John stared into his glass of gin, gazing at the transparent liquid. He couldn't quite tell where the differentiation was between the gin and the glass and he wondered how much he'd had to drink already. It felt like a lot. When he closed his eyes the world dipped and spun with alarming intensity, and he had to wrench his eyes open again, breathing hard. John jostled the glass slightly, watching the liquid slosh back and forth gently, then drank it all in one go.
Tricia leaned forward and refilled his glass. John's eyes flickered up to her. She was a bit blurry – did he need glasses? No, he decided. It was probably the gin. He tried again to remember how much he'd had but gave up.
He probably shouldn't have been getting drunk, but he didn't much feel like listening to himself about shoulds and shouldn'ts. He stared at the gin again, noticing how the reflection of his hand through the glass was distorted, smeared.
He'd woken up dehydrated that morning, his eyes raw, his mouth parched. Not from the drinking – he'd done plenty of that the night before, too, after he and Tricia had put Josephine to bed. But Tricia had made him drink one glass of water to every glass of gin. She didn't seem to be doing that tonight – or maybe she was and he just didn't realize it. He tried to recall if any of the glasses of gin had tasted watered down but there was no distinction in his mind.
He didn't care.
He'd been dehydrated that morning from crying. John hated that feeling. He was glad Henry was in Cairo for the week because he couldn't handle anyone but Tricia at the moment. He felt terrible about it, but it had been hard enough spending the evening yesterday and the day today with Josephine. He loved her to no end, but he was exhausted and wrung out and a three year old – almost-four-year-old, as she insisted – could scarcely be expected to understand why. He'd read her a story the night before and again tonight, allowing himself be distracted by that for a short period of time.
But small distractions were all he could manage. A few minutes here, a few minutes there. Any longer than that was impossible to sustain. His thoughts kept coming back around to Sherlock.
He'd been livid yesterday – hurt and angry and raging quietly once Josephine was asleep. He'd cursed and ranted and cried and forced himself not to shout so as not to wake his goddaughter. He'd gotten blind stinking drunk, had thrown up once, then had managed to crawl into bed, exhausted. He'd awoken the next morning not knowing where he was or why he was wearing unfamiliar clothing. He barely remembered collapsing onto the guest bed in Tricia's flat after he'd managed to change from his work clothing into some clothing of Henry's she'd lent him. An old pair of sweatpants that were too long because Henry was a few inches taller than him, and an old t-shirt.
John had gone out around noon, after the worst of the hangover had subsided, and bought himself some underwear, socks, and toiletries. Everything he owned was at home, except his wallet, keys, and phone.
He hadn't wanted to go back there.
He had no idea what he'd find.
He'd spent the day being angry, angrier than he'd ever been at anything, angrier even than he'd been following his injury and his discharge and Jamie's death. That had been anger at the world, wide, encompassing and futile. This was anger at Sherlock. Narrow, heated, and probably just as futile.
No, he thought, staring at the gin again. That last bit was just self-pity. He knew that. He didn't like that he knew that, but he knew that.
He wasn't being fair.
Why should I be fair? he snapped at himself, sudden anger burning brightly again before flaring out, leaving resigned exhaustion in its wake. John slumped a bit in his chair, still staring at the clear liquid in his glass. Why should he be fair? He could hardly ask that question without also feeling guilt buried beneath it.
Because if he could say that then so could Sherlock.
He felt his jaw tighten as he tried to ignore that – it was easier to just be hurt and angry. It was easier just to feel livid than it was to actually think.
Thinking took effort.
It also meant he had to think about himself.
What he'd said, what he'd done. The fact that he'd walked out on his husband with barely a word, leaving Sherlock yelling after him, panicked, on the pavement. The fact that he'd felt nothing while doing this, numb, shut off.
As if to balance out that lack of emotion, he felt a sudden rush now, anger, grief, terror, regret. John bit his lower lip hard, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily until the world threaten to tilt and spin again.
He was tired of fighting. Tired of fighting with Sherlock. Tired of fighting with himself.
Yesterday it had all seemed so clear. Yesterday he had felt utterly justified in saying everything he'd said and walking out. Yesterday all of that self-pity had been warranted. Yesterday he hadn't cared if he'd hurt Sherlock – no, he had cared. He'd wanted to hurt him, to get Sherlock back for hurting him. It was childish but it had felt good in a primal, visceral way. John had felt a snarling satisfaction when he'd looked back and realized how frantic Sherlock had been when he'd walked out on him.
He stared at his wedding band, which gleamed gently in the lamplight. He wondered what time it was. They had started drinking sometime after Josephine had gone to bed, but he didn't know how much time had passed, nor how much he'd had. He wondered how hungover he'd be the next day at work. It didn't matter. He'd worked through worse things than a hangover.
But this time, he'd be working hungover and feeling terrible about Sherlock.
The metals of his wedding ring were warm against his skin, shining gold and bronze. It had been almost a month since they'd been cleaned, he thought, staring at the long-familiar band. Sherlock still cleaned them once a month. John had done it in June after Sibyl had died. It had been almost heartbreaking to see Sherlock realizing he'd forgotten about it in the wake of his mother's death. John had polished both rings lovingly and returned Sherlock's to his finger, smiling at the fact that it slid on as easily as it had the day they'd been married.
It would probably come off much more easily now, since Sherlock had lost so much weight. John was seized by a sudden panic that his husband would lose his wedding ring.
That would make things too real. The prospect made him shudder. He couldn't imagine Sherlock without that ring on his finger now. The surgeons had managed to pry it from his hand without ruining it following the crash. John had put it back on as soon as the swelling in Sherlock's left hand had gone down enough for him to wear it. Sherlock had still been unconscious at that point, but the simple sight of the ring against Sherlock's skin had made John feel so much better. He remembered resting his forehead lightly against the back of Sherlock's hand after that, feeling the cool touch of metal against his own skin. He remembered whispering to Sherlock, asking him to wake up.
He remembered Sherlock at St. Leonard's in Edinburgh, standing in front of him, hands on John's face, his own face so close that their breath was mingling. With a gasp, John remembered very clearly the sensation that if he'd asked Sherlock to drop the case right then, the detective would have done so without question or hesitation. He would have walked away without looking back.
John had waited four months too long.
"All right. I'll take the case, John. Because you're asking me to. Not for the girl, not for Murray, for you."
John tensed at the sudden memory and the rigidity sent a warning flare of pain through his left shoulder. He drew a deep breath and forced himself to exhale it slowly. The ache lessened but didn't quite vanish, hovering almost unfelt at the edge of his mind. John ignored it through effort, trying not to remember the words Sherlock had spoken to him in their hotel room in Edinburgh that spring.
But he couldn't. He couldn't stop hearing them, nor could he stop the images of the flat as a disaster, the files and notes and maps spread everywhere, or Sherlock looking gaunt, pale and tired, bent over his work, determined to find the killer.
The man John had asked him to try and find. The man who had attempted to kill Mycroft.
He thought of Sibyl's lonely grave in Buckinghamshire and of how stiff and taut Sherlock had been when they'd lowered her casket into the ground. He thought of how stunned Sherlock had been in the hospital right before she'd died – numb, really, not fully comprehending what had happened. He remembered Sherlock sitting outside that night on the small terrace off their private rooms, smoking a cigarette. John hadn't been angry at that at all, even though Sherlock hadn't told him he was going to do so. John had already obtained a nearly full pack for him, just in case.
He thought of Sherlock the first time the detective had allowed himself to cry following his mother's death and then the harsh denial of any more grief that had caused him to destroy his violin. He remembered Sherlock collapsing against him after that, finally giving way to tears. But it hadn't been enough. He'd continued fighting it, convinced he'd win if he just kept at it.
John swallowed hard, still staring at the full glass of gin.
When John's own father had died, John had been upset but more for his mother's sake than his own. His parents had been together thirty years by that point, five years longer than John had been alive. Three decades. He hadn't been particularly close to his father, but he'd loved his father nonetheless and missed him. John suspected that when William died, Sherlock would probably feel vaguely regretful and nothing more. He knew Sherlock loved his father, and that William loved his youngest son, but in an odd, detached way.
When Harry had died, John had made it through because of Sherlock. But he'd known how to ask, too, how to say what he needed. He'd learned that somewhere along the way, maybe from Tricia, maybe from being in the army, maybe from being shot and being in therapy afterwards. He thought about how he'd felt when he'd learned Jamie had died the same day he'd been shot. It had been quick and he'd probably never known he'd been hit. John had barely been aware of being sent back to England and by the time he was coming out of his morphine induced oblivion, Jamie had already been buried. And it had taken John nearly two days to believe the nurses weren't lying about it. That hadn't been quick. He remembered being so angry he'd tried to get up before he was able, before he had fully realized he wasn't at Bastion anymore, intent on finding Tricia and getting her to tell him that it wasn't true, because she wouldn't lie to him or play stupid games.
He wondered suddenly how often Sherlock had tried to convince himself Sibyl hadn't really died – or how often he'd had to remind himself of the reality.
No wonder, he thought. No wonder he's doing this.
The killer, the smoking. A means of distracting his overly active mind.
"Think about it if were me. If that's what you need to make this work for you, then think about it that way. Be as selfish as you damn well want to be, but take the case."
John's lips twitched with dry humour. He'd given Sherlock permission.
"Be as selfish as you damn well want to be."
And he hadn't meant to be, John thought. He hadn't. All those years they'd been together, John knew who his husband was. Sherlock was wrong – John didn't want him to change, not in the way Sherlock thought. Relationships changed people all the time. Looking back now, he could see how much Sherlock had grown since they'd first gotten together, but he could see it in himself, too. He wasn't the same person. He couldn't be. Nor was Sherlock. But John didn't think he had fundamentally changed. He still valued what made him him – being a doctor, caring for people. And he still valued what made Sherlock Sherlock. That mad genius, that lightning fast mind, that ability to find connections that other people would never see, let alone contemplate.
Sherlock had told John once, years ago, that there were no heroes and if there were, that he wouldn't be one. But he'd rid the world of James Moriarty without hesitating. Even though he could have kept playing the man's dangerous game. Even though he had been enthralled by the prospect of having an opponent so equally matched.
And he'd put effort into their relationship, he really had. John was tired of meeting him more than halfway, but maybe Sherlock had never bothered because John had always been willing to accommodate him so much. Maybe Sherlock had never even realized what John was doing – maybe John had never realized it. He was so used to making concessions for Sherlock because his husband was a genius. But that was it. He was a genius. He could figure these things out.
But no one ever let him.
No one had ever trusted him to do it so he didn't.
No one except Sibyl.
John stared at his glass, comprehending.
She'd been the first person Sherlock had ever trusted because she was the first person to really trust him. To hold him accountable about his actions and his words. John thought about how Mycroft treated Sherlock – like he was still a child. It had been better the past several years but Mycroft was still Mycroft.
And Sherlock was still Sherlock.
John knew he hadn't really wanted that to change. But that he, and everyone else, had wanted results from this case and didn't care how they got them. Sherlock had obliged them as much as he could – overworking himself to help deal with Sibyl's death – and everyone had decided they didn't like his methods. John had decided he didn't like his methods.
Well, he didn't. Because they were going to kill him. But blaming Sherlock for that was not only wrong, it was stupid.
He missed his husband so suddenly that it hurt and he couldn't swallow on the grunt that forced itself from his throat. He felt small and alone and knew that was how Sherlock must have felt, standing on the pavement the day before, shouting after John's cab. He'd watched his mother die, part of his world collapsing around him. Then he'd watched John walk away from him.
He was still angry – Sherlock shouldn't have lied. He shouldn't have kept something so significant from John. But he hadn't been doing it to hurt anyone. He'd been doing it to keep from hurting.
John closed his eyes.
"I want to go home," he said, the words out of his mouth before he'd even really thought them.
"I think that's a good idea," Tricia replied.