "Please, do this for me; this one thing." Sherlock nodded in resignation and looked at his shoes.

From across the gathering, John's eyes met Mycroft's and the pair gave each other a solemn nod. Mycroft was dressed smartly in black, as usual, but John noticed that he too looked tired and... sad he decided.

Beside him, John felt Sherlock stiffen and he glanced over to see a shining oak coffin nearer the grave. His pulse beat madly in his ears, and he couldn't hear a thing. Silence had drowned it all out. He suddenly became aware of his hand enclosed in Sherlock's own. Cold fingers tightened, and John noticed Sherlock avert his gaze from the scene before them, and stared intently at a tree in the distance.

It was surprising to John that his mind screamed to think of anything but Martha Hudson; sweet, kind Mrs Hudson. He didn't want to think of her wasting away to nothing or lying in that box, being buried away from the world. It hurt his heart as he suddenly thought that his children would never get to meet her. He had always meant to write, to send her photos but he had never gotten around to it. Now it was too late.

John's mind fought desperately to keep the memory of their last encounter shut firmly out of his consciousness, but the more he fought it the clearer the memory became. It had been the morning of his wedding, and John had been struck with a numb disappointment from the very bottom of his stomach. He couldn't even speak. He remembered the look on Mrs Hudson's face. He had never seen her so cross before. She had pulled him to her with more strength than he'd ever expected from her, and she spoke firmly into his shoulder as he had shaken with sadness; His closest friend in the world had let him down.

"Forget about him," she had said fiercely. "Forget about him, John. Don't you dare let him ruin this for you. He's not worth that. Forget about him." Tears of disappointment had streamed down her face and John knew at that moment that he had to leave him. He had to leave Sherlock Holmes behind.

Those were the last words Martha Hudson ever spoke to John, and he resented Sherlock for causing that. He squeezed his eyes shut and felt the cold hand in his. The anger bubbled inside of him and yet...despite it all, he couldn't bring himself to pull away.

As the coffin was lowered down, John thought of the night it all started, or rather the night that was the beginning of the end. They had been working on a regular case, nothing special. And yet Sherlock had messed up spectacularly, and the failure had torn at him inside. He was angry at himself, and John wanted to fix that. He had wanted Sherlock to remember how brilliant he was. He wanted Sherlock to know how brilliant he thought he was. In their five years apart, John had always denied all knowledge of who had initiated that first kiss. It was easier to deny it than to accept that it had been him. He never intended it to go any further than that. Maybe Sherlock hadn't either.

But the kiss had led to John's hand in Sherlock's hair. It had led to Sherlock's long fingers, unbuttoning John's shirt. It had led to them both falling onto Sherlock's bed but, as John looked back at it, he had no recollection of how they'd gotten there. He'd been so caught up in everything that Sherlock was. It had taken his breath away.

As John had felt Sherlock's skin against his, his lips on his neck and his hot breath in his ear, he thought that it didn't feel anything like he'd imagined it to feel. John had never expected Sherlock to be so...gentle. But that would have meant that he'd thought about it before. Sex. Sex with Sherlock. Had he? He couldn't remember. He couldn't think of anything anymore. His mind had gone blank.

Somewhere deep within him, John had heard that little voice screaming that it was a terrible idea and that they would both live to regret it. But John didn't want to hear that voice. In the end it had been drowned out with the sound of his own breath, and Sherlock moaning above him.

But in the silence, as they lay there together in the dark, the voice had returned screaming louder than ever: What the hell had they been thinking? They hadn't been thinking. For the first time since John had met Sherlock, even he hadn't been thinking. John had felt suddenly raw and vulnerable and...frightened.

It was for that reason that Sherlock had woken alone the next morning. John had run. He'd hidden. He hadn't wanted to face up to the fact that he could end up really loving this man. So he had run.

Three days later, John had returned and the incident was never mentioned by either of them. Two weeks later he had met Marie and eight weeks after that he had married her.

"Don't marry her. Please, John! Don't do this to me."

Sherlock's words resonated in his head, as clear as they had been the day he had pleaded with him. They still broke his heart, even now.

The funeral was over, and the crowd began to disperse with hushed voices. John remained on the spot, deep in his memory. He was suddenly brought back to reality by the feeling of Sherlock's gaze on him.

"What?" Sherlock asked quizzically, studying John's expression, and John felt himself blushing. He felt ridiculous and glanced at the grass under his feet. This day wasn't supposed to be about Sherlock, it was supposed to be about Mrs Hudson. But John supposed that everything had to do with Sherlock. Resentment began to rise uncomfortably in his chest. Sherlock's hand was released suddenly and it dropped clumsily to his side.

"We...uh...we should find a cab," John muttered, and began to walk away. Sherlock glanced at the grave for a brief moment, before striding after him.