"What?" John asked, looking up quickly, the sudden movement making his head swim. He focused on Tricia as hard as he could. She was curled up in her chair, bare feet pressed against the arm, holding a glass of gin, although it didn't look like she'd had very much. John wondered again how much he'd had.
"I said I think that's a good idea," she repeated.
John blinked.
"Oh," he managed. He'd been expecting an argument from her, given all the thing he'd said yesterday and earlier that day about Sherlock – how tired he was, how angry, how hurt, how frustrated. "You do?"
"Well, maybe not good per se," she replied. "But probably the right decision, given everything you just said."
John stared.
"What?" he asked.
She stared back at him, then her lips twitched into a small smile.
"Did you even realize you were talking out loud?" she asked.
John looked down at his glass then up at her again, swallowing in surprise.
"No," he admitted.
Tricia smiled again and shifted so that she was sitting cross-legged, leaning forward with her elbows propped on her knees. John met her gaze with some effort – the alcohol was making it hard to focus so directly. She smiled slightly at him and John let out a sigh, running through everything he thought he'd been thinking in the privacy of his own mind. He must have sounded like a rambling madman.
John closed his eyes, ignoring the spinning sensation, and settled more deeply into the cushions on his chair. He pressed the fingertips of his left hand against his forehead, then rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"If I go home, isn't it just like making all the concessions again?" he muttered. He felt drained by the idea – he just wanted to stop being the one who made most of the effort, who took most of the first steps toward righting things when they'd had a row.
"Well, it is your home, too," Tricia pointed out. John opened his eyes and gave her a tired smirk. "At some point, you will have to go back there. And I really don't think Sherlock is going to come here."
John managed a dry chuckle.
"Yeah, he's kind of scared of you."
Tricia's lips twitched, tugging up into a half smile.
"I know. And I'd have some choice words for him right now, John, believe me. But even if he did come here, this is not really the place to sort things out, is it?"
John thought about that, then shook his head slowly to keep the world from shifting too much with the movement. Tricia put her glass aside then unfolded her legs in a smooth movement. She stood and crouched next to him, heaving one of his arms over her shoulders.
"Come on," she said, grunting, half hauling him upright. John teetered unsteadily at the sudden change combined with far too much gin and leaned his weight heavily against her until he found his feet. She was still strong enough to manhandle him he realised with an absurd touch of pride. The first time they'd really met had come when she'd ploughed him to the ground in an inelegant tackle to keep him from being hit by debris from gunfire.
Some things don't change, he thought as he staggered to the spare room with her help.
"I'll get you some water," Tricia said as John slumped onto the bed. "Then you need to get some sleep. Go to work tomorrow, make sure you get rid of the hangover you're sure to have before you do anything. Don't rush it, John. If you need to stay longer, you can. If you go home and need to come back, you can. I don't mind and Jo certainly doesn't." John managed a smile at that last bit. "But I think you need to go home for yourself as much as for Sherlock. Okay?"
He managed a nod. Tricia put a hand on his cheek and smiled at him.
"I'll be right back with that water. Don't fall to sleep," she ordered. She gave him a quick kiss on the forehead then disappeared out the door and down the hall.
John stood in front of the door, staring at the scratched and worn brass numbers. He wasn't sure how long he'd been standing there, but when he started to notice other pedestrians giving him odd looks, he sighed and fished his keys out of his pocket. John unlocked the door soundlessly and let himself back into the old house, shutting against just as quietly. He kept his back to the stairs for a moment, then turned around slowly.
He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but the staircase up to his flat looked exactly the same. John raised his eyes to the flat door above and just stared at it for a long moment. He had no idea what was behind it – was Sherlock even home? Was he out trying to apprehend the killer? What would the flat look like? He needed to brace himself for a messy and empty flat. As much as he wanted Sherlock to miraculously understand what he needed, John knew that was unlikely. He'd have to stand up for himself. He didn't do enough of that, not when it really counted.
He climbed the stairs slowly, aware he was putting off the inevitable for a few more precious seconds. John kept a sharp ear open but heard no sounds coming from above. He tried not to feel disappointed – it wasn't as though he'd called Sherlock to tell him he was coming home. It had been over two days since he'd left. If the detective had been waiting for him to just show up again, he might have gotten frustrated with the lack of results.
John tugged absently on the sleeves of his dress shirt and stared at the door to his own flat before taking a deep breath. He'd been to war in Afghanistan twice. He'd faced down armed men on a regular basis and had survived. He could do this. Somehow, Afghanistan seemed almost preferable.
John let himself in quietly, uncertain as to why he was trying to be silent, then stopped he'd pushed the door open enough to see the flat.
It was gleaming.
Gone were the piles of papers, the files, the sheets and maps pinned to the walls – all of it. Not a single piece of paper from the case remained, no hint of a file or even a note scrawled in Sherlock's familiar handwriting. There wasn't even a scatter of pens on the desk. The surfaces that had been covered with the case files were bare and wiped down so that they shone. Even the framed wedding photograph had been carefully dusted. The sight of that made John pause and he sucked in a deep, silent breath against the sudden tightness in his lungs.
Everything was neatly put away – there weren't any stray dishes or mugs lying around, Sherlock's violin was in its case in its normal spot, even the Union Jack pillow was resting on John's armchair.
John's armchair. The last time he'd seen it, it had been buried under files, completely inaccessible, and Sherlock had snapped at him when he'd made to unearth it. Now it was clutter-free and inviting. He just wanted to sit down in his own home. Such a simple thing. He thought of all the times he'd sat there, sipping tea and doing his crosswords or reading or watching telly. Or working on some case of Sherlock's while the detective paced the flat, muttering to himself or to the skull or to John. The sound of silence was so unusual – he'd grown accustomed to the monologues and the deductions and the admonishments to think. If they had ever gone, he would have missed them. Really missed them.
But not all of it. He wasn't sorry to see this case go. He'd had enough of the killer with his mad little nursery rhymes and fairy tales and puzzles. Wanting Sherlock to give up one case was not the same as wanting him to give up all cases.
He hoped his husband knew that. John turned his eyes to Sherlock's chair where the detective was sleeping, slumped over. It looked uncomfortable: he was slouched down with his head tilted back enough to rest on the back cushion. His left leg was drawn up onto the chair and his right was in front of him to brace himself. He'd probably fallen asleep with his head propped on his hand, but had slumped out of that position at some point.
John stayed still, reluctant to wake Sherlock. He knew this was partly because he didn't really want to have the conversations they needed to have, but also because Sherlock desperately needed the sleep. John couldn't tell how long his husband had been out – he had obviously shaved that morning and his clothing looked fairly fresh, so he'd been awake at some point. He was wearing the purple shirt John loved so much and black trousers with matching black shoes and socks. Sherlock had been expecting – something. John just didn't know what. Had Sherlock known he was going to come home? Or had he been preparing just in case?
John wondered suddenly where the case files had all gone. Mycroft, probably. He blinked in shock. If he was right about that, then Sherlock had listened to him about turning the case over to his brother. That meant that Sherlock was admitting defeat for John's sake and breaking his perfect record, and that he was willing to let Mycroft see some form of weakness. John didn't think of it as weakness – it just needed to be done. But Sherlock kept a mental tally sheet of his interactions with Mycroft and would see it as a concession. John hoped that he wouldn't feel resentful about it.
He also hoped Mycroft had enough sense not to lord it over his brother's head. The last thing Sherlock needed now was any kind of condescension from his older brother. Nor did he need Mycroft guilting him about turning away from the case.
Mycroft was probably already concerned about Sherlock – he wouldn't have failed to notice that his younger brother had lost an alarming amount of weight in a short period of time. And he'd have been able to spot how little Sherlock was sleeping. John really hoped Mycroft kept his mouth shut about that, too. Sherlock wasn't going to listen to pointed comments and so-called advice from Mycroft and John didn't need anyone making it worse at the moment.
Sherlock didn't need anyone making worse at the moment, either.
Hell, John thought. Neither of us needs it. In fact, I think we just need everyone to mind their own business for awhile.
John shut the door very quietly and didn't lock it so as not to wake Sherlock. He was surprised that the key in the lock hadn't woken his husband in the first place, even if John had been very quiet about the whole thing. He kept his eyes on his husband as he toed off his own shoes and put his keys down on the small table beside the door. The gentle clink of metal against wood made Sherlock stir and he shifted his head, his expression tightening then relaxing again. John just waited. He put his wallet next to his keys, the leather making no sound as he set it down.
Sherlock shifted again, his right hand twitching, and he grimaced slightly then blinked his eyes open. For a moment – one of those infrequent moments John so rarely saw – the detective seemed not to notice him, to be somewhat confused about where he was. John knew that meant Sherlock was far more tired than he was letting on, or even looked. Normally when he woke up, he skipped the groggy few minutes that most people took to re-centre themselves.
He blinked a few more times, grey eyes unseeing, then stiffened slightly - in shock, not in apprehension, John thought. Sherlock stayed still, as if any sudden movement might startle John into leaving again, and slid his slowly eyes to his husband. John watched him without relinquishing his position by the door, meeting Sherlock's gaze with an equanimity that he did not really feel. Everything they had to sort out seemed to yawn in front of him.
But at least we're both here, John told himself firmly, and was surprised when it made him feel better.
Sherlock stared at him for a moment, looking shocked, as if he didn't believe John was actually there. He licked his lips quickly – a nervous movement that John followed automatically with his eyes. He felt a jolt course down his spine when he realized that simple motion that Sherlock probably was barely aware of making stirred desire in him, making his lips twitch into a bare smile.
At least that's still there, he thought.
"You came back," Sherlock said, his voice soft in the silence of the flat.
"I came home," John corrected. "Not back."
Sherlock's brow furrowed.
"It's– I– we can't go back to the way things were," John said, then held up a hand quickly at the flash of raw panic that crossed Sherlock's features. "I don't mean that, Sherlock! I mean there are things that need to change. Things we both need to change. Not just you. Things we've been doing that we can't do anymore. But we can handle it."
Sherlock's eyes flickered quickly over his face and he nodded, biting his lower lip.
"We have a lot to talk about," John said quietly.
Sherlock was silent and still for a moment, then nodded.
"I know," he replied, his eyes dropping away for a second before meeting John's again.
John hesitated before moving toward his chair. It would be good to sit down in it again, although part of him just wanted to curl up on the sofa with Sherlock and not talk at all, just sit. He knew that wouldn't get them anywhere, though, and there was too much between them right now to pretend otherwise.
On the way by, Sherlock reached out, snagging John's right hand with his left. John took it, then turned himself just enough to wrap his left hand around Sherlock's instead. He felt the metal of Sherlock's wedding band – which was loose, he could feel that, too – and knew his husband could feel the same touch against his skin. Sherlock's fingers curled tightly around his and John squeezed back just as hard. He felt tension and relief in Sherlock's grasp and loosened his hold enough to interlace their fingers. They stayed that way for a moment, not looking at each other, just holding on. John raised their joined hands and pressed a kiss against the back of Sherlock's hand. He let his lips linger then disentangled himself gently and sat down.