AN – Post-Reichenbach angst coming right up! Decided to make John's mental state a little better in this one than in my other post-reichenbachs, and Sherlock's quite a lot worse. Couple of trigger warnings to this one, sorry about that. It's quite a bit longer than my others, too. Thanks for the review and the prompt. And I'm still in denial about the moustache, so if you were hoping for some moustache play I'm afraid you're reading the wrong ficlet. Besides, it just gets in the way of the whole tears and embracing bit (to my mind, anyway).
Sherlock comes back to John after appearing dead. With lots of tears and embracing and all ~Jeniffer
TW – Drug use, self-harm, mentions of suicide
Sherlock swallowed, hesitating a little before entering the restaurant. He gazed around. He was here somewhere, he'd gotten the message. Sherlock's eyes fell upon a man sitting in the corner, a man with sandy blond hair. He took a sip of water and glanced around, not really paying attention. Sherlock moistened his lips, about to step towards the table, when a man went past it.
"John? John Watson?" he asked, gazing at John.
"Michael? It's been ages!" John exclaimed, standing up and shaking this Michael's hand.
"Yeah, it has. Sorry, am I interrupting?" the man asked, glancing at the other seat.
"No, actually. I'm just waiting for somebody," John explained, sitting back down.
"Who?" Michael inquired.
"No idea, to be honest," John chuckled. "I got a strange message at work today from Molly - she works in the morgue - saying to come here tonight at seven. She said I'd be meeting up with a man I hadn't seen in a long time and that I really would want to be here."
"Well, you met me," Michael joked.
"Yeah, I did," John sighed.
"It's seven thirty," the man pointed out, checking his watch. "You haven't seen anyone else you recognise here?"
John glanced around. Sherlock ducked behind a decorated pillar as John looked towards the door. "No. They probably won't turn up. Didn't get a phone number or anything." He took another sip of water as Sherlock peered around the pillar again. "You here with someone?"
"I was," Michael replied. "But she had to go. Mother having some problems."
"You didn't go with her?"
"Her mother detests me. I'd just make things worse."
Both men chuckled. John looked around again, an idea visibly crossing his mind. "Why don't you join me? Looks like my mystery man isn't going to turn up."
Michael pondered the idea for a moment, before smiling and taking a seat. "Thanks, John."
Sherlock paused, gazing at John and his old friend, watching as he laughed and talked and smiled. He was happy. He was actually happy now, without him. Mycroft had said, he'd said he'd gotten over it now. He'd watched as Sherlock practically had a breakdown – Mycroft's crude words – desperate to see him again. Mycroft had been adamant. 'Not until you've finished.' 'You mustn't ruin it.' 'You're putting him in danger.' 'He's happy now.' That was true. He was smiling and laughing and definitely being happy. He had friends, Molly and Lestrade and Stamford. He had people he knew who weren't Sherlock. He had a life. While Sherlock's world had been crumbling around him as he desperately tried to rebuild the cold wall that protected him from the people who wanted to hurt him, and destroy Moriarty's web, John had been continuing his life. A new life, perfectly content to be without Sherlock.
"Well, this Molly said you knew the bastard who didn't come," Michael was saying. "Who do you think it might have been?"
John considered, still smiling. "I don't know. I suppose it could have been anyone I used to know – army people, guys I studied with. Possibly someone from high school even. But…" He turned his eyes to the table, thinking. "Molly seemed excited herself. Like it was a big deal to her as well as to me. So presumably she knew the person."
Michael nodded. "That makes sense."
"So someone I'd really want to see who she knew and wanted me to see, who I haven't seen in a while." A flicker of emotion crossed John's face, emotion Sherlock had never really seen before, emotion that struck Sherlock to the core. Hurt, fear, loss, anguish and a million other painful things flashed on John's face and blazed in his eyes, just for a moment. Michael didn't appear to notice it; how could he? It happened in the blink of an eye. But even as John's face cleared and he smiled a little again, the emotions still simmered in the back of his eyes.
"Any ideas?" Michael asked.
"Well," John sighed, "I can think of one person who appears to fit that description. But that's just not feasible."
"Really?" Michael persisted, eyebrows raised. "And why not?"
"Because he's dead," John replied simply, staring at Michael with all too convincing nonchalance. Sherlock swallowed thickly, gazing at them for another second as conversation continued, before turning and leaving the restaurant.
Sherlock sat on a bench, his head tilted back, the stars twinkling down at him. He had nowhere to go right now. Of course, he could head back to the grotty little hotel where he was staying. He could go to his brother, not that that was appealing in the slightest. He could see Molly, or Lestrade; he actually had innumerable places he could go right now, but he did not want to go to one of them. Although, the hotel room was getting more and more appealing, given what he had stored under the loose board in the wardrobe. They said he retreated there too often, and it was true – he was getting more and more dependant on the needles he'd rid himself of so long ago. Because he couldn't see John.
He didn't care about people because people didn't care about him. He'd learned that a long time ago, when people laughed and his mother yelled and Mycroft told him that caring will never be an advantage. So he made a cast around his broken heart and left it there, let it heal but let it shrink, deprived of love. But that was better than a broken one. But, sometime, without his intention, he'd let John sign his cast, and he'd signed it they were wrong. Caring did matter. And Sherlock's heart learned what it was to love. And it had learned what heartbreak was once more.
He was about to get up, about to retreat to the world beyond the stars by shooting morphine in his blood, when someone past. A short man with sandy blond hair, walking with his head down. He was going home. Sherlock stood up after the man was a few feet away and walked behind him, watching him closely. John didn't look over his shoulder, didn't even glance down at the river as he walked along its bank. Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on the doctor. The moon gazed down at them, pale with surprise, as they walked, John completely unaware that behind him walked the man he'd missed for three long years, Sherlock completely unaware for once of anything else but John. He was limping, just slightly, Sherlock noted. How long had he been doing that?
After some time, John stopped and turned to a little terraced house. Sherlock stood some way off, not moving forward as John walked up the path to the door. It opened before he reached it and a woman stepped towards him, smiling.
"John, love, are you alright?" she asked, her voice soft and warm. "Who was it?"
John smiled back at her as he walked right up to her. He placed a gentle kiss on her lips. "I don't know," he admitted, chuckling a little. "They didn't show up."
She looked a little shocked as she stood before him. "You weren't waiting there alone all this time?"
"No," John assured her. "No, I actually met a guy from the force. It was nice to catch up. But he wasn't the guy I was waiting for apparently. It was good, though, we had fun."
"I'm glad," she smiled, taking his hand. "Kettle's just boiled."
"Lovely."
They stepped forward towards the house. "John, dear," she said suddenly, stopping again, her voice quiet and concerned. "You're limping."
"Oh, right," John sighed, his eyes cast on the woman's gentle face.
"Did you think it might be him?" she asked softly.
"No, he's dead," John replied, the emotions gleaming in his eyes again.
"Come and have some tea," she instructed, and Sherlock could see her squeezing John's hand. "It'll be fine."
"Okay," John nodded.
Sherlock watched as they walked together into the house that wasn't 221B Baker Street.
Sherlock walked home slowly, pouring over all the information he'd learned tonight from silently watching. He'd been told all this before, by Lestrade, by Mycroft, but he'd never really paid much heed. Now he'd seen it with his own eyes, now he'd heard his voice and watched his movements, Sherlock could do nothing but know it. Every time he blinked, he saw him kissing her, just a soft press of his lips against hers, every time he heard a sound it was muffled by his voice saying 'He's dead'.
He was happy. He had moved on. He had her now. It had all been said before, but now the stark reality of it crushed Sherlock's already battered heart. He walked along the river, his reflection moving in silence by his side, the river full of all the tears he'd never had the courage to shed. The truth was there, indisputable, irreversible. John simply didn't need him anymore. Didn't want him. Life was good without him. Mycroft was right – if he went back now, he'd just ruin everything. No one needed Sherlock Holmes. He'd served his purpose for John – given him a place to stay and a life to live after Afghanistan, until he found someone else to fill his life. But Sherlock still needed John. He needed him to tell him when timing was wrong and remind him to eat and sleep and he needed John to keep his heart safe for him like he'd done for so long. John had everything without Sherlock, while Sherlock had nothing without John. The work had been most important for so long, but now that place was reserved for John, reserved for an option that could only bring pain. And pain it had brought. But no one could care for Sherlock's pain. No one needed him.
Sherlock walked quicker, almost running to his hotel room. He locked the door behind him and fell to his knees beside the wardrobe. He tugged the doors open, cleared the bottom and removed the loose board at the back. He needed this, he needed it like the day needs the sun. It was the only thing that helped numb the pain. Lestrade had told him to stop, he'd taken everything he thought Sherlock had, then Mycroft had taken a little more. No one knew about the wardrobe. Which was good.
He fitted the syringe together swiftly and filled it with the drug. His hands were shaking. Useless things, they shouldn't be shaking. He'd done this enough times to know just how to do it, just how much to give himself and just how to inject it. He pulled up his sleeve, revealing his scarred and pricked arm. His eyes ballooned as the needle slipped under his skin, the drug flooding into him. He pulled out the needle, lying back on the floor as the world began to spin.
"Ruddy idiot."
Not quite the words Sherlock had expected to hear as he slipped back into the world of the conscious. Lestrade was sitting beside his bed, arms folded across his chest as he stared down at Sherlock.
"What are you trying to do, kill yourself?"
Sherlock swallowed thickly. His head was spinning, his stomach was aching and he generally felt the all too familiar sort of awful. He sighed and closed his eyes.
"Overdose?" he asked quietly, his voice hoarse.
"Yes," Lestrade confirmed. "I had to kick the bloody door down. Then I found you lying unconscious on the floor in a pile of your own vomit and blood. What the hell were you thinking?"
Sherlock didn't answer. He just lay there, his eyes closed, listening to Lestrade's voice as it slipped in and out of focus.
"You are a bloody idiot. And you need to stop doing this. You'll kill yourself if you carry on."
Maybe that's not such a bad thing.
Sherlock didn't know why he was there. He just was. He kept finding himself there, like John had kept finding himself at Sherlock's grave that first year. John's new house stood serene and content, its occupants as happy as the bright, summer's day. Sherlock moistened his lips, one hand subconsciously running up and down his freshly scarred arm. He shouldn't be here. John didn't want him. He was better off thinking he was dead. Sherlock himself would probably be better off dead. He swallowed thickly as the thought crossed his mind again.
Ever since the overdose, the thought had been more and more prominent in his fast but damaged brain. No one needed him anymore. John thought he was dead. Lestrade didn't trust him with cases. Mycroft just didn't care either way. Molly was over her crush and didn't really talk to him anymore. Lestrade would probably be a lot happier to find there was no pulse when he next kicked the door down to find Sherlock in a pool of blood. Today, he felt, was the day. Yesterday John had bought a ring. There was nothing left. So what was the point?
He was about to turn, about to walk back to the crap hotel and finish his crap life, when the door opened, and out stepped John. He wasn't smiling. The sun beat down on his slightly tanned face, and he turned his head up to the sky. Sherlock could almost see the soldier in Afghanistan, ready for action, for danger, for anything. An independent man who didn't need anybody, least not Sherlock. He began to walk down the path to the pavement, and Sherlock started to walk past the house, head down, before John noticed him. John was lost in thought, and Sherlock felt his heart quicken as John collided into him.
"Oh, god, I'm sorry," John said quickly, just glancing at Sherlock.
"Alright," Sherlock mumbled, head still down as he continued walking, hoping John had been too lost in his mind to notice who he was. John didn't stop him. It must have worked. John paid Sherlock so little attention that he hadn't noticed who he was when he met him. Fine. That was fine. Sherlock was nothing now.
Then Sherlock heard John's voice again. "No… no, he's dead. He's dead, it was that stupid hallucination again, it's not real."
Hallucination? John had had hallucinations? No, that couldn't have been. Sherlock didn't matter to John anymore, why should he have hallucinations about him? But still, Sherlock froze, rooted to the spot, his back still turned to John. But John didn't move away. Silence descended over the warm, sunny day once more, and Sherlock could feel John's eyes burning into the back of his coat hotter than any sun could.
"You're dead," John said, his voice calm and level. "You're dead. Stop bothering me. I was limping yesterday because of you. I didn't eat yesterday because of you. You're dead. Go away."
Sherlock did not leave. He did not turn. He stood, his eyes closed, listening to the sound of John's voice. He hadn't heard that voice talking to him for too long. And now it was telling him to leave.
"I said 'go away'," John repeated. "I've had enough of seeing you. The graveyard, Bart's, even at the bloody restaurant a few weeks ago. I see you everywhere. And I'm bloody sick of it. Can't I have one day? One bloody day?"
One day? That implied that he'd seen some vision of Sherlock or other every day. Every day for three years. Which was ridiculous.
"I refuse to let myself believe that you could be real," John said, the worlds rolling off his tongue like routine. "You cannot be real. It is not possible, I know that. I know that. I was going to visit your grave again. Remind myself, Mary said. I need to do that sometimes. Just see your headstone to remind myself you're there and not here. But, honestly, most of the time I go just to be with you. Because it feels a bit like you're there sometimes. And that's… nice. If she knew that she'd send me back to therapy. Therapy is not the point. What is the point? The point is you're dead and I'm never going to see you again, not really. Just your ghost."
John's voice was getting hoarse. He stumbled over his words, and Sherlock felt his heart shatter in his chest as he heard the crack on John's voice when he said ghost. His breathing had quickened a little, and he sounded like he was trying to calm himself. Had John really been falling apart without him? If that was the case, there was no way of knowing what would happen if he knew Sherlock was alive. Sherlock could still feel the needle in his arm. Still see the blood dripping from cuts on his arms and legs. Still hear Greg's voice saying kill yourself. And yet, there was John. So long as there was John, there was life. Without John, there was nothing. He swallowed thickly, still unsure, as he heard John's breathing behind him, unsteady, fast. That was unusual. And not good, most likely. His tongue ran over his lips, and he turned.
"No," John repeated, his eyes fixing on Sherlock's face, his breathing ever quicker. "No, go away. You are dead. You… are… dead…" He took deep, shuddering breaths between each word, shaking his head.
Sherlock stepped forward slowly, walking right up to John. John who seemed to be on the brink of some sort of anxiety attack right before him. John who he'd missed for three long years. John who he'd loved for too long to mark a beginning.
"Go. Just. Stop this," John ordered, gazing up into Sherlock's face, meeting those incredible eyes, eyes aged with loss and hurt and memory and the brokenness that comes with caring. "You're dead," John breathed.
Sherlock held out his right hand to John, his gaze flicking to it before returning to searching John's face. "Take my hand," he ordered quietly, his voice rumbling in John's chest.
John reached up his shaking left hand, and slipped it into Sherlock's right. Sherlock turned it up so their fingers pointed towards the endless blue sky, lacing their fingers together. John's breath hitched in his throat as tears pricked his eyes.
"I'm here," Sherlock breathed.
John swallowed thickly, shaking his head. "No," he muttered.
Sherlock's eyebrows raised. "What?"
"No," John repeated, pulling his hand away. "You can't do that. You can't fucking do that!"
Sherlock felt John's eyes, still brimming with tears, blazing into him. He kept his gaze fast on John's face, searching every twitch, every pore.
"Come inside, we can't do this here," John ordered, running his fingers through his hair.
"What about her?" Sherlock protested.
"Mary's at work," John replied stiffly, before he turned and walked up to the house again. "You better be bloody well following me."
Sherlock ran his tongue over his lips, took a deep breath, and followed John into the house. His mind flicked back to the syringe in his desk as he walked. One quick injection of air. That's all it would take.
John slumped down in his armchair – the armchair that was most definitely not in 221B anymore – and Sherlock felt his gaze. "You bloody bastard," he said simply. "Sit."
Sherlock sat down on the sofa, perched on the edge of his seat with his back straight, head down as he stared at the carpet. He caught John's eyes as he sat - they were flashing with anger, hatred. Turning around was stupid. Sherlock should have just walked away. Let John continue his perfectly happy life. End his own empty one.
"Explain," John ordered, shattering Sherlock's morbid thoughts.
Sherlock took a deep breath, and explained. He told John everything, from the conversation on the rooftop to enlisting Lestrade's help as well as Molly's and Mycroft's, to finding and arresting the last of Moriarty's snipers. He omitted the repeated offences of his self-destruction. He couldn't tell John of the morphine and cocaine, or the razors and lighters, or anything else he had done to ruin his body while he'd been apart from John. He didn't tell John about his shredded heart. And John just stared at him in hateful silence all the while.
Sherlock looked up at the end of his explanation, just a glance, just enough to see John's face. "I'm sorry, John," he murmured.
"You're… you're sorry?" John echoed incredulously. "You're sorry? It's been three years, Sherlock. Three bloody years. You know what? It took me a year. I visited your grave on the anniversary of your death and I realised that you were not coming back. I realised I had spent a year sitting, rotting, in your flat, alone, because you were dead. I realised that I had died that day too. And I realised that you really were gone. I was walking home, and I had to stop because all of this just overwhelmed me, and I sat on a bench and broke down. I actually did that a lot that year. But, as I was sitting there, I was approached by a woman named Mary. She helped me. She helped me get over you and move on with my life. I fell in love with her. I managed to understand the fact that you were never coming back, and then… then you do, and all you can say to defend yourself is you're sorry?"
Sherlock sat in silence, just listening to John's voice, his eyes slipping closed. The world felt like it was spinning, John's voice the only thing that could break through the veil of thought drawn over the detective's sharp mind. "I have no defence," he replied weakly.
"No defence?" John repeated.
"No defence. I shouldn't have hurt you like that," Sherlock confirmed, eyes still closed. "I shouldn't have returned the way I did. Really, I shouldn't have returned at all. I interrupted your life again, I've hurt you, again. You were happy without me. I'm sorry."
John moistened his lips, gazing at Sherlock. "Why are your eyes closed?" he asked quietly.
"Because I need them closed," Sherlock murmured.
Sherlock heard John's sigh, could almost picture his exasperated expression. He was irritated at Sherlock's annoying habits and insufficient answers as well as angry and upset and hateful. He would be. "When was the last time you ate?"
His voice was soft. Kind, almost. Sherlock kept his eyes closed, rather surprised at John's tone. "Couple of days ago," he replied.
"And how long have you been awake?" John persisted. Sherlock heard him move forward in his chair.
"About seventy hours," Sherlock muttered, propping his elbows on his knees and resting his head in his hands. "Brain wouldn't shut down."
John swallowed audibly. "Have you got a case on?"
"No," Sherlock sighed. "No cases. Lestrade doesn't trust me anymore and no clients because everyone thinks I'm a fraud. And dead."
Sherlock heard John stand up, then felt the sofa beside him sink a little. John's smell filled his sensitive nose, his breath audible. John's hand on his shoulder. Just a small, very gentle touch. Sherlock remained still, just listening to John's breath.
"So, how long has it been since you caught the last one?" John asked, his tone gentle, but slightly tight, as if he was making an effort to be nice.
"Two months," Sherlock replied quietly. He felt the touch on his shoulder tighten just slightly.
"Then why haven't you told me between then and now?"
"I was going to," Sherlock admitted, hating the tone of John's voice – full of sadness and anger and pity all at the same time. "You remember the restaurant?"
"It was you," John breathed. "It wasn't a hallucination or anything. You really were there. You invited me. You were the person I wanted to see."
"Yes," Sherlock confirmed. "Yes, it was me."
"So why didn't you come over?" John asked, his voice tight again.
"Because," Sherlock sighed, pulling his head up and opening his eyes to find himself meeting John's deep cobalt gaze. "Because when I got there, I was about to go over, when this idiot Michael stopped and you invited him to sit down. I realised you had a life. You're happy now, you don't need me anymore, and I'd just be in the way. So I sat outside for a while, then I saw you pass. I followed you home and found out you don't live in 221B anymore. You've got a girlfriend. You bought a ring yesterday, so I'd say you practically have a fiancée. You have your work. The cases and excitement part of your life is over, apparently. You're happy to settle down with a job and a family. You don't need me anymore, don't want me. So I recently decided to just leave you with that. Not bother you anymore. You were fine with me being dead, so why should I pop up being alive?"
There was a gleam in John's eyes Sherlock couldn't quite place. One he'd never seen before, one he didn't entirely like. "Sherlock," John said sternly, his voice a little dry. "I moved in with Mary because I thought you were dead. I moved on from the cases because I thought you were dead. I bought a bloody ring yesterday because I thought you were dead. Everything I've done these past three years it's because I thought I'd never see you again, I'd never live that life. And if you don't think I need you, you'd be very wrong. Surely the fact that I've been seeing you everywhere, that I visit your grave once a week, that my nightmares have stopped being about Afghanistan and started being about you all show that I do need you. So don't you ever think I don't." Sherlock could see the tears brimming in his eyes again, hear the slight crack of his voice. But he pushed through it, blinking fast and keeping it down. He was a soldier. He wasn't going to show any weakness. Not that crying is weakness – John was just stubborn and was never one to cry.
"I need you too," Sherlock murmured. He didn't let himself say anything else. He couldn't. John's hand slid from his shoulder down to his forearm, as if to Sherlock's hand, but Sherlock winced, just slightly, and John's hand stopped.
"What?" John asked, his brow furrowed. "Why does that hurt?" Sherlock watched the movement of his face, the realisation grow in his eyes. "You haven't had a case for two months," he murmured, searching Sherlock's eyes. "What have you been doing to yourself?" Sherlock pulled his arm away, but John held it tighter. He winced again. John pulled open the button of his cuff and pulled the sleeve up. From his expression, Sherlock could tell he wasn't expecting something that bad.
Sherlock followed John's gaze to his arm, the pricked and scarred and burned skin, then closed his eyes again. "God, no," he heard John mutter. He could almost see John shaking his head. "No… oh, Sherlock…" Sherlock felt a slight tug on his wrist, and he turned slightly, eyes still closed. Then he was in John's arms, his head on his shoulder. "Why?" John breathed.
Sherlock slipped his arms around John's waist, his sleeve still rolled up, and felt tears spill from his own eyes. "I don't just need you, John," he said quietly, his breath shaking a little. "I love you."
Sherlock felt John tense a little, and he ducked his head down a little more. Stupid. That was stupid, why did he say that? But he couldn't take it back. He couldn't say anything more. Tears still dripped down his white cheeks silently. Then John pulled away.
"Sorry," Sherlock mumbled, his head down, but John's hand was on his face, tilting it up so Sherlock had to meet his gaze. Tears were spilling from John's sea-blue eyes.
"I'll come home, yes?" John said quietly. "I'll come home and I'll make sure you eat and sleep and make sure you never hurt yourself again, okay?"
Sherlock nodded mutely and sniffed.
"And Sherlock?" John added, the ghost of a smile at the corners of his mouth.
"Yes?" Sherlock breathed.
"I love you, too."
Sherlock's breath hitched in his throat, his eyes widening slightly. "What about Mary?" he asked.
"Screw Mary," John sighed, brushing away Sherlock's tears with his thumb. "I told you – everything I did these past three years were because I thought you were dead. I've always loved you. Mary helped me and loved me, so I convinced myself I loved her too."
The ghost smile brushed Sherlock's own lips. "You don't?"
"Only you," John replied. "Always you. You're an absolute cunt, but I love you." They chuckled slightly.
"I love you," Sherlock replied.
John pulled Sherlock's head forward slightly and pressed their lips together, gently, just for a moment, before pulling Sherlock back into his arms. Sherlock's arms slipped around his waist again, pulling him closer.
"I'll take care of you when you need it," John promised quietly.
"We can go on cases again," Sherlock smiled.
Sherlock heard John sigh, almost felt the smile cross John's own lips. He pulled his head around and kissed John again, John's arms still around his neck and Sherlock's around John's waist.
Sherlock's mind flicked back to the hotel room, to the syringe that lay in his draw. One quick injection of air. That's all it would take. One quick injection of air that would never be administered.