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I am outside and I’ve been waiting for the sun and with my wide eyes I’ve seen worlds that don’t belong
My mouth is dry with words I cannot verbalise
Tell me why we live like this
Keep me safe inside your arms like towers tower over me
We are broken what must we do to restore our innocence and all the promise we adored give us life again ‘cause we just want to be whole
Lock the doors because I’d like to capture this voice that came to me tonight and everyone will have a choice
And under red lights I’ll show myself it wasn’t forged
We’re at war we live like this
Keep me safe inside your arms like towers tower over me
‘Cause we are broken what must we do to restore our innocence and oh the promise we adored give us life again ‘cause we just want to be whole
Tower over me tower over me
And I’ll take the truth at any cost
‘Cause we are broken what must we do to restore our innocence and oh the promise we adored give us life again ‘cause we just want to be whole
~We Are Broken, Paramore
The force of the impact with the wet concrete had caused a split in the milk container and so it was steadily flowing off the pavement, mixing with the rain that continued to fall. Though John Watson had forgotten all about milk, shopping and rain. He stared at the man he’d found waiting for him on the doorstep of 221. It had taken him a year to stop seeing and hearing him in the flat and move back in. Although now he wondered if they’d returned. Should he call his therapist?
“Sher-” the name sticks in his dry throat from both lack of use and the sudden rising of emotion. The ex-army doctor coughed and tried again “Are you-?”
John trailed off as he lifted an arm slowly and, while mentally preparing himself for disappointment, placed a hand on Sherlock’s chest, just above his heart. He was solid.
Sherlock was alive, his death had to have been faked. John dropped his hand and stepped back. He ignored Sherlock as he spoke, the first words John had heard in that baritone for nearly three years.
“John I-”
“You complete bastard!” Three years!”
Sherlock took a step towards him with uncharacteristic tentativeness. “John listen-”
John cut him off again, this time with his fist. The dead man stumbled back a few paces, a hand cupping where the impact had been. He straightened, opening his mouth to speak but John was no longer listening, he retrieved the shopping from the pavement and turned to the door. “Not here.” He muttered, opening the door to 221 he threw the plastic bags inside and turned back. “Actually do you know what, first just one thing-” He paused a minute to compose himself.
“Why?”
The word emerged as a broken whisper and the older man was a little gratified to hear Sherlock sound equally and unusually emotive.
“Because I had to protect you, I can’t lose you John.” Accompanying the words was the searching look Sherlock usually gave him when he managed to irritate him. But this time it had been a little bit worse than leaving a head in the fridge or putting a dozen bullet holes in the wall.
John stepped over the threshold of 221. “Right, okay, well then, give me one good reason I shouldn’t just close the door and pretend this was all a dream.”
The corner of Sherlock’s mouth flickered up for a second as he stepped into the home he’d been away from for so long, causing John to step back to avoid being too close.
“Well John there’s always the fact that you still avoided my nose and teeth even though you’re angry with me.” As he spoke he removed the hand one his face to reveal the beginnings of a bruise on his cheekbone.
John let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Good – good deduction that – I – you-” The doctor moved towards the detective and pulled his arm back. Sherlock pulled the door closed and braced himself for the blow.
That didn’t come.
Instead John had made a noise like a choked sob and the former consulting detective found himself being hugged tightly by his blogger. Awkwardly he wrapped his arms around his friend and wondered if it was possible for John to one day forgive him.
They stood there for a good long while. Silent. There wasn’t a lot more that seemed to need saying for the moment. John didn’t even think he could form any words even if he tried, his voice seemed to have got stuck behind feelings and although he was trying to remain composed a few tears managed to escape his eyes. His emotions were in turmoil. First there was euphoria that Sherlock was alive and had managed to come back to him. But then there was the grief and anger that Sherlock had kept his plan from him for so long. There was also a part of him that advised caution. Just because he felt real now that was no guarantee that John wouldn’t wake up alone. The doctor felt pressure on the top of his head and realised it was Sherlock pressing his face into his hair. He was also pretty sure he heard the taller man inhale. Good, that was perhaps a sign that he too had suffered during their time apart.
Once they finally separated, mutually pulling back, John started up the stairs to 221B, exceptionally glad Mrs Hudson was still visiting her sister and hadn’t seen anything. Sherlock stood a moment before following, unsure whether John wanted him to or not, but he hadn’t been told to leave so until then he would stay.
John closed the door to their flat – and somehow it had managed to remain so even after all this time – after Sherlock came through and locked it on a whim. Although Mrs Hudson was out he knew that when she returned she’d likely come up and see him. She did so less frequently now after so long, but in the beginning of the mourning period her visits had been often. She’d come up, they’d have tea and sit and not talk about Sherlock. They would have to tell her, obviously, but not yet, John wanted to keep Sherlock to himself for a little while.
Leaving Sherlock in the living room without a word John walked into the kitchen to make tea. He was just pulling two mugs from their cupboard when he heard Sherlock follow him in over the noise of the kettle. Dropping a tea-bag into each mug he turned to find his former flatmate looking around with something only someone who knew him well would recognise as wonder. It wasn’t exactly something the detective felt a lot.
“You kept the flat the same all this time?” Sherlock’s voice was quiet and if anything he looked even worse for having discovered it. John raised an eyebrow and dropped sugar into the mugs. And damn him for still knowing how Sherlock liked his tea after three bloody years.
“Well,” he answered, turning back for a moment “when your best friend is a genius consulting detective there’s a part of you that can’t let go of the hope that he might still be alive.” John shook his head with a slight smile on his face, “You prat.”
“I-” the taller man swallowed before trying again, why did emotions have to be so difficult? “I can only apologise, I had no idea you would be so affected.”
John almost dropped the kettle, setting it back a little more firmly than perhaps was necessary he whirled to face Sherlock, a look of mixed disbelief, exasperation and anger on his face. “You didn’t think the suicide of my best friend IN FRONT OF ME WOULDN’T AFFECT ME?!”
Before he’d realised it he’d thrown Sherlock’s mug of half made tea at him. The other man didn’t move as the cup of scalding liquid moved towards him though he flinched at the impact as it hit the front of his Belstaf coat and smashed on the floor.
“No,” he said as he shrugged off the coat and placed it and his scarf over one of the kitchen chairs, “no John I did not. Of course I expected you to grieve for a while.” He grimaced before continuing in a rush, wanting to speak before John could stop him. “However I did expect that after that you’d move on. Out of Baker Street, maybe find a girlfriend and get married and have children like you always wanted.”
John laughed derisively “Yes that was what I used to want.” He put his head in his hands for a moment “And then do you know what genius? You came along with your violin and your murders and suddenly the life I’d planned for myself didn’t seem the better option anymore!”
“John-” Sherlock bit his lower lip and looked away a moment, unable to speak.
John shook his head “Don’t. Don’t bother.” He turned to walk towards the door to the stairs but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.
Sherlock spun him around and John was struck by how close they suddenly seemed to be. The taller man was staring at him with the same intensity he used at crime scenes, as though he was looking for something.
John opened his mouth to speak but suddenly found it occupied.
Sherlock kissed him a moment before pulling back. John recognised it as a silent question.
“Yes Sherlock, so you meant it too?”
Both couldn’t help but wonder if the murmured words exchanged in the darkness of Kitty Riley’s house were still felt. For the longest time John had wondered if Sherlock had even meant what he’d said, emotions weren’t exactly the detective’s strong point.
Sherlock smiled fondly and pressed his lips to John’s again before replying. “Of course John, I may have lied to you back then, but not about that. Never about that.”
The doctor stared at him a moment before the corners of his mouth turned up into the first genuine smile he’d given for about, well three years. There was a moment where they simply stared at each other, then they were kissing again, no longer chaste and short but long, deep and desperate. Neither of them recalled making the first move but once they’d started it was difficult to stop.
Eventually the need for oxygen made them pull apart and John at once understood Sherlock’s statement about breathing being boring. Sherlock took a step back a small step back and John leaned back against the worktop to catch his breath. Both were silent a while, standing a few inches separate in the red light of the setting sun that had finally managed to break through the clouds, not that either of the had had any cause to notice.
Once he’d got his breath back John made a decision. He held out a hand to Sherlock and spoke with truthfully a much steadier voice than he’d expected to manage.
“This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you, but, I am pleased to see you.”
Sherlock nodded and took his hand, allowing John to lead him out of the kitchen.
Words are then lost to them, instead the world narrows down to rough kisses and bites and nails raking down exposed skin in the semi darkness of Sherlock’s old room. John had been sleeping in it for months the other man had realised even though he himself had never used it enough to leave any sort of traces on anything. Sentiment. The word is a whisper along the vein of his consciousness but then his breath is caught and John presses their lips together again and it evolves into something tender with a lot more feelings and hushed whispers of names that sound like prayers in the silence. Sherlock can no longer think about anything more than the man above him, below him, next to him, John is everything and everything is John and there is wetness on his face that he isn’t sure came from him or his blogger, maybe both.
It isn’t until later, hours or days neither of them know and it feels like it could be either, when they lay tangled and exhausted on top of the sheets of Sherlock’s bed and they realise that now would be a good time to talk, about this, about everything. John’s head is resting on the detective’s chest, his body curled around him and Sherlock thinks that he rather likes this, that they should always stay like this because surely nothing else can possibly matter. But there’s still the fact that he hasn’t explained himself and he even with his limited knowledge of human nature he knows that he owes John an explanation, a proper one.
He murmurs the man’s name and shifts slightly, the doctor understands and they reposition until their heads lie facing each other. John’s hand still rests on his torso and their legs are still tangled and Sherlock recognises it as his blogger not wanting to let go. Just in case the other man faded away and he felt emotion rise in his throat as he looked into those blue eyes, still so full of hurt, but now also love and it was that that made Sherlock force the words out.
He cupped the other man’s cheek with his hand and pressed a final soft kiss to his mouth before pulling back and explaining everything properly, in detail. He told him about how he’d realised what Moriarty’s final plan for him would be, about how he’d got one of his homeless network to call John to make him rush to Mrs Hudson’s aid, how he’d asked Molly Hooper for help because in his arrogance Moriarty had forgotten all about her. Then how the conversation on the hospital roof had gone down and how he’d had to make John stay in place so he wouldn’t see it was all a set up. That the cyclist had been deliberate, as had the people milling about him, and the paramedics. Finally how he’d spent the last three years dismantling Moriarty’s vast network so he could return home to John.
He spoke for a long time and once he’d finished there was a long silence as they stared at each other. Sherlock waited for John to speak, having said all he could for now. For once he couldn’t read his doctor and it made him simultaneously nervous and hopeful.
“You bastard.”
Two words. Quiet and filled with an emotion the detective didn’t recognise. John breathed them out before turning his back on Sherlock.
The taller man stayed where he was, momentarily unsure if he should speak, or even leave. John moved back into him a little, pressing his back against Sherlock’s chest and he took it as a sign that he could stay and realised that maybe forgiveness would be a little harder to obtain than anticipated.
John slipped into sleep easily but Sherlock found himself lying awake. Even though he couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept he still couldn’t yet bring himself to try. Instead he lay spooning the only person he’d ever truly loved and missing the ease of their old relationship. The way John hadn’t immediately left after the man deduced his whole life and the fact that even after only knowing him a day he’d still been smarter than all of Lestrade’s team and had managed to save him from the cabbie. Not that he thought he’d needed saving, he was sure he’d chosen the right pill. Although, he did have to admit John’s solution was much easier.
Somehow, despite the constant life threats and disputes about milk and heads in the fridge this seemingly ordinary man had managed to get close to Sherlock in a way that no one had done before. Falling in love, and Sherlock thought about how different he’d become in that he hadn’t scoffed at the thought of the emotion, falling in love had seemed the natural progression of their relationship. The younger man had seen it although the other had taken a little longer, wasting time with women whose names he mixed up and who all realised his attraction to his flatmate. But then, just as he’d been sure they were on the brink of something, Moriarty had decided to break into three places simultaneously and had ruined everything.
Of course there had been a few desperate kisses and a breathless exchange of words as they waited for Kitty Riley to get home, Sherlock’s way of saying goodbye just in case he hadn’t made it or in case John found someone else. At least if he did he knew how Sherlock felt. That had only been minutes and yet Sherlock had felt much better about their relationship than he did now. Hopefully all John would need was time, Sherlock didn’t think he could bear it if the doctor decided it wasn’t worth it. He didn’t like the thought of having to let him go after having him for a few hours.
Eventually Sherlock felt himself slowly succumbing to sleep, he wrapped an arm around his blogger and held him tightly, half afraid he was going to wake up alone.
The longest cab drive of his life, here he was again. Then finally it stopped outside Bart’s and then there was Sherlock on the phone and a faint figure high on the roof. Part of him knew this was a dream and wanted to wake up, he didn’t want see this again, to remember what it was like. Not again. The phone call was the same and then he jumped. John called his name and started running but then there was pain and darkness a second. When he got up the dream had changed, he was back in Afghanistan. A nightmare followed by a nightmare, well it wouldn’t exactly be the first time. He was surrounded by the dead and making his way among them he noticed they were all Sherlock. He felt ill but he couldn’t stop walking and then he hit something solid. Pulling back he could see it was Sherlock, but it was the Sherlock who had jumped and was now standing with a manic look on the pale face that had blood pouring down it from the wound in his head. John tried to speak but found he could not and then Sherlock began to laugh. Before John knew that had happened there was a gun pointing at him and Sherlock’s final words rang in his head before the gun went off.
“Goodbye John.”
John woke with a start and dislodged Sherlock’s arm a little but not waking the detective spooned against his back. He took a deep breath to try and slow his heart. Stupid, he thought, to still be affected by it. Especially since the man was alive and breathing into his hair. He turned slowly and watched the other man sleep a moment. Sleep made him seem younger and peaceful and though John thought about waking him to talk about things he realised that this was probably the first time the other man had managed to get a good night’s sleep in a long time. John smiled slightly and slipped out from under the pale arm. Sherlock grumbled and shifted slightly in his sleep, muttering some sort of chemical equation John wasn’t awake enough to identify. The small happiness he felt faded as he realised they both still had much to talk about. Leaving Sherlock to sleep John thought that if they were going to have a meaningful discussion he would need at least one cup of tea first.
Sherlock woke to the sound of a click and it took him a minute to remember exactly where he was. He opened his eyes to be sure and found himself alone in his rook at Baker Street. Alone. Had John left? No of course not his clothes were strewn across the floor along with Sherlock’s. Could have worn something else and gone to work but no wait, that was the sound of the fridge wasn’t it? The tell tale clink of a spoon against a mug brought him to the realisation that John was making tea. He hadn’t changed that much then.
Sherlock felt nervousness rise in him as he heard John making his way along the short corridor back to him. He sat up and saw him come in with two mugs of tea. The fact that he’d made one for Sherlock as well seemed to be a good sign.
“Morning,” John avoided his gaze as he placed the two cups on the bedside table and sat at the end of the bed, facing Sherlock.
“You’re wearing my dressing gown.”
John raised an eyebrow, “Not exactly what I was expecting to talk about but yes I am.”
Sherlock smiled “Well I like it.”
“Sherlock.”
“What?”
“We’re not doing this.”
Sherlock sat up a little straighter, “Doing what?”
“The flirting. We need to talk.”
“Alright. Go on then.” The younger man leaned over and picked up his tea, taking a sip he looked back at John and waited.
The Doctor paused a second, “Well firstly I’m sorry about the way I left things last night but I needed time to think about everything. So here goes, I am surprised that you’re really alive and angry-”
“But I had to do it to save your life.” Sherlock interjected
“That may be so but you still left me to believe you were dead for three years. Do you have any idea what that was like?”
Sherlock raised his eyebrows “As it happens I do a little.”
John did a double take “Excuse me?”
Sherlock took another sip of tea, his voice quiet as he spoke “Actually yes I do, I had to leave my life behind, everything and everyone I cared about because if I didn’t I’d lose them in an even worse way. I’m sorry about what I put you through John but know that I suffered as well.”
When he’d finished speaking he put down his mug and looked down a moment before meeting John’s eyes. The other man was regarding him carefully and the sleuth wasn’t entirely sure what to make of it, something that seemed to be a result of his time away, he didn't like it.
“And you couldn’t see a way to include me in your brilliant plan?”
Sherlock sighed “Not with the sniper he had on you, that’s why I couldn’t even tell you after I pulled it off. I had to get him out of the way first.” He ruffled his hair in frustration “Don’t you think I thought about telling you about it? Every solution I came up with had loopholes which would have cost your life and that was worse than keeping you in the dark.” He sighed and lifted a hand as John made to reply “Look John, I don’t want to talk about the past I can’t change. What I want to know about is the future.”
John frowned slightly “What do you mean?”
Sherlock broke eye contact, looking down at his hands “What I’m asking, John is if there’s a way forward for us.” He looked up at the other man again, “And if there is then is it back to how we were before or more like, well this?”
Comprehension dawned for John, emotions weren’t the other man’s strong point and he would have to help him through it. He couldn’t bear to see the man he loved looking so wretched so he reached out and took hold of his clasped hands.
“As I said last night I haven’t forgiven you just yet but,” John stopped speaking to grip Sherlock’s head and turn it back towards him to look into those eyes he’d fallen for “but, that doesn’t mean I won’t and it certainly doesn’t mean I could ever stop loving you.”
Sherlock’s eyes widened “John I-”
John kissed him softly “I know, love. I also know emotions aren’t your strong point but don’t worry, I’m pretty good at them.”
Sherlock laughed and reconnected their lips fervently. Before John knew it he had pushed Sherlock back against the headboard and straddled his waist, his hands in dark curls, the other man’s tongue pushing into his mouth and making him gasp.
A while later he found himself trying to catch his breath again, lying collapsed on Sherlock.
“That was-”
“Amazing? Fantastic?”
John lifted himself up on his arms to look down at the other man “Well yes but I meant that wasn’t where the conversation was supposed to end up.”
Sherlock raised his eyebrows, running his hands up and down the soldier’s spine “Oh really?”
“Yeah, I meant to say that I’m still majorly angry with you but that will fade and eventually I’ll be able to forgive you.”
The other man smiled “Great. So round four before breakfast?”
John laughed, “You’re just going to be insatiable now aren’t you?”
Sherlock pretended to consider “Well seeing as I’d never done anything other than kissing before last night, yeah I expect so.”
The doctor blinked “You - you mean like ever?”
The other man shrugged “I never got close enough to anyone for them to want to. People were interested because apparently I am aesthetically pleasing but they didn’t so much like me deducing everything about them.”
The smaller man leaned down to kiss his love on the corner of his mouth “Yeah that sounds like you.”
Sherlock hummed, turning his head to capture John’s lips in a proper kiss as his hands slid increasingly lower on his back.
Pulling back abruptly with a slight moan John grinned down at him “Okay okay I can take a hint, but afterwards we have to get up and you are going to eat something.” He poked Sherlock’s stomach, making him squirm a little. “You are much too thin for my liking and so I am going to make you breakfast so we can start changing that.”
Sherlock raised his eyebrows, “Very well, but first,” he rolled them over so John was underneath him and rolled his hips down against him.
John let out a murmur of pleasure and arched his body up in response. As Sherlock leaned down to kiss him once more he smiled. They were going to be just fine.