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“Fuck!”
Eyes watering and toe stubbed, Greg stumbled into his living room in pure darkness. Eventually he managed to make it relatively unharmed to his sofa; for a moment he couldn’t remember what it was that he might have left on the cushions (and whether or not it was painful) but he took his chance and fell into it with a complete lack of grace.
Not like some people.
“Fuck,” he swore, softer now. It was impossible not to think about him at a time like this.
The anniversary of my death. What are you going to do; drink yourself to death? He could practically hear Sherlock’s derisive snort clearly, after years of missing the man. Greg scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. It wasn’t always like this; Lord knew that it was hard for any man to lose his best asset – not that he had technically counted as a member of the force. Sherlock had never cared for technicalities. It had been charming to see a man who careless about rules and regulations after Greg had been fighting and working with that bane for decades.
“Sherlock.” His voice carried softly, painfully. Sherlock didn’t want to hear it.
“Shut up!” He shouted, louder than he meant to. Too loud. Greg’s hand landed on his shoulder and he felt his insides turn. The drugs were doing their work all right. “Stop. You can’t possibly understand how I feel.”
But he persisted. “I’ve been doing this for a long time. I like to help. Why do you think they promoted me?”
While Sherlock could agree he had particular strength, it was nothing compared to his own experiences. No one understood. “Please,” he said, sounding more pathetic than he intended. “I don’t need you.”
No one wanted to handle Sherlock. It was a hardship to take a hold of the sheer amount of Sherlock that there was, but he would be a shit DI—a shit person—if he didn’t try. Which Sherlock seemed used to, because the more Greg persisted the more he seemed at a loss.
He cursed again and got up, legs threatening to crumble under him. He’d worked himself to the bone that week, knowing that if he went home he might find the ghost of their former detective all over his things.
Sherlock had never had any regard for personal boundaries, even if death.
It wasn’t usually hard, but on this day he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Was it so wrong to be like this? After three years he still couldn’t get the man out of his head. He missed him terribly sometimes.
Rivulets of beer slipped down his chin when he swung the bottle to his mouth, and he swiped the back of his hand across his mouth and cleaned his neck with the fabric of his jacket. Now in the kitchen, the only light was from the fridge. Greg preferred it this way; the darkness felt like a cloak and it lessened the intense pounding of his head. Or it might have been the alcohol kicking in already. His tolerance wasn’t what it used to be.
“It never is,” he mused, not without bitterness, and took his beer with him to the bathroom. There was a small nightlight that his wife had left with him a long time ago and he didn’t mind leaving there, glowing innocently beside the sink. It illuminated just enough that Greg could see he looked worse for wear. The wrinkles in his face were more defined, his bags were deeper, and his head looked even greyer than it had before.
Setting his beer down by the sink’s edge, he let his head sink into his palms and just breathed.
Three years and he was still finding himself hung up on his mad detective on the anniversary of his death. His hold seemed to lessen with each coming year, but it was hard. He’d barely kept his job. And then there was the guilt. Did he do the right thing? Should he have risked his entire career for one man? He knew Sherlock was innocent, but…
“Don’t,” he hissed to himself. If he started down this path, he wouldn’t wake up sober. Better to finish this and go to bed. Cor, but his head was pounding. He pressed it against the cool countertop and breathed deeply.
Silence. Complete silence. No cars passing by; quiet neighbors and their damnable pets. Greg could hear his own heartbeat against the edge of the sink, a quiet beast. He pressed his hand over his left breast and felt the steady beat, faintly wondering if he could forcibly slow it with just thought like he’d heard on the telly.
When he raised his head, hand over his heart and the other reaching for his beer, he froze.
There was a shadow of a man behind him. Frozen like a complete idiot, Greg didn’t react for a moment. He heard the intruder behind him exhale, and a deep, recognizable voice beginning to speak. Something in Greg’s heart registered, but he was still reveling in his own stupidity. What kind of cop was he?
The brief flicker of the nightlight finally had him spinning around and slamming the beer bottle against the intruder’s head—or rather, he tried. It smashed into the wall, glass exploding everywhere. A piece cut Greg’s cheek. He touched the spot before he was distracted by the intruder.
“Get the fuck off me—“ Greg shouted as arms came around him. He considered the possibility of being strangled as he struggled to escape the restrains. There was something else. Something he couldn’t figure out.
Not until he saw his face and Greg swore his heart stopped beating.
“No,” he breathed, paling. “No fucking way.” That was the face of Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, who had been dead for years.
Anderson was right. “Oh God. He was right.”
Sherlock—bloody Sherlock—released him. Greg was still reeling, trying to figure out what he was feeling. “How?” There was anger. So much anger; years worth. And poor John. Without Mary, he’d have been a complete wreck.
Sherlock wiped a spot of blood off his neck and flipped on the light switch. He still hadn’t said anything. “Should’ve turned that on before you surprised me.”
“It was more interesting to watch you flail.” He grinned. Greg saw red.
“Oh my God, you fuck. You absolute wanker.” He leaned against the counter, the beer shaft still clenched between his white fingers. “I can’t believe you—I can’t fucking believe you. So that’s what this was then, hm?”
Sherlock looked confused. “I don’t—“
“Don’t you dare bleedin’ lie to me, Sherlock.” He brought his fist up, but when he didn’t know what to do with it he let his hands fall. “You’ve been lying for three years. God I can’t believe you. I bet you thought it was interesting, wasn’t it? Watching all of us mourn over you. The great Sherlock Holmes and his best magic trick!
“What were you thinking?! You know, John told me what you said. One night when he was drunk. You know, mourning over you. You’d called it a magic trick. I remember that.”
He was babbling now, and might have been a little drunk himself. Sherlock took him by the shoulders and led him out of the bathroom, murmuring the same sentiments.
“You are such a prick and you’d better have a good explanation for this.”
So far he’d been pretty quiet, but now Sherlock spoke up.
“I do. It was important none of you know I was alive. Despite what you think, it wasn’t easy for me either.”
“Oh, it wasn’t easy for you? I’m sorry, I forgot you didn’t know John was alive for three years. Oh, wait.” Sherlock set him down on the sofa and took the bottle head from him, heading into the kitchen. Personal space, Greg reminded himself. He startled a laugh out of himself.
“How many glasses have you had?” Sherlock’s answering chuckle was so deep, so familiar, that Greg was momentarily stricken with a mixture of grief and intense relief. All that time mourning, and here he was. It was the most frustrating, infuriating…beautiful thing he could imagine.
“I can’t believe you’re alive,” he muttered to himself. He desperately hoped that he wouldn’t suddenly wake up on his kitchen floor to find that this was an alcohol-induced dream. Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder felt cool. He laid his overtop it; just to feel his skin, and forced back a sob. “You were gone.”
For once in his life Sherlock didn’t derail the sentiment by pointing out the obviousness of the statement. Instead, he sat down next to Greg and began to speak. When he got to the part about the bullets, Greg rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock pretended he didn’t feel the wet evidence of tears.
A few hours later, after another bottle of beer and Sherlock’s confession looming over their heads, Greg was now positioned in front of Sherlock. The nasty headache he’d been nursing was only getting worse. “Wait, give it to me one more time. Moriarty killed himself just to get back at you?”
“Yes, yes! We agreed long ago that he was an insane idiot. I admit that for a moment I thought he might have—well I somewhat hoped…” Sherlock’s voice faded and he seemed to catch himself. His expression unsettled Greg; he hadn’t seen a look on him like that before. It reminded him that he had been gone for three years somewhere else—saving all of them, apparently—and who knows what had happened to him?
“You could have told me,” Greg said softly. “You should have told me.”
“I’m telling you now. You don’t understand! I couldn’t just—“ he pulled at his hair. “I forgot how frustrating it is dealing with you people.”
“Calm down, Sherlock. I get it, I do. I was just…wistful thinking I suppose.” He buried his face in his hands. He hadn’t changed at all. Couldn’t trust anyone who wasn’t part of his personal circle. And the amount of people who got that close was one: Sherlock Holmes. Even John Watson hadn’t been privy to the information. If Greg was correct in thinking, John was the most important part. He was the one who saw him die.
“Are you going to tell him? Don’t tell me you came here just to leave again.”
“What? No, of course I will. I just needed a little more time. He won’t react as favorably as you. I’ve already prepped my cheek with numbing liquid.”
Despite himself, Greg laughed. “Yeah, I expect he will. I would have if I didn’t know John would kill you.” They smiled to each other briefly. Greg shoved away the jealousy gathering in his chest. Here he was, wanting to monopolize Sherlock’s time and John was out there still thinking he was dead.
“It would be very ambitious of him. I think his new girlfriend, Mary or Margaret will give him his moral compass.” Oh, Sherlock didn’t sound happy about that.
“Ah, so you heard about her. Mary, by the way. He likes her a lot so you’d better not ruin it for him.”
“Me?” Sherlock snorted. “I’m surprised she’s stayed around this long. None of John’s other girlfriends did.”
“I wonder why.” Greg grinned despite how awful that really was. Sherlock was a prick.
But Christ, he’d missed him. Just this small moment together reminded him of the years they’d shared; the countless hours spent together getting on each other’s nerves and driving one or the other up the wall. Life just hadn’t been the same without Sherlock—he might go as far to say that it had been incomplete.
Greg stared into his beer as things became quiet. All of these emotions were tumbling inside of him—years’ worth—and he couldn’t think of another thing to say. It had just been so long. He was different; Sherlock was different.
Stroking the condensation on his glass, Greg opened his mouth as if to release the emotions that rested on the tip of his tongue in whatever form they took, when Sherlock stood up.
“I suppose I—should be going. I’ve taken up enough of your time.”
No, Greg wanted to say. You haven’t given me nearly enough time with you. How could Sherlock not realize this? But he nodded all the same and stood, leading him towards the door.
“You’d better come back,” he said, voice thick. Sherlock blinked at him, hand on the door handle.
“Of course. I—“ Pausing, he appeared to fight with something. “I did find that my life was less…enjoyable when you weren’t around.” His small smile made Greg want to hug the life out of him.
So he did, surging towards Sherlock. Before he could even blink, Greg had wrapped his arms around his shoulders and had him in a tight hug. “I missed you, too, you dolt.”
Sherlock was rigid with tension, surprised and unsure. A part of Greg’s mind wondered when the last time he had contact like this was. It made him feel irrationally proud to possibly be the first. “And take care of yourself. You don’t need me anymore.” He hadn’t for a very long time.
Sherlock moved his back, and Greg let him go with a strangely heavy heart. This was the best thing that could have ever happened to him, and yet he felt bereft. He tried to force that feeling down and lock it away in a small chest so it wouldn’t bother him anymore. There was no point in thinking of these things.
Pulling back, Greg expected Sherlock to bid him a quiet goodbye and slip out the door. He expected to head back into his bedroom and drink a few more beers before he passed out and woke up from this dream. He didn’t expect his searching, inscrutable gaze to pin him in place. Neither did he expect a hand to cup his cheek, fingers tracing familiar patterns.
“What if I did need you?” Sherlock whispered, and then kissed him.
Greg wasn’t expecting it. He’d had his hopes, years ago when Sherlock had left him that last night with a single kiss goodbye, that maybe he hadn’t up and left him and that wasn’t dead. That train had long since taken off, so he had to be excused if he was a little slow on the uptake.
So shocked was he by the turn of events, that he didn’t kiss back for a few precious seconds, eyes wide. Sherlock pulled away, familiar blotches of red coloring his cheeks ungainly, and Greg snapped out of it.
He pulled Sherlock against him, closer than before, and kissed him back. “I’m still furious with you,” he hissed against his teeth, tugging brutally at Sherlock’s hair. He whimpered, a sound Greg thought he’d never hear again.
“I’m aware.” He grinned in Greg’s mouth and the kiss turned sweet. He cupped Sherlock’s face and kissed him long after he needed to breathe. If Sherlock was giving him this again, there was no way he was going to let it pass him by.
“Go,” he urged after a few minutes. If he stayed any longer Greg wouldn’t want him to leave. He bestowed him with one final kiss. “Tell John. Tell whoever you need to get back in it. But you’d bloody better believe I expect you back here. At least,” he added uncertainly, “if you have nowhere to go.”
“There’s a ten-percent chance John won’t want to murder me when he sees me, so you can expect me for dinner.” Sherlock chuckled, ruffling Greg’s hair, and disappeared behind the door.
God help him.