Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prologue

Walking away was the hardest thing Sherlock Holmes ever had to do.

He had solved murders deemed unsolvable by some of the best investigators in the world (idiots, the lot of them), he had faked his own death and almost single-handedly unravelled a worldwide network of criminals, he had written a 70 page report on the deterioration of textiles in various conditions, god damn it. Yet walking away from that wedding was more difficult than all those things combined.

Sherlock Holmes was not one to think much about metaphors, but he couldn’t stop himself from contemplating the metaphorical significance of his actions. “The end of an era” Mycroft’s snide voice repeated those words over and over in the back of his mind. Had their chapter truly come to an end? Was he the tortured protagonist, cutting ties with his old life in order to pursue his passion and make the world a better place? Yet somehow the world didn’t seem any better yet. The end of an era. All those furtive glances, and half-imagined futures, they would have to end. The subtle and not-so-subtle hints. The way he-

No. That is one train of thought that he refused to complete.

It was irrational, and if there was one thing Sherlock Holmes could not stand, it was irrationality. Sherlock left John. John moved on with Mary. Now he was going to have to face the consequences and move on with his life. He still has his work, and didn’t he always say that work was all that mattered? Truly, it was irrational to miss John. If anything, John had only ever slowed him down. Stopping to explain the simplest deductions to him could be exhausting and time consuming. But anyways, it’s not like John won’t be solving crimes with him anymore. Things would essentially remain the same as they were pre-wedding. He was being stupid. Emotional. Irrational. Silly.

“It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all” Mrs. Hudson’s voice chimed in from the back of his mind. She had said that to him once when she caught him staring out the window at the exit, where John had left half an hour previously. He pretended not to hear her.

What a silly thing to say. That’s like saying it’s better to have broken a limb and have it heal than never to have broken the limb in the first place. Medically, incorrect. Bones that have been broken never quite heal back to how they were before, and breaks often leave the limb more prone to fractures in the future, especially if it healed incorrectly. How is it not better to be intact?

The damage is done. He loved John Watson and John Watson broke his heart and he will never be exactly the same as he was before. And what a woman he replaced him with! Mary Morstan was a very hard person to hate, even when she steals the people in the world you care about most. It would almost be preferable if John had married one of his stupid girlfriends, Sarah or Jenny or whatever their names were. Hating them came effortlessly. Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to hate the woman who saved John after he himself had broken him.

He was poison. He breaks the things he loves and everyone around him gets hurt. He was probably better off alone.

“Where’s Sherlock?” John half-yelled to Mary, straining to be heard over the music.

“I don’t know. Last I saw he was telling us to go dance. Haven’t seen him since.” Mary half-yelled back.

“Damn. I was hoping to get to talk with him some more after that first song. I think he did a great job, all things considering.” John scanned the dance floor, but still no Sherlock. “I’m gonna go check the loo. He might be smoking in there, enclosed spaces with lots of people tend to make him fall off the wagon.”

“Good idea. I’m gonna go dance with some of your friends.” Mary pecked him on the cheek and went over to the corner where Molly and Lestrade were dancing, Molly was having significantly more success than her partner; Lestrade was hopping around the dance floor like someone had stuffed live tarantulas down his trousers.

Sherlock was not in the loo, nor hiding out behind the hall. Knowing he couldn’t spend much longer looking for Sherlock without being missed, he headed to the front walkway, leading towards the parking lot and the road. John gazed around hopelessly for a clue as to where Sherlock might’ve gone. If Sherlock were in his place, he would be able to find out where John went within seconds. But how would he have done it?

 John looked at the strip of mud beside the gravel sidewalk. It had rained this morning, and when they all arrived the mud was a mess with footprints, indistinguishable from each other. However, the mud had dried during the day, and now there was one set of dusty footprints leading away from the wedding reception. Looking closer at the footprints, John could see that it was made with a large shoe, with a more pointed toe than usual. The pointed toe shoe helped John eliminate everyone else that had left the wedding early and left him with one conclusion: his best man was gone.

“No luck then?” Mary asked John as he returned, looking visibly dejected.

“No luck. I guess he just took off as soon as his part was over. I know weddings aren’t really his thing. I don’t know why I’m so disappointed, I guess I just thought...” John confided, taking a seat next to his new wife. “Never mind. It’s my wedding day, and I just found out I’m going to be a father. I need to stop worrying about Sherlock.”

“You’ll never stop worrying about Sherlock.” Mary replied. “I see you twiddling with your phone nonstop when it’s been more than a few days without seeing him. I can practically hear your thoughts. ‘Should I phone Sherlock?’”

“Yeah well I have other things to worry about now, don’t I.”

“The happiness of your wife being foremost on that list, I hope. Come on, let’s dance.” Mary hopped out of her chair and tried to pull John upright.

“Are you quite sure you should be dancing?” John inquired worriedly.

Mary rolled her eyes. “I’m pregnant John, not on my deathbed. Besides, I’ve been going about my life as usual since before I knew, I think I can manage a couple minutes of dancing.”

“Oh my god.” John’s face turned deathly white. “You should’ve been taking prenatal vitamins! Have you been drinking alcohol? Oh god. What are we going to do? Maybe the honeymoon isn’t such a good idea after all. I wonder if it’s too late to cancel…”

If looks could kill, the expression that Mary gave to John was so threatening it could strike 10 men dead.

“John Hamish Watson. If you think you can get away with cancelling our honeymoon, I swear to god I will divorce you right on the spot.”

“Fine!” John smiled but threw his hands up in resignation. “Just don’t… overdo it, alright?”

Mary planted a quick kiss on John lips and then pulled him up to dance.

And so John spun his wife around the room, blissfully happy, but still sneaking a glance around the room every couple seconds, just to make sure Sherlock hadn’t snuck back in.

41 Days Later

Her mouth moved passionately against his, eagerly pressing her body against him in the stairwell below 221B. Breaking away from the kiss, Sherlock panted, “Upstairs. Mrs. Hudson could walk in at any moment.”

Janine nodded and started up the stairs, dragging Sherlock by the hand. As soon as she reached the top she yanked him inside and shut the door, her mouth back on his. He mirrored her movements, never taking any initiative himself. It was a technique he had perfected out of college, as soon as he began to grow out of his gangly limbs and women started to notice him. He realised that learning these skills could be effective in distracting and manipulating women, as he was doing with Janine. It would be a shame, really, when she found out. She was nice, less vapid than most.  Kissing her wasn’t altogether unpleasant. The kissing took up very little of his mind, leaving the rest free to proceed as usual.

Her hands moved to his chest. He reciprocated by placing his hands on her waist. She started undoing his shirt buttons one by one. All of a sudden, her hands moved to the waistband of his pants, and then his pants were around his knees. Her mouth left his and suddenly-

“John!” Sherlock cried desperately. “-nine. Johnine. Your name is Janine. That’s what I said isn’t it?”

Janine stood up and took a step back. She smiled understandingly. “It’s okay. You weren’t ready. We’ll take it slow, I promised.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Well, I’d better go, I have a dentist appointment soon. I’ll see you later.”

That was a close one.

“Not tonight,” Sherlock said, putting on his best regretful look. “I’m working. I have a case.”

“You always have a case.” Janine said, stepping closer and twirling a piece of his hair in her finger. “I’m starting to think you love your precious cases more than you love me.”

“No way.” He smiled at her and pecked her on the lips. Opening the door that he had been pinned against, she scurried by him, off to her “dentist appointment” which Sherlock happened to know wasn’t for another two hours. She just wanted to get away from her boyfriend of a month who refused to go farther than kissing. This case had better get a move on soon or Janine would finally tire of his hesitation and just break up with him.

It was true though, he was working on a case tonight. It was off to the crack den, just as soon and he changed into his homeless person clothes. If only John could see me now.

Sherlock felt the corners of his lips turn up when he thought of John’s reactions to his disguises. Ever since hearing The Woman say that “no matter how hard we try, disguises are always a self-portrait” John practically laughed himself to tears ever time Sherlock emerged from his room in one of his many disguises. He was worried he might have to phone an ambulance for John the time he had to disguise himself as a clown. John didn’t let him hear the end of the traffic cop outfit for a week after the incident. He could still hear John’s voice in his head, “Underneath it all, Sherlock Holmes is just a simple man with a longing to be a traffic cop”.

If John could see me now… I don’t even think I could bear to look at his face. He’d be so disappointed.

But it’s for work. There was nothing wrong with a little recreational drug use. It’s not like he was addicted. He just needed to get this case finished with! Then he could go back to his regular life. All by himself.

If he was being honest with himself, it was only John’s marriage and subsequent avoiding of him that had driven him to take on a case this monstrous. Under normal circumstances he would’ve gone for some simpler cases, open and shut murders, those were some of his favourites. But if he wanted John’s attention, he was going to have to go big or go home.

It was a long ride on the underground to where the crack house was, on the dirtiest outskirts of London. Riding the underground was an interesting experience, with so many people intermingling, the deductions he could make looking at his fellow passengers helped keep his mind sharp. Sometimes being alone all the time could actually hinder his work, it could dull his senses, it was good to keep your mind in shape, like an athlete who needs to exercise regularly. His mind was his temple, he couldn’t allow it to fall into disrepair.

Without quite realizing that he had left the station, let alone getting off the train, Sherlock found himself standing in front of the doors on the house. Letting himself in, he walked briskly through the hall and up the stairs, to where they kept the mattresses.

And so he took his using dirty mattress in the corner and let himself slip away from the world.

Chapter Text

If John had thought married life would’ve gotten better after he had forgiven Mary, he was sorely wrong. If anything, their relationship was more awkward than before. At least before they knew that John was angry at Mary. Now neither of them knew where they stood. Yes, John had forgiven Mary, but the truth was still there, she was not who she says she is. Their nights consisted of awkward silence and painful courtesy. John had taken to locking himself up in their bedroom and watching hours of American Netflix.

There was still the baby to think of, Mary was in the midde of her 3^rd trimester. John couldn’t help but think that all this tension couldn’t be good for their daughter. They were about to bring a child into a very unhealthy environment. Originally John thought they would be able to bring up the child in a relatively normal fashion, John would give up his trouble making ways for the safety of his daughter, but the chances of them being able to pull that off decreased exponentially since John discovered that his wife was an international spy on the run from her past.

Occasionally John would mentally kick himself for not reading the USB, what if Mary had done something really bad? Gone rogue, killed, tortured? Could he let a woman like that raise his daughter? But then he was only reminded of the Mary he knew, kind and loving and endlessly compassionate, that was the Mary he fell in love with.

“What do you want for dinner, dear?” Mary’s voice chimed from the sofa, while John was sitting on the recliner.

“I don’t much care. Thai food maybe.”

“Mm, I don’t think my stomach can handle Asian food at the moment.” Mary grimaced, her nausea had been acting up recently.

“Greek?”

“The thought of lamb makes me queasy-“

“Don’t order the lamb then.” John snapped.

“I don’t want greek food.”

“Pizza then.”

“I don’t think-“

“Then why did you ask me!?” John shouted, surprising the both of them. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled. You’re the one with nausea, you should pick what we eat.”

Mary turned her face away from him. Outbursts like these happened more often than John would like to admit.

“Pizza then.” Mary said, her voice wavering a little.

“You sure that won’t upset your stomach?”

“Get one of the fresco ones. Without all the grease. Pesto instead of tomato sauce, ricotta cheese instead of mozzarella, you know the ones?”

“Never had one, but it sounds good.”

“It’s divine. Make sure to order sun-dried tomatoes, but hold the onions.”

“Sure thing.” John stood up and walked over to the phone, bending down to kiss her on the forehead as he walked past. This was the way with them. When they weren’t grating together like two pieces of sandpaper, they got along as smoothly as gratuitously lubed dolphins.

No sooner had John picked up the phone to order the pizza than they heard their doorbell ring. “These pizza guys are getting really good.” John joked, and Mary chuckled. “I’ll get the door.”

John took his time getting to the door, assuming it was going to be a solicitor, but when he opened the door, he found to his great surprise that Sherlock Holmes was standing on his doorstep, with the wild flush on his face that could only mean one thing: a case.

“Um, actually I was just ordering a pizza-“John was cut off by the flabbergasted look on Sherlock’s face.

“Did you not hear what I just said?” Sherlock looked utterly confused. “There’s a case, John! A case! When did pizza become more important than a case?”

“Go with him John. I’ll leave you some leftovers.” Mary advised from the sofa.

“Oh hello Mary!” Sherlock greeted brightly. “Don’t forget to take your B12 supplements tonight, you’re looking a little low.”

“How- never mind.” John shook his head. “I’ll grab my coat.”

“I’ll wait for you in the cab.” Sherlock turned away and bounced down the steps, with a spring in his step.

Pulling on his jacket, John felt something inside him click. Whenever he went out with Sherlock, he felt like a different person. During the day he could be domestic and civilised, going to work and then going home to his wife, and it was comfortable. But in the line of danger, he felt like himself.

 “Be safe!” Mary urged.

“Of course,” John said as he shut the door behind him.

Sliding into the taxi next to his best friend, John inquired, “Any news with the Moriarty thing yet?”

“Nothing.” The tension was plain on Sherlock’s face. “Something had better happen soon or I’m worried they might actually send me to Eastern Europe this time.”

“Have they puzzled together anything?”

“They think the signal might’ve come from Europe. Maybe North America. It could be Antarctica for all they know. They haven’t figured out anything.”

“And no sign of Moriarty?”

“Nope.”

“Has it occurred to you-“Sherlock shot John a scathing look as he said those words, as if there was anything that hadn’t occurred to Sherlock Holmes. “-that it wasn’t really Moriarty at all? Just a copycat?”

“Of course. But why would someone go to all that effort just to pretend to be someone else. Anyone willing to go that far wants to make a name for themselves, not hide behind the name of someone else.”

“It was very conveniently timed. Maybe it was someone trying to keep you in England?”

Sherlock looked thoughtful. “A very thoughtful gesture. I’ll be sure to pay my thanks to Moriarty when we meet again.”

“That’ll be an interesting meeting,” John chuckled. “The last time you met, you stood on a rooftop and both of you committed fake suicide.”

Sherlock chuckled as well. “I’ll be interested to learn how he did it.”

“The great Sherlock Holmes hasn’t figured it out?”

“Don’t call me that. And no, I haven’t. One fake suicide was hard enough to puzzle out, I didn’t have enough room in my mind to follow the details of another.”

“If Moriarty actually did fake his death… but they never did find the body.”

“I assumed that he got some of his… partners to have his body taken away. I doubt there was any useful information on the body, but I’d guess he wouldn’t want his corpse in police custody anyways.”

John nodded. Often the problems in his life felt oddly surreal, and this was one of those occasions. How had he managed to get himself tangled up in a world where faking your own death seemed to be a common everyday occurrence? Sometimes it seemed like everyone he knew had pretended to be dead at least once.

“So what’s this case you’re on?” John inquired.

“A burglary.” Sherlock replied curtly. “At St. Bart’s. Surgical tools stolen from an operating room. Probably some sort of illegal organ harvesting group. Except the room it was stolen from is very well guarded. Live surveillance cams in the hallway and scrub room, I’ve already reviewed the footage, not a single person in or out of there that shouldn’t have been. It’s a real mystery.”

“Brilliant.”

When they arrived at the St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, a security guard came to meet them. He showed them up to the operating room the tools were stolen from. When they entered the room, Sherlock paused in the doorway.

“What are you doing?” John asked.

 “I thought you’d want to inspect yourself first. Surgery is your area of expertise.”

John turned away so that Sherlock wouldn’t see him smile. It was a rare enough occasion when Sherlock admitted that something wasn’t his area of expertise.

Looking around the operating table, John saw that not all the tools were missing. “What was the last surgery this room was prepped for?” He wondered aloud.

“Open appendectomy,” Sherlock answered, looking at a chart on the wall.

“Organ harvesting you think?”

“Yes, that seemed most logical. Is there something wrong?”

“No, it’s just… the tools they took wouldn’t be any good for harvesting organs. An incision for an appendectomy is small, but major organ transplants? Huge incision. These missing tools would be small, too small to be any good for that type of stuff. Also…”

“Also what?” Sherlock asked. John relished the look of honest inquiry on his face.

“They took the tools needed to reach the appendix and take it out, but they left the tool you need to invert the stump. So it looks like someone wants to reach an appendix, remove it, but not let it heal? Without properly inverting or suturing the stump, you’re effectively leaving an open incision inside a patient’s body. Obviously not good in terms of post-operative infection or complications. It’s just bizarre. You would need medical knowledge in order to choose which of the scalpels and tools to steal, so why would someone with medical knowledge leave behind the rest of the tools?”

“Why steal the tools to do an appendectomy in the first place? There’s not much demand in the market for appendixes.”

“Some twisted med student? Wanting to practice on live people? Sometimes they let med students and interns observe in the operating room.” John suggested.

“We can’t rule that out.”

 He had originally tried to supress thoughts like that after John had gotten married, but when he found out that Mary wasn’t who she said she was, he felt like he could justify dropping the practice of supressing his fantasies. There was nothing wrong with a few fantasies… Sherlock almost wished John would take a job as a trauma surgeon so he could just watch all day, although that might make it hard for him to conceal how he really-

“Oi! Sherlock?” John was snapping his fingers in front of Sherlock’s face. “I asked you if you had any more theories…?”

His lips are so close. I could almost bend down and kiss him. “Hmm? Oh, yes. Theories. Right, yes. Theories. Theories! Right!”

John stared a Sherlock in expectation. When it became clear that Sherlock was not going to take the initiative to finish that thought, John prompted, “Your theories are…?”

“Obviously a medical professional who would’ve had access to the room. It might be a med student like you said. Doctor running an illegal practice on the side? But the tools wouldn’t be good for much more than an appendectomy, possibly animals? Doctor gone rogue into veterinary medicine? I really have no idea.”

John looked a bit disappointed. “I have a feeling the most important part of this case is not how they did it, but why they did it.”

Sherlock nodded. “I agree. It’s a relatively small loss. The real concern is what out thief is going to do with these stolen surgical tools.”

After taking a quick look around the room but not finding anything that could serve as a lead, Sherlock and John left the hospital and tried to hail a taxi.

The taxi dropped Sherlock off first, seeing how he lived closer to St. Bart’s. John found himself almost getting out of the car before remembering that he didn’t live there anymore. He had a proper house, and a wife and a baby on the way. But however hard it might be for John to live in the world of Sherlock Holmes, it was twice as hard to be away from it.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Epidural Injection

“John, take a look at this.” Sherlock called to John. They were spending the afternoon together at Baker Street. Today Mary was having her baby shower, which John had been given licence to avoid completely. Instead he was sitting in absolute yet comfortable silence with Sherlock, himself reading the papers while Sherlock perused the internet.

“What is it? Did you find something?” John inquired.

“Might be a lead on the surgical tools case. ‘Man dies on airplane; initial reports say post-appendectomy complications’” Sherlock quoted.

John walked over to the computer and read the article over Sherlock’s shoulder. He frowned. “That’s odd. I wouldn’t think a man… mid-thirties, in good shape, would be at much risk for post-op complications. I suppose it could happen. But on an airplane... that’s weird. You don’t just drop dead of surgical complications. First you become septic and your organs start shutting down one by one. If he died… 45 minutes into the flight, he was bound to have been experiencing severe symptoms hours before. You don’t get on a plane when your organs are slowly shutting down. And yet… the article says there was a fresh appendectomy scar. Yeah, I would say this could be connected to the case.”

“Good!” Sherlock stood up suddenly, startling John. “I’ll text Molly, make sure the corpse is heading to Bart’s. I’d like to examine it myself.”

“Oh… um if I had known we were going out in public I probably wouldn’t have worn this jumper…” John looked down at his attire. Tattered and faded were almost too mild descriptors.

“Don’t worry, there’s one of your jumpers, um, in my closet. Ms. Hudson must’ve put it there a long time ago thinking it was mine. I suppose you can have it back now.” Sherlock suggested. The Mrs. Hudson part was a lie. Sherlock had swiped it a couple months back, just so he could have something in the apartment that made it feel like John was still there.

“I’ll grab it now.” As John disappeared into Sherlock’s room in pursuit of his lost jumper, Sherlock let out a nostalgic sigh.

John re-entered the room holding the new jumper in one hand and attempting to pull off the old one with the other hand. He was not having much success, the jumper appeared to be caught on his head and it was pulling his shirt up, exposing a good deal of his midriff.

Sherlock collapsed on the sofa, trying not to stare and thoroughly convinced that the world was torturing him on purpose. Tempting him one second, only to remind him that it would never work the next.   

“You ready?” Sherlock asked, and John nodded his head. They left out the front door, calling goodbye to Mrs. Hudson. As per usual, an empty taxi was driving by just as Sherlock raised his arm to call one. John could be standing out there trying to hail a cab for twenty minutes with no luck, but Sherlock always managed to find one in a matter of seconds. Often John bitterly theorized that Sherlock had some sort of secret pull with the drivers; a cab-drivers network, similar to his homeless network. Maybe Sherlock had some way of predicting when the next cab would come by so he would only call when he knew they were about to come. Either way, John took personal offence.

They got in the cab that Sherlock had so unfairly been able to acquire, and John remembered something he had always wanted to ask Sherlock.

“There’s something I’ve always wanted to ask you,” John led.

“What do you want to know?”

“Well,” John smiled. “Right after you got shot, there were those news articles. I didn’t want to ask you then because you were in pretty bad shape, and then I got distracted by Mary, and then I guess I just forgot but… ‘Seven Times a Night in Baker Street’? ‘He Made Me Wear the Hat’?”

“Was there a question in there somewhere?” Sherlock said indifferently. But despite his indifferent tone of voice, his cheeks got subtly redder.

“Truth or rumour?” Even John started to blush.

“What do you think?” Sherlock shot back, only half sarcastically. In truth he was curious to hear what John had assumed about his sexuality.

“I don’t even think seven times a night is physically possible, so I’m gonna write that one off as fiction. He made me wear the hat? I have no clue.”

“Both fiction.” Sherlock clarified. “Janine and I… we never…”

“Never!?” John was incredulous. “And she got engaged to you not knowing what you were like in bed? That’s trust.”

“It was never real between us, I didn’t want to overstep.”

“I’m pretty sure getting engaged was overstepping.”

“Well she never would’ve let me into Magnussen’s office without some grand gesture.”

“Oh yeah and that went so well for all of us.” John muttered under his breath.

 “I hardly think approaching the security cam and saying ‘Janine, I’m ready to consummate’ would’ve done the trick.’” Sherlock continued.

“Well you never know, do you?”

“I’m sorry, are you angry with me?” Sherlock demanded.

“No shit Sherlock. Yes, I am angry with you.”

“Why? That was months ago, why would you still be upset?” He asked in honest confusion.

“Because if you hadn’t overstepped that day,” John was clearly building up to something bigger. “We never would’ve broken in and you never would’ve gotten shot and I never would’ve had to know that my wife was a bloody murderer!”

“Ah.” Said Sherlock, suddenly quiet. “You can’t blame me for that-“

“Do you want to bet?” John snapped.

“So…” The cabbie awkwardly asked from the front, clearly trying to diffuse the tension. “How long have you two been together?”

“We are not TOGETHER!” John shouted. “For god’s sakes, you just overheard a conversation in which we mentioned both my wife and his girlfriend; what the hell kind of question is that? You know what, pull over. It’s not too far to walk. I need to clear my head. I’ll meet you in the bloody morgue.”

The taxi pulled over and John got out, slamming the door behind him and walking away resolutely.

“You know, if he keeps threatening your life like that, it’s probably better to get out of the relationship. I know some people you could talk to.” The cabbie suggested earnestly.

Sherlock recognized the sentence that had caused the cabbie’s confusion. “No, we really are going to a morgue. He wasn’t threatening my life.”

 When he arrived at the morgue, Sherlock found that neither John nor the corpse had arrived there yet.

“It might be a while actually,” Molly told him. “Since he died up in the air on an international flight there’s bound to be all sorts of paperwork and stuff.”

“Ugh, paperwork.” Sherlock scoffed, waving his hand dismissively. “As if paperwork ever makes a spot of difference outside of the courthouse.”

“Well we don’t know how he died yet, they might have to take it to the courthouse.”

While they were waiting for the body, Sherlock decided to finish up some research that he had left half-finished the last time he was here. They sat in silence, Molly playing a game of Sudoku while Sherlock looked through the microscope, occasionally he would jot down something into his notebook.

“Um, Sherlock?” Molly began hesitantly. “I’ve been meaning to ask, are you alright?”

“Of course I’m all right.”

“So no more trips to the crack house?”

“No. I told you that was just for a case.”

“Right.” Molly said awkwardly, then continued, “There’s something else I’ve been meaning to ask about, um, right. Seven times a night in Baker Street?”

“Oh for god’s sake. You and John should join Anderson’s little fanclub and discuss your theories, since you both seem to be so interested-“

Just then John burst through the door. Sherlock looked up from his microscope to see why he was making such a commotion.

“Sorry, this is going to have to wait a while. Mary’s just phoned. She’s having contractions.

The labour was long and unpleasant, as giving birth tends to be. Since the baby was a month premature, she was whisked away to be incubated and tested on.

Ruffling her hair and kissing her on the forehead, John asked his exhausted wife “I’m going to head down to the cafeteria. You must be starving. Should I get you a muffin? Some juice?”

“Some apple juice would be great. Hurry though. When they tell us our daughter is ready to be seen I want us to see her together.” Mary replied, sounding exhausted but blissful.

John went down to the cafeteria, where Sherlock and Molly were sitting and drinking coffee.

“How is she?” Molly asked excitedly.

“We don’t really know yet. She’s in the ICU right now, that’s where they put all the premature babies, but they would’ve informed us if something was actually wrong.” John smiled. His heart was pounding in anticipation of meeting his daughter for the first time. He quickly bought Mary her apple juice and himself a large coffee and rushed right back upstairs. When he got back to Mary’s room he could see that there was a whole crowd of doctors standing in front of her bed. One of the doctors must have seen the worried look on his face because she immediately reassured him that everything was fine.

“They say it’s okay for us to go and see her now!” Mary said excitedly.

“No name yet?” inquired a young doctor.

“We have a couple lined up, we were waiting to make the final choice until we actually saw her.” Mary explained.

John pushed Mary’s wheelchair through the halls to the neonatal ICU. When they reached the ward, they looked through the glass wall at all the babies in their boring hospital onesies and identical incubators. Scanning the tags on the sides of the incubator looking for their names, John felt Sherlock approach behind him. When finally he found the tag that read Mary’s and his names, his eyes were almost unwilling to look at the baby in the corresponding incubator. A million questions raced through his mind. What if the baby was ugly? What if the baby had a birth defect? What if the kids make fun of her at school? What if she chooses to drop out of high school?

But of all the questions that he needn’t have asked, there was only one that he should’ve considered.

What if she isn’t mine?

There must be some mistake. A mix up with the tags. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. John looked at the baby in the incubator and then back at himself and his wife.

“Uhh… John….” Sherlock started hesitantly but John quieted him with a wave of his hand.

Mary and him were both pale, blond and light-eyed. The child in the incubator… was not.

“Mary,” John said, his voice unnervingly calm. “Would you care to explain to me why the child that came out of your uterus does not appear to be mine?”

“It’s probably a recessive gene thing.” Mary lied, her face as white as her hospital gown.

“No it’s not.” Sherlock chimed in unhelpfully.

Mary braced herself for the yelling, but it never came.

“After everything I- after all I- I forgave you and you-“John voice wavered as he spoke. It was clear he was trying to use every ounce of his willpower to keep his voice steady.

Mary stared straight forward, eyes not wavering from the face of her love child with a man who was not her husband.

“John-it was before we were married. It was only the one time, I never thought there was a chance.” Mary pleaded with him.

“How could you do this to me?” John’s voice broke in the most heart-shattering way. Without saying another word, he turned around and walked away from his lying wife. Mary tried to call after him, but he couldn’t hear her.

John felt surreal, disembodied. He had tunnel vision and the noises around him had a distant quality, as though his ears hadn’t adjusted to a change in altitude yet. His mind was blank as well. One might think he’d have too many thoughts for a personal to handle, but John only had one; to get out of there as soon as possible. He pushed through crowds and dodged oncoming gurneys, trusting his legs to know the way out. Dodging, weaving, never pausing. Finally, an exit.

When the first breath of fresh air hit him, he collapsed.

And without knowing quite how it happened, he ended up with Sherlock beside him. Sometimes John would cry, desperately grasping on to Sherlock’s shirt and sobbing into his shoulder. Other times John would stare blankly ahead of him seeing nothing, but leaning against Sherlock for support. Not once did Sherlock move a single muscle. They stayed there all night.

Chapter Text

Without knowing how he got there, John woke up in his old bed in 221B. Gazing bleary-eyed around the room, John realized that the room was exactly how it was before he had ever moved out. All of his clothes were there, even his ties were draped across the top of the chair, just like they used to.

There was a knock on his door.

“Come in,” he invited, more than a little disoriented.

Mrs. Hudson bustled in carrying a tray heavily laden with biscuits. “It’s about time you woke up!” she reprimanded lightheartedly. “You’ve been sleeping for nearly 16 hours!”

“Have I?” John asked rhetorically, still confused as to his whereabouts in time. “What year is it?”

Mrs. Hudson laughed. “You really were out of it! It’s 2014 love.”

John let the horror sink in. He had been holding onto a vain hope that the last few years with Mary had only been a dream and he was just now waking up to his old life with Sherlock.

The day continued in an angsty blur. In fact, many days passed in a blur of adult angst and Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits.

It took time, but eventually the angst subsided and the days started to feel more distinct, the world more real. Sherlock was steadfast throughout the whole ordeal, never saying much but always there. Eventually they shifted back into their old domestic routines.

Occasionally John would get angry.

“How could she do this to me!?” he would yell. “I trusted her, and she let me down. She knows how hard it is for me to trust people! How could she do this?”

To which Sherlock would reply “You deserve better.”

Other times John would blame himself.

“How could I let this happen?” He beseeched. “I should’ve made her happier. Why wasn’t I enough? Why didn’t she tell me?”

To which Sherlock would reply “You deserve better.”

It was difficult for Sherlock to hear John say these things, a cold knife to the heart when he realized that these were not the first times similar words had passed through John’s lips. He could imagine John saying these things after he had left, and it killed Sherlock to have caused John this much pain. He could hear his inner John-ologue yelling “I trusted him, and he let me down. I could’ve stopped him. Why wasn’t I enough? Why didn’t he tell me?”

But he was determined to stay supportive. In the back of his mind, Sherlock was almost glad Mary was out of the picture. He was just being selfish, wanting John all to himself. He mentally kicked himself every time he had those thoughts. Mary used to make John happy, and he wanted John to be happy. There was virtually no chance for a reunion. Sherlock contacted Mary and made it clear that John did not want to see her, and if he ever did, he’d get in contact himself. Mary mentioned something about going back to Finland where her real family apparently was. Sherlock wondered if she’d be welcome.

She certainly would never be welcome back at Baker Street. Not only had she broken John’s heart and crushed his soul, she also shot Sherlock. The more he thought about it, the more he believed that Mary was intending to kill him all along, and his resentment started building.

Surely someone who was as good a shot as her could have aimed for the shoulder or the thigh. A shot to the abdomen is a fatal and painful wound. Again, she showed up to the house at Lauriston Gardens with a gun and a silencer, the only reason she hadn’t shot him again was because her face was projected on the front of the building. No, Sherlock didn’t like her much anymore.

Sherlock didn’t go out much. He solved cases, but only from home. He was starting to feel like he was developing cabin fever, but John was worth it.

About 2 weeks after the tragic hospital incident, Sherlock got a phone call from Molly that was sure to brighten his spirits. 

“Sherlock Holmes.” That was his customary way of answering a phone call.

“Oh. Hi. It’s me. Molly that is.” Said the voice on the other side of the line.

“Why are you phoning me? You know I prefer to text.”

“Yeah, but I thought you might want to hear this one straight from my mouth. Do you want to come down the hospital or-?”

“No.” Sherlock said, glancing at John. As long as John was confining himself to Baker Street, Sherlock would be too.

“Ok. Well I was just doing the autopsy on that guy you were interested in, you know, the one that died on the aeroplane? Well, he didn’t die from an appendectomy.”

“How did he die?” Sherlock wished he could’ve been there for the autopsy. He mentally cursed himself for being so attached to John’s welfare. If he didn’t care so damn much, he wouldn’t have missed such a fascinating autopsy.

“When I first opened him up, I was shocked.” Molly continued. “His intestines were… shredded. Like they had been torn from the inside. I had absolutely no clue how that could’ve happened until I removed his liver. I’d never seen anything like it! I removed his liver and I saw…” Even over the phone Sherlock could feel Molly shuddering.

“What was it?”

“A lizard.”

“What type of lizard?”

“Gosh, Sherlock I don’t know! It was a bloody lizard inside a man’s body cavity! Besides, I hate reptiles, I’ve always hated them. Which brings me to the real reason I phoned you… could you come over here and remove it? I’d really rather not touch it.”

“Molly you’re a pathologist. You’ve performed countless autopsies and you’re afraid of touching a dead lizard?”

“I don’t like reptiles.”

“Fine. I’ll see if John wants to come along.” Sherlock hung up and sprang to his feet. He knocked on the door to John’s bedroom before letting himself in. He was greeted with the sight of John in a bed robe morosely munching on a biscuit. He looked so grouchy it was almost comical.

“The man who died on the aeroplane after the appendectomy had a lizard in his abdomen. Want to come to St. Bart’s and check it out?” Sherlock invited.

John looked up from his biscuit. “Why would you need me?” he asked glumly. “I’m sure you and Molly can handle a lizard.”

“I need you.” Sherlock replied without thinking. “I mean- you’re a doctor. You might be able to help.”

“Fine. Give me some privacy, I need to change.”

When they arrived at the morgue, Molly led them straight to the body, still open on the autopsy table. When he peered into the body cavity, Sherlock saw that indeed there was a small lizard lying amidst the carnage of the man’s remaining intestines. Pulling on a rubber glove, he delicately extracted the reptile.

“Is there any way the lizard could have gotten inside somehow in here? Maybe it was already living in the hospital?” John inquired, looking at the lizard in fascination.

“I think not. This particular species is only found in the south of Peru. Illegal without a special license in the UK.” Sherlock explained.

“Plus I checked the entire body. No scars or open wounds the thing could’ve crawled into. Except of course the appendectomy scar. I think… I think the thing must’ve already been inside him.” Molly shuddered at the thought.

Sherlock laid the lizard down on a nearby table and pulled out his magnifying glass. He examined it in with John gazing over his shoulder. Molly restarted her half-finished autopsy while Sherlock investigated. Not thirty seconds had gone by until Molly let out an ear piercing scream. The two men immediately rushed over to see what was wrong.

“Another bloody lizard!” She cried hysterically. “I hate lizards! God, what is wrong with this guy?”

Sherlock extracted the second lizard and laid it side by side with the first. He resumed his examination while Molly went back to work, muttering reptile-related obscenities under her breath.

John walked over to Molly and observed the body. “Wow, those intestines are in pretty bad shape, aren’t they?” He observed.

“Yes.” Molly gulped. “And I don’t think it was post-mortem.”

“You mean to say this guy had lizards ripping up his intestines from the inside while he was alive?” John was horrified.

“Oh god.” Said Molly, looking green. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Not on the body please.” Sherlock interjected unhelpfully.

John shot Sherlock a dirty look.

“Molly, did you happen to find any egg fragments?”

“Egg fragments? I didn’t even have eggs today, I had tuna-“

“Reptile egg fragments, Molly.’ Sherlock corrected.

“Oh right. Yeah, I was wondering what these were,” she said, handing Sherlock a dish littered with tiny bloody-covered fragments, of what John now understood were reptile eggs.

“These lizards hatched inside him. They were from the same batch of eggs, you can tell by the pattern of scales around the eyes. They also never got any oxygen. You would see the same signs in a stillborn baby, except these lizards weren’t stillborn. They hatched, and retained enough life from their embryotic fluid to thrash around a bit, tear up the poor fellows intestines a bit before they suffocated.”

“But how did the eggs get in the guy in the first place?” John pondered.

“Smugglers, as a first guess. The human body is a perfect incubator for smuggling these cold blooded animals overseas. Discreet too. Open up around the appendix, pop a few eggs in there, close it up. Send the smuggler on an aeroplane, no scanner is going to detect these eggs, they’re organic material. Then when they arrive at the destination, the eggs are extracted, no harm no foul.”

“Except when the eggs happen to hatch inside you.” John pointed out.

“Yes. Unfortunate. It’s really a very clever idea.”

“But why would someone do that? Willingly put reptile eggs inside themselves?”

“Money.” Sherlock explained. “This is a very rare endangered species. They go for up to £7,000 on the black market. I suspect if you examined the appendectomy scar you would find that he has actually undergone the same surgery multiple times, this doesn’t come across as a one-time deal. This is a much bigger operation than this one man.”

Molly shuddered again.

They stuck around for the rest of the autopsy just in case another lizard was discovered, and it was not for nothing. They found two more lizards that had broken free of their shells only to be faced with a bloody end. They even found an egg that was still intact.

“It’s a pity the autopsy wasn’t performed sooner. The egg might have still been valid.” Sherlock looked at the egg with reverence.

“Sherlock, you’re not keeping an illegal lizard in the flat.” John reprimanded.

“Well obviously not, this one’s dead.” He slipped the egg into his coat pocket.

 Wishing Molly a good night, the two men left the morgue. As the doors swung shut behind him, John casually asked, “What was his name again?”

“Whose name?” Sherlock asked, sounding preoccupied.

“The bloke that had the lizards in his gut? Remember him?” John asked sarcastically.

“Oh, him. I don’t know. Never asked.”

John sighed. He had been elbow deep in the man’s abdomen for the past two hours, but he didn’t even know the poor fellow’s name. It was the type of indifference that John used to reprimand Sherlock for, yet here he was committing the crime himself. Is this who I always was, and Sherlock is only bringing it out in me? John thought to himself, or am I changing to be better for Sherlock?

And do I really care either way?