Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The decision to move back to Baker Street came on a glorious summer day in London. Sherlock, John, Mrs Hudson and Molly had been busy all morning putting the final touches on the restored flat. When the afternoon heat became somewhat stifling, John had suggested that they take Rosie to the local park for a picnic, seizing the opportunity to celebrate both their hard work and the rare weather. He was back to regularly seeing Ella, his old therapist, who had pressed the importance of acknowledging the good times as well as struggling through the bad. And god knew there had been enough of those for a lifetime.

A lazy breeze rolled through the trees above their small group, bringing with it a pleasantly relaxed atmosphere and a lightness that John hadn’t felt in months. John couldn’t help but chuckle at the uncommon sight of Sherlock sprawled out on the picnic rug – all long, graceful limbs and looking as close to casually relaxed as Sherlock ever got – whilst somehow not losing a bit of the posh, composed demeanour that surrounded him always.

He was sans coat and suit jacket, his dark shirt rolled at the sleeves and top buttons open to the warmth of the day, spoon feeding Rosie gelato from a paper cup. John laughed as some missed its target and dripped on Sherlock’s ludicrously expensive shirt and Sherlock scooped it up, not phased in the slightest, with a smile that John had come to recognise was specially reserved for his daughter. He felt a sudden surge of affection towards his friend and it occurred to him, with striking clarify, that this is where he and Rosie were meant to be.

It had been an exceedingly rough few months, for everyone, as they each struggled to deal with the aftermath of the tumultuous events surrounding Mary’s death, Sherlock and John’s falling out, of Eurus, Sherringford and Musgrave, and the destruction of the place he and Sherlock had once called home. John had thrown himself into the careful rebuilding and restoration of 221B, part of him pretending, and perhaps hoping, that the cracks inside himself could be repaired as purposefully as those of the flat. He thought in a way that they had all tried to convince themselves of that, even Sherlock with his stubborn rejection of sentiment.

Between everything else, he and Sherlock been working on cases, though this had been challenging without a proper base. There had been nothing beyond a five really, and though Sherlock had proclaimed case after case to be “dull” and barely worthy of his time, John couldn’t help but notice that these condemnations were made with far less disgust than they had been in the past. John could hardly blame him, feeling less than enthused himself at the prospect of jumping right back into the deep end after everything that had happened.

Things between them had been slowly getting better since the turning point of John’s breakdown on Sherlock’s birthday, when the fateful day at Culverton Smith’s hospital and the events since had been so unbearably raw in his mind and heart.

"Sherlock," he'd said quietly, pulling the other man aside just before they left to meet Molly and the others at Speedy’s.

"This is for you, it's just something small," John had said, pushing a wrapped gift into Sherlock's hands.

Sherlock had looked taken aback and a small pang shot through John at the idea that he'd probably not received birthday presents since he'd moved away from his parents in his teens.

"You didn't have to..."

"I know," John had interrupted. "But I wanted to."

“Thank you, John, that’s very…thoughtful,” Sherlock had muttered, a little uncertain and clearly not used to this kind of attention, but a small smile had played about his lips.

John had taken a deep breath, forcing himself to maintain eye contact with the taller man.

"I also wanted to apologise for what I did to you."

The words had been hard to get out, not because he didn't mean them but because he still couldn't wrap his head around what he had done, even though the physical evidence was quite literally staring him in the face.

"I have no idea what came over me, I barely even remember what happened. I was out of control, I was-"

"You were grieving," Sherlock had broken in insistently, almost sharply, but his expression had been warm and John had seen compassion there that he damn well knew he didn't deserve.

"You weren't yourself," Sherlock had insisted softly. "And I...deserved it."

"No," John had replied immediately, emphatically shaking his head. "No, Sherlock, you didn't. There is absolutely no excuse for what I did. And there are no words to put it right. But all the same…I am so, so sorry."

He'd run a shaking hand across his face, forcing himself to take another deep breath.

"Well, I forgive you, John. Completely and unreservedly," Sherlock had replied quietly in his low baritone.

John had huffed out a small exhalation of relief and pulled Sherlock into a brief, slightly clumsy hug, which Sherlock had returned with surprising ease.

“So,” Sherlock had said with an air of finality as they broke apart. “Cake?”

“Cake,” John had confirmed with a nod.

And their eyes had met then, both smiling genuine smiles at one another for the first time in ages. It had felt good.

But whilst Sherlock had forgiven him with such grace, it hadn’t been so easy for John to forget. He was acutely aware that it wasn’t the first time he had touched Sherlock with violence and was ashamed to recall his reaction when Sherlock had “returned from the dead”. The recollections still gnawed at him in both his waking and sleeping hours. They had piled onto the already extraordinary amount of guilt he carried with him – over Mary’s death and his affair, such as it was, over not being a good enough father to Rosie and not being a good enough friend – and compounded with his grief to sit like a dead weight around his shoulders and lead within his stomach.

When he was awake he had tried to focus on Rosie – on being the best parent he could be, on relishing the moments of simple joy that she was so blessedly capable of bringing him. It was in his sleep that he couldn’t escape the thoughts that chased him relentlessly and held him captive. Still, John was coping – barely, gradually, painfully – but coping.

And then, just a few short months later, Eurus had erupted into their lives, shattering any kind of normalcy that they had succeeded in rebuilding with those around them. His and Sherlock’s relationship wasn’t the only one that suffered as a result. Though Sherlock had explained everything to Molly Hooper, and had apologised sincerely and without reservation, it was only his later actions that would make her finally able to properly forgive him.

Sherlock had promised her that he would do better, he would be a better friend, and John had seen him strive to do just that through his actions – paying her far greater attention, acknowledging her value and talents, and thinking before he spoke. John watched as their relationship slowly healed and became stronger. Though still far from perfect and not without its cracks, it gave John hope for the future.

Sherlock and John had been forced to start again, this time to literally rebuild the pieces of their shattered lives through the flat they had once shared. When the job was finally done, it seemed inevitable that he and Rosie eventually move in. John had been living in limbo – not willing to let go of his former life but also not willing to move forward. He hadn’t been working, unable or unwilling to put Rosie into care so soon after her mother’s death, opting instead to spend his days with his daughter whilst living off his quickly dwindling savings.

But after a particularly trying day, John had to finally acknowledge to himself that living in their home in the outskirts of London, what felt like a long way from his support network of friends, just wasn’t working. As much as it pained him to leave the home he and Mary had lived in together, the home in which they became a family, he couldn’t imagine the kind of life he and Rosie would have with Mary’s ghost by their side, ever-present yet never truly with them. Though he had stopped seeing her not long after his breakdown and confession about the text affair, he had to admit that the living situation wasn’t healthy for him or, therefore, for Rosie.

John had cautiously floated the idea of moving back in with Sherlock, who had immediately agreed and had been beyond wonderful throughout the whole process. Though slightly flabbergasted and vaguely wondering what had happened to the sociopath he once knew, John was utterly appreciative of everything Sherlock had done for him and Rosie.

He’d helped with packing, knowing exactly when his presence rather than his words were needed as John painfully packed away the pieces of his life with Mary, then the move itself and helping them get settled into John’s old room and, to John’s immense surprise, he’d gone so far as to baby proof the flat. Mrs Hudson had even permitted Sherlock to use the empty basement flat to keep his experiments away from curious hands (“I’ve never been able to rent the bloody thing out anyway, dear,” she had insisted).

It wasn’t until all was said and done, and John had practically collapsed into his old armchair as Rosie napped upstairs after a long day of moving, that John registered just how surreal it felt to be once again living at Baker Street. He glanced at Sherlock – curled up comfortably on his chair across from John, silk dressing gown wrapped around him, engrossed in something on his laptop – and allowed himself a small smile.

“Tea?” he asked.

It felt good to be home.

Chapter Text

It’s in their third week of living together again that Sherlock and John have their first proper case. With everything that had been going on, John had been lax with keeping the blog up to date, typing up only very brief summaries of their cases that were more for his and Sherlock’s reference than for public consumption. But now that Baker Street was back up and running it seemed that news had quickly spread.

Given the increase in interest in their work, John had decided to take only a part time GP role with a local clinic, with his morning shift allowing plenty of time in the afternoons and evenings for case work and spending time with his daughter. He’d hired a carer for Rosie – thoroughly investigated and vetted by Sherlock, of course – with Molly and Mrs Hudson insisting that they were also happy to look after her should the need arise.

To John’s immense relief, the living situation was working out remarkably well. In many ways, it felt like he had never left, with he and Sherlock easily slipping back into their routines (or lack thereof, in Sherlock’s case), their tea and takeaway, sometimes talking about cases, other times nothing in particular, sometimes enjoying comfortable silence in the evenings as John watched crap telly or read and Sherlock sat very still thinking then furiously tapped away at his phone or laptop. But then, on the other hand, there was Rosie. Whilst John had never seen Sherlock be anything less than charming and patient with his daughter, and trusted him with her implicitly, he had to admit he’d been nervous about the combination of Sherlock and a baby under the same roof.

But it seemed that his worry was all for naught, because Sherlock so far continued to be nothing short of besotted with the youngest Watson. Her behaviours and cognitive development, the way she absorbed new information and knowledge, seemed to have enraptured him. More than once, John had overheard Sherlock utter “fascinating” under his breath as Sherlock and Rosie played a game or as he showed her something new.

It helped that Sherlock could retreat to his basement flat if he needed peace and quiet, or an answer that only a gruesome experiment could solve. John was relieved that Rosie had been sleeping solidly through the night after several months of being unsettled and without a proper routine. Unfortunately the same couldn’t be said for John and his persistent nightmares, but he was grateful that at least in his sleep deprived state he was able to settle Rosie without too much trouble into her cot in the room they shared upstairs, keeping a baby monitor close at hand in the lounge room.

To his amusement, he had found that Sherlock was also attentive to the monitor and had once come out of the shower in his robe to find Sherlock in his room, patting Rosie’s back to soothe her back to sleep. Sherlock had stiffened slightly when he’d sensed John at the doorway, as though it had suddenly occurred to him that this might be overstepping a boundary, and John had reassured him with a smile that he didn’t mind in the slightest and was very thankful. What John hadn’t said is that it had been like a seeping beam of light in the darkness for him to feel some of the weight lifted from his shoulders as he adjusted to this new life in which he had his support network, a village to help raise his child.

******
Presently though, John bursts through the door of 221 Baker Street, swiftly pulling off his light jacket and resolutely not looking at Sherlock. The interrogation of their key suspect had not gone well. In fact, despite John’s warnings, Sherlock had gone in guns blazing in his usual manner. The suspect, of course, did not react well, instead choosing to flee then attack like a rat when he was cornered. Sherlock had underestimated him, as he was sometimes inclined to do, and quick as lightning the suspect had pulled a switch blade knife as Sherlock had dived at him. Sherlock had hit the ground roughly, clutching at the wound on his shoulder with a hiss of pain as the perpetrator scuttled away into the night. John had run to him, doctor and solider mode fully engaged, and for one or two heart stopping moments John had thought it was much more serious than it actually was.

Now back at the safety of the flat, his emotions are a pendulum swinging from concerned but relieved to fuming and frustrated, and he tries desperately to get himself under control before heading upstairs where Mrs Hudson has been looking after Rosie. He isn’t quite sure why he’s so angry but suspects that it’s borne out of fear. After all he and Sherlock have been through, the thought of anything serious happening to his best friend completely terrifies him. And the thought of losing him, again…
He pushes the paralysing thoughts aside and climbs the stairs, his foot fall perhaps a little heavier than it should be.

“Ah, back so soon, loves?” Mrs Hudson’s voice rings out cheerfully as John enters the flat.
“Yeah, well, it didn’t exactly go as planned,” John says shortly, shooting a glare at Sherlock as he comes into the room.
“Oh gosh, Sherlock, look at you! What have you done to yourself?” Mrs Hudson frets, rushing over to him to get a better look at the wound on his shoulder.
“I’m alright, Mrs Hudson, it’s only superficial, no need to fuss,” Sherlock replies impatiently, waving her away gently.
Mrs Hudson backs off slightly but tsk tsks, wringing her hands together tightly.
“You boys, I do worry about you so. It’s a good thing you have such a wonderful doctor on hand to look after you, Sherlock.”
Sherlock’s eyes meet John’s eyes briefly.
“Yes it is,” he agrees quietly, and John feels his frustration simmer down minutely.

John turns to Mrs Hudson, forcing a smile onto his face.
“Thank you again for looking after Rosie on such short notice.”
“It’s no trouble, dear. I put her to bed about an hour ago so she should sleep right through now.”
“Mrs Hudson, you’re a saint,” John replies gratefully, pulling her into a half hug and dropping a kiss on her cheek.
“Oh it’s my pleasure, John, she’s never a bother,” she says, dismissing his praise with a slight blush and a wave of her hands.

John’s head whips around as Sherlock moves to sneak past them to his bedroom.
“Nuh uh, get back here, Sherlock, I’m not done with you,” he says sternly, and Sherlock has the good sense to stop in his tracks and return silently to the living room.
He leans back against his desk with his arms folded petulantly, and now that his blazer and coat are off, John observes that his dark shirt is ripped and stained but there’s not a large amount of blood. He notes that Sherlock looks a bit drained, but not visibly in a great deal of pain. There’s a loaded pause and Mrs Hudson promptly gathers her crotchet work from the arm of John’s chair. John lips quirk into a half smile when he notices that she’s working on another tiny jacket for Rosie, mint green this time.
“Well, I’d best be getting back downstairs, loves, so I’ll leave you to it. Goodnight you two.”

They echo their goodnights as Mrs Hudson leaves the flat, closing the door behind her.
“Shirt off please,” John says as he turns to Sherlock, his voice slipping easily into doctor mode with just the faintest threat of military command.
“But, John,” Sherlock complains, “It’s barely more than a scratch, I really think you’re over--”
“Now, Sherlock,” John barks, then immediately regrets the harshness of his tone as he registers that Sherlock looks slightly taken aback.
He takes a long breath and sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Sorry. Just…let me take a look at it? Please?”
Sherlock surveys him evenly over steepled fingers, apparently deciding whether or not to argue or to comply with John’s request.
“Fine,” he bites out finally, starting to unbutton his shirt reluctantly.

He undoes it most of the way and shrugs out of it, leaving his shoulders exposed but his back largely covered, and sits on the arm of his leather chair silently as John examines him.
“Well, you’re right, it’s fairly superficial and it won’t need stitches. But I’ll need to clean it up and bandage it.”
John retreats to the bathroom, rifles through the cabinet for his medical supplies, and returns to stand in front of his patient. Sherlock makes a tiny noise in his throat as John applies some antiseptic liquid that stings but John is pleased that he’s otherwise remarkably well behaved. He gently presses his fingers into the flesh around the wound, checking for swelling and making sure there’s been no muscle injury.
“There’s going to be quite a bit of bruising to this area, so you’ll need to take it easy for a few days,” John instructs, using his professional voice again.

Sherlock nods, and John moves to examine the back of his shoulder, carefully testing the tenderness there too. He feels more than sees Sherlock stiffen and go perfectly still.
“Is it sore there?” he asks.
“No, it’s fine,” Sherlock replies quickly, trying without much success to adjust the shirt and cover more of his back.
But now John has seen something that makes his heart lurch uncomfortably in his chest.
“Sherlock, what’s all this?”
Sherlock remains frozen and seems to be holding his breath. He clears his throat quickly before speaking.
“It’s nothing,” he replies quietly, and John has the distinct impression that he’s trying hard to keep his voice even.
“These scars, they’re--”
John cuts himself off as the light catches Sherlock’s back in a certain way, revealing the full extent of the scarring, and has to stop himself from letting out a gasp. There’s a plethora of scarring that seems to span the full length of Sherlock’s back, some scars deeper than others, some longer, some too perfectly round or symmetrical to be random. The scars look patterned, deliberate, and it takes John a moment to recognise them for what they are. Then the realisation sinks in, slowly and horribly. A wave of nausea sweeps over John and he closes his eyes against it.

“Serbia?” John asks, hoping beyond hope that he’s wrong.
Sherlock pauses a moment before answering.
“Serbia,” he confirms softly.
John’s stomach lurches again as he thinks of the horrific treatment Sherlock must have suffered through.
“How long were you--”
“Six weeks.”
“Six weeks. Six weeks?”
John struggles to keep his voice steady and hates himself when he hears the unmistakable tremor within it. He inhales, holds his breath, exhales.
“Why so long?”

John doesn’t verbalise it but what he really wants to ask is “why did it take Mycroft so long?”. He feels anger lick at his sides again, but for a completely different reason to earlier that night. Sherlock, of course, doesn’t miss his underlying meaning.
“Because that’s how long it took Mycroft to locate me, infiltrate their ranks, get to me and help me escape. He did the best he could.”
His tone is calm but John can hear the concealed warning, a sign that his tolerance of the topic is wearing thin. John decides not to push it. The night has been hard enough for both of them and he had never expected this. He draws his hand lightly over the scarred skin again in what he hopes is a soothing gesture. He’s sure it’s clumsy and he isn’t even sure why he’s doing it. He just doesn’t know what else to do as thoughts invade his head and consume him.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” John says, his voice rough and barely above a whisper.
“Thank you.”
Sherlock pauses, apparently allowing himself a moment as John’s palm remains flat against the space between his shoulder blades.
“I never meant for you to know about this.”
His voice is stronger now and he’s pulling away, pulling the ruined shirt around himself, hiding the evidence of his past. Though Sherlock doesn’t appear overtly upset, John’s heart aches at the gesture.

“But why? Maybe I could have…helped…somehow,” he says weakly, knowing it’s a stupid thing to say.
“I’m fine, John. Really. It’s in the past.”
There’s so much John wants to say, so many questions he wants to ask. His head is still spinning and he feels somewhere between crying and retching. But he knows he has no right – this isn’t about him. With considerable effort he simply nods, not wanting to push Sherlock further.
“I’m going to take a shower,” says Sherlock, moving in the direction of the bathroom, and John nods again.
“Try not to get that dressing wet,” John replies. “I’ll redo it tomorrow though.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock says again.
Then he disappears behind the closed door.

Not long after, John lies in his bed in a half-hearted attempt to get to sleep. He knows it’s futile – his mind is claustrophobic from too many questions, and an overwhelming sense of guilt is pressing upon him from all sides. Suddenly his attacks on Sherlock in the past seem a thousand times worse, and a strong part of him keeps insisting that he’s no different to the monsters who did this to Sherlock. He’s sickened when he remembers how he tackled Sherlock to the ground when he had first reappeared in John’s life…when the wounds would still have been fresh and hurting him. You didn’t know, you wouldn’t have done it if you’d known a small part of his mind interrupts, but he dismisses it with disgust, not wanting to allow himself to feel even marginally better about this. The crushing weight is back upon him with a vengeance and suddenly he’s exhausted. Finally, with excruciating slowness, John falls into a shallow, restless slumber.

******

He awakens panicked, the crushing feeling heavier upon his chest than ever, making him feel like he can’t breathe. He hears himself cry out – an awful, inhuman kind of sound – and suddenly Sherlock is before him, hands on John’s shoulders and concern evident on his face even through John’s panic. John forces himself to suck some air into his burning lungs.
“Sherlock, you’re alive,” he chokes out, the shadows of the nightmare still invading the edge of his peripheral.
“Yes, I’m alive, John, I’m here. It’s okay, it was just a nightmare.”
Sherlock’s steady, calm voice and comforting presence so close to him brings John down just enough to remember what had been haunting his unconscious mind. The vision of the nightmare, so real, still swims before his eyes. A flash of Sherlock’s lifeless face and blood pouring from his head after his fall from the rooftop. Sherlock bound and tortured. The former is a familiar reoccurrence in his nightmares but the latter is a new one. John runs a shaky hand over his face, and when he speaks his voice is so breathless and strained that he barely recognises it as his own.
“I was there with you and I didn’t help you, I just watched as they…”
He trails off, unable to complete the horrific thought.
“God, I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”

He knows he’s not apologising for what he did in the nightmare but isn’t sure if the apology is again for what he’d done to Sherlock or for bringing up what had happened in Serbia, or maybe for both. John lets out an involuntary sound that is somewhere between a sigh and a sob, and Sherlock’s grip on his arms tightens compassionately. He finds himself grasping at Sherlock’s arms around his own. The other man is wearing his blue silk dressing gown over his sleep shirt and pants, and the warmth coming from his skin through the thin fabric is remarkably reassuring.
“It’s okay, John, it’s okay, it’s not real,” Sherlock murmurs soothingly, drawing John in closer now.
John says nothing, allowing himself to be comforted as he gets his breathing under control, but he knows that part of the nightmare is not only very real but that they’ve lived it. They stay like that a few moments longer without the need to speak, and it feels strange but uplifting to have Sherlock’s unmistakable scent – familiar and pleasant, the smell of home – all around him.

“Thank you,” John says shakily, “How did you know--”
“I heard you through the baby monitor downstairs,” Sherlock replies almost apologetically, with a slight quirk of his lips.
John huffs out a small laugh, looking over to Rosie in her cot on the other side of the room and relieved to find that she’s still sleeping soundly. The fact that she’s such a deep sleeper in another small mercy in his life.
“I think I’m okay now,” John finally musters the strength to say.
Sherlock seems to take this as his cue to leave and goes to stand up, but John catches his arm.
“Please don’t go.”

The words are out of his mouth before he’s even had a chance to register them. He curses internally at his neediness, at putting Sherlock in such a position when even the most everyday social encounters can be baffling to him. But Sherlock appears unfazed by the request and he’s already moving back towards the bed, towards John.
“Of course I’ll stay, if that’s what you need.”
John turns and pulls back the covers on the other side of the bed and Sherlock climbs in gracefully then lies on his back, tilting his head towards John’s so they’re facing each other in the darkness.
“People would definitely talk if they heard about this,” John can’t help but say.
Sherlock’s deep chuckle seems to reverberate through John’s chest and he joins in, feeling some of the tightness melt away. Their laughter fades but John can sense their mutual smiles through the inky blackness of the room.
“Get some sleep,” Sherlock murmurs, “You’ll need your strength for that bundle of raw chaotic energy you’ll be chasing around after tomorrow.”
John huffs out another short laugh at Sherlock’s reference to his now very mobile daughter, but he’s so exhausted that it doesn’t long for sleep to claim him once more.

Chapter Text

John wakes with a start, looking frantically around himself as though he’s lost something but can’t remember what. He sits up too quickly and blearily peers into Rosie’s cot. Empty. His brain struggles to fight through the morning grogginess to remember where she is – could she be with Molly or Mrs Hudson? No – then remembers that Sherlock spent the night in his bed. He’s probably taken her downstairs, John thinks, and he sits very still and listens. He makes out a barely perceptible low voice – Sherlock’s – then Rosie’s unmistakable squeal of delight.

He smiles to himself and relaxes back into the pillow, feeling guilty for wanting five more minutes. But his alarm clock tells him that it’s still early and his foggy mind reminds him that yet again he didn’t have the best night’s sleep. He heaves a heavy sigh, wondering how long it will be before he stops feeling so broken. He knows he’s come a long way from where he was just after Mary’s death, but he’s exhausted from the nightmares, from the guilt that still gnaws at him, from the effort of trying to be a better father, friend, doctor…and whatever role it was that he played in his work with Sherlock. He’s beyond grateful for all the help that everyone has given him and he knows that his support network will be there for him through anything he needs. But he’s not even sure what he needs anymore.

He can’t deny that Sherlock’s presence the night before had helped him immensely and he finds himself feeling slightly disappointed when he can tangibly feel the empty space beside him where Sherlock had laid. It had been one of the worst parts of adjusting to life without Mary – the empty bed that they had once shared may as well have been as vast as the ocean. He had to admit that having a warm body beside his for the first time in months had been wonderfully comforting and pleasant, even if that body did belong to one Sherlock Holmes. He thought of Sherlock’s strong arms around his shoulders as he’d battled through the throes of his panic attack, and how much it had grounded him. Amazing how powerful touch can be, John reflects. He’s never been an overly tactile person himself, not one who’s often prone to extended cuddling and certainly not public displays of affection. But in recent months he’s come to crave it more and he has to admit that being closer to Sherlock again is probably at least partially to blame.

He remembers quite clearly one of the first times Sherlock had touched him. They’d been at Baskerville and were still cooling off the morning after their blazing row, in which Sherlock had vehemently informed him that he doesn’t have friends. John had been stalking away through the graveyard after a half-hearted apology from Sherlock. Then Sherlock had suddenly and very deliberately grabbed his arm and it had shot through him like an electric shock because Sherlock had never done that before. Sherlock had always seemed determined to avoid any kind of touch, any kind of emotion, yet here he was breaking all of his own self-imposed rules. For John. He had tried not to look too pleased but had felt a definite change within their relationship – now they were officially friends. After that there had of course been the odd casual touches, the handshakes and pats on the back here and there. The strong urge he’d felt to pull Sherlock into a hug before he boarded that plane when they’d both thought he was leaving again, this time forever. But that would have made their predicament too real, and he doubted that either of them were prepared to face the reality of the situation. Thank god they hadn’t needed to, in the end.

John’s wedding had been the catalyst for a few more surreal moments. It had allowed John to see a side of Sherlock he hadn’t even known existed – for example, who would have thought that Sherlock was such a skilled dancer? But then of course he was, the posh git. But Sherlock was nothing if not unpredictable and John (mostly) found it fascinating to learn more about his enigmatic best friend. He fondly remembers their first dancing lesson. Sherlock had first demonstrated the movement as John had stood there somewhat awkwardly, already feeling clumsy and inadequate compared to the other man, who somehow managed to look impossibly graceful whilst wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown.   

“Alright, take my hands,” Sherlock had instructed, coming to a standstill in front of John. 

John had done so without hesitation and with only the slightest blush, and Sherlock had easily swept them into a rhythmic pace. As he did his best to keep up with Sherlock’s effortless steps, he couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit lucky that he – and only he – got to see this side of Sherlock. He kept his eyes trained on his and Sherlock’s feet, mind struggling as it willed his body to follow along.

“Don’t look at your feet, John, look at me,” Sherlock had commanded smoothly. “It’ll be easier that way, trust me.”  

John did, and Sherlock’s eyes were particularly extraordinary that night – clear and pale jade as a polished gemstone – the shadows from the warmly lit room accentuating the cheekbones and porcelain skin, framed by the intricately wild curls. He understood, admittedly not for the first time, why so many people admired Sherlock’s physical appearance. He really was rather beautiful. The thought had popped into John’s head before he’d been able to stop it, and John had felt himself blush, furiously registering that Sherlock had almost certainly not missed it. He had hoped that Sherlock had interpreted it as John’s embarrassment over the awkwardness of the situation and his own ineptitude and not the far more humiliating truth.  

Practicing the dip had been by far the most entertaining part of the whole endeavour. Several attempts had them laughing so uncontrollably that they’d needed to stop and collect themselves before continuing. Then – finally! – John had nailed it, dipping Sherlock low and deep. He’d held him there for what could be considered a moment too long when the front door of their flat and swung open and Mrs Hudson blustered in, already mid-way through a sentence. She had stopped abruptly, not bothering to hide her grin at the scene, and John had almost dropped Sherlock in his rush to disengage from him.

“Oh gosh, sorry dears, didn’t realise I was interrupting your-”

“Not interrupting anything, Mrs Hudson” John had said quickly, clearing his throat. “We’re just having a little dance practice…you know, for my wedding.”

“Of course, don’t mind me loves, I’ll let you get back to it and come back later.”

But neither of them had missed her suggestive wink as she left, and as soon as the door had closed behind her they’d burst into another fit of giggling.

Weeks later, at the wedding itself, John had been moved to tears by Sherlock’s speech, interrupted though it was by the need to solve a case and save Major Sholto’s life. He’d pulled Sherlock into a hug without so much as a second thought, acting on an impulsive desire to show the man just how much he appreciated his words and the rare glimpse of Sherlock’s genuine feelings behind them. Although he was marrying Mary and loved her immeasurably, he had never felt closer to Sherlock than at that moment and knew that, as far as matters of the heart were concerned, there were no limits to his love of these two people.

And then of course all that had been ripped away from him as Mary had died in his arms, as he watched the life leave her eyes, a large part of his going with it. Despite everything that followed, Sherlock was infallibly there, taking John’s anger without protest and trying to put him back together when he inevitably fell apart. John remembers being slightly surprised that Sherlock had known just what he needed and had slowly and deliberately wrapped his hand around John’s arm, drawing him close, the long fingers of his other hand coming up to curl around the back of his neck. Sherlock’s presence so close to him had felt right and endlessly reassuring – he was safe here – and he’d finally felt something deep within him release as he’d clutched at Sherlock’s clothing, face buried in his chest, and silently sobbed. Neither of them had spoken any further, Sherlock had simply wrapped both arms around John and stroked soothing circles on his back, his face titled down and towards John’s, lightly brushing against his hair. They stayed that way for what felt like a long time, until John had gotten himself under control. Finally, somewhat reluctantly, they had parted. John had swiped his hand over his face, suddenly self-conscious now that Sherlock could actually see him.

“You know, for a self-confessed sociopath, you’re not too bad at dealing with an emotional wreck.”    

John’s voice had been slightly shaky but there was humour in his words, an attempt to break some of the tension. Sherlock had smiled and thrown him a wink.

“I should hope not, John. After all, I did learn from you.”

Not long after that, John had given Sherlock the most heartfelt apology he could muster, then they’d all eaten cake. Looking back, John now knew that it was the end of the horrible misfortune that had separated them and the beginning of their next chapter together. From there the only way had been up, and the months since had seen them grow closer than ever.

John thinks with a pang about last night and what he had learned about Sherlock’s time in Serbia. That Sherlock hadn’t wanted John to know about it – was it in part to spare him the pain and guilt of imagining what he had been through? – makes his heart throb painfully, though he think he understands and appreciates his reasons. He hopes Sherlock isn’t too sorry that John now knows his secret, or one of them at least. He allows the scene to play over in his mind once more, just as he had a multitude of times the night before as he lay in bed, waiting fruitlessly for sleep to claim him. He feels as though he’s analysed the interaction a thousand times, going over and over it in his head to pick apart his actions. He remembers how his friend’s warm skin had felt under his palm and how Sherlock had seemed to have found some small comfort in the way John had rested it there. He thought of how easily Sherlock had slipped into bed beside him. He couldn’t deny that it had felt nice…new, yet somehow blessedly familiar. Could it be that, just maybe, these small displays of affection were helping them both heal? Could it be that they both needed this?

He forces himself out of bed with a sigh, deciding he’s delayed the inevitable for long enough. At least it’s Saturday and he can take his time getting himself and Rosie ready. Then maybe a visit to the playground, he thinks, if the weather is pleasant enough. He pulls on his robe and slippers and plods down the stairs to the kitchen. Despite his drowsiness, the sight he sees brings a genuine smile to his face. Rosie sits in her high chair, cheerfully dunking a biscuit in her “tea” – a special concoction of warm milk and a tiny bit of chai that he and Sherlock make especially for her so she doesn’t make a fuss when they drink their own tea. She has her special plastic tea cup and saucer and is completely unconcerned about the mess she’s made with her partially crumbled shortbread. So is Sherlock, it seems. He’s leaning lazily against the kitchen counter in his silk dressing gown, his own favourite tea cup in hand, reading to Rosie from The Beekeeper’s Bible. Of course, the language is too advanced for the little girl to really understand, and she’s preoccupied with resolutely mashing a piece of biscuit into the tray in front of her, but she seems to be entertained by the sound of Sherlock’s voice.

“Morning, John,” Sherlock says as he enters the room, “tea?”

“I think I’ll need something a bit stronger today actually,” John replied, flicking the kettle back on and reaching for the French press in one of the cupboards.

He kisses Rosie’s chubby little messy cheek and ruffles her soft baby hair, then busies himself with preparing his coffee.

“I hope you don’t mind that I brought Rosie down,” Sherlock says. “You seemed like you could do with the extra sleep.”

“Not at all, appreciate it. How’s your shoulder?”

Sherlock shrugs.

“A little tender but otherwise fine, just as you said it would be.”

“Good,” John says with a satisfied nod.

The kettle boils and John pours water into the French press then pulls up a seat, noticing that Sherlock seems uncharacteristically hesitant, as though he’s debating with himself about something. Knowing that he’ll get nowhere if he pushes Sherlock, John flicks open the paper and waits for events to take their inevitable course.

“How are you feeling this morning?” Sherlock asks finally.

His tone is careful and measured, as though he’s not sure he should be asking. John looks up and meets Sherlock’s eyes with a reassuring smile.

“Better. Just a bit tired.”

John pauses and clears his throat.

“Listen, thanks again for being there for me last night. It…helped.”

“I’m glad, John,” Sherlock replies quietly.

Now it’s John’s turn to feel unsure, but he finds himself speaking anyway. 

“And if you…ever want to talk about it, anything I mean, you know where I am.”

“I do,” Sherlock agrees. “Thank you.”

They eat breakfast together, their funny little dysfunctional family of a kind, as London wakes up around them.

Chapter Text

No one could ever say that life with Sherlock Holmes was boring. In the past three weeks, they’d wrapped up a case (which John had typed up in the blog and titled “The Coding Lodger” – named so because the young woman, a web developer who had been in danger and was seeking refuge, had been sending and receiving via imbedded html code on various websites), had been visited by Mycroft (one of his regular updates about Eurus, who Sherlock still visits relatively uneventfully every month or so), and John had chanced a visit down to the basement flat that Sherlock was renting for his messier experiments (a decision he immediately regretted as he tried not to think too deeply about why in the world Sherlock needed that much camphor oil, something horrific about preserving and embalming, he’s sure). So there was all of that…and then there was the fact that occasionally he and Sherlock just so happened to share a bed.

It’s become something of a ritual that when Sherlock goes to bed – if he goes to bed – it’s next to John. John’s not even entirely sure how or why or when it happened, just that one night not long after the night he’d found out about Serbia, he’d been just about to drift off and had heard the unmistakable creak of a floorboard near the top of the stairs outside the room he and Rosie shared. His door had been ajar – perhaps an unconscious invitation – and he could see a shadow floating hesitantly beyond the threshold.

“Sherlock?” he’d said in a loud whisper, not wanting to wake his slumbering daughter. “Is that you?”

“Yes, John, I thought I heard--”

“Get in here, you great big git.”

And that had been that. John supposed that any arrangement that encourages Sherlock to sleep through a solid chunk of the night in a proper bed had to be a good thing. But a larger part of him enjoys it for purely selfish reasons: that warm sense of comfort and contentment that he experiences when he’s close to Sherlock, the fact that his usual nightmares have been haunting him less, and when they do they’re less intense. Neither of them have verbalised their new arrangement and there seems to be an understanding between them that any mention would mark the end of it…and John senses that neither one of them wants that. So they go on pretending that it’s perfectly normal for two friends, who are now living and working together as well as raising a child under the same roof, to share a bed some of the time despite having no real reason to do so. But in a strange way, it’s working for them, so John tries not to question it too extensively. It is what it is.

He has bigger things to worry about anyway, including trying to manage a very active toddler who is going through a phase of resisting sleep even when very tired. Her lack of naps and delayed bedtime means that she spends most of the afternoons and evenings cranky, and by the time she finally settles John is feeling a bit that way himself, along with frazzled and exhausted. To add insult to injury, since solving the previous case Sherlock hasn’t had a new one in a week and is currently only slightly better behaved then Rosie. It’s all but driven John mad watching him pace and stalk around the flat, akin to a caged tiger, trying to expend some of that nervous energy as he hurls insults at John whenever he tries to help. On top of all that, work at the clinic has been ghastly, with a stomach bug that’s been going around resulting in patients heaving in his office on the regular. All in all, it’s been a bloody nightmare of a week and part of him wishes he’d taken Lestrade up on his offer of Friday night beers at the local pub.

At the moment though, there’s a brief respite and things are relatively quiet, despite the lingering discord. Rosie is occupied with a new set of building blocks that John had bought her in an obvious bribe so that he can have some time to himself, Sherlock is researching for an experiment and has spent the last forty five minutes curled up in his chair, entirely engrossed in his laptop and not uttering a word, and John is seizing the blissful peace and finally starting a new book that’s been at the top of his reading list for months. If only there could be more moments like this, he thinks wistfully, like the one early this morning in which he’d awoken when the light in the room was stronger than moonlight but paler than sunlight, the day still fresh and new. When he’d opened his eyes he’d been face to face with Sherlock, both of them on their sides and facing towards each other, their hands mere centimetres apart. He’d observed Sherlock openly, revelling in this rare opportunity to watch him without being judged or deduced, seeing his features just as they were, relaxed and free from the emotionless mask Sherlock often wears or the scorn that had been present this past week in the midst of one of his Dark Moods. Beautiful, John had thought, once again unable to stop the word from entering his mind. He’d forced himself to roll away, lie on his back, and not think about the fact that watching his best friend sleep was a bit not good.

John is deep within this little daydream when he hears it. The unmistakable sound of a breathy moan, erotic to the point of being obscene and more than a little exaggerated. John’s head snaps up and he feels himself bristle immediately, a reaction dazzling in its predictability. Sherlock refuses to meet John’s eyes, but his cheeks have coloured slightly as he silently reaches into his robe for his phone. John clears his throat but looks back down at his book, willing himself to say nothing. That lasts for approximately five seconds.

“You two are still in contact then?”

John forces his voice to remain casual, but inside he feels anything but. He tries not to analyse why that one little sound and those two words – The Woman – can so easily spark up a blazing fire within him. Sherlock gives a noncommittal hum as his eyes rapidly sweep over the screen of his mobile.

“How often?”

Sherlock looks up now, eyes narrowing as he surveys John, deducing him with practiced ease.

“Don’t do that, Sherlock, you know I hate it when you do that.”

John’s tone is sharp now and the air is suddenly rife with tension that had not been there a moment ago.   

“As I told you last time, I very rarely reply.”

Sherlock’s words sound considered, deliberately chosen, and as though he wants nothing more than to change the topic. But far from placating John, this only seems to make the tension more palpable. His glare bores into Sherlock and he notices Sherlock shift, as though slightly uncomfortable under the weight of it.

“It’s really not important, whatever was between us is in the past.”

Sherlock stands, depositing his laptop on the couch, and sweeps past John, phone still in hand. He gets as far as the kitchen before John’s next words stop him.

“Did you sleep with her?”

John hears the words come out of his mouth but can’t quite believe he’s said them. Of course, he’s been desperately curious since their initial encounter all those years ago, but he never meant to actually ask in such a blunt fashion. Worse still, his tone is cold and accusatory and even he can’t miss that it’s all but dripping with jealousy. He doesn’t remember getting to his feet but now he’s in the kitchen too, standing a few feet away from Sherlock, who has turned to face him, looking baffled. He quickly recovers and responds.

“Don’t be obtuse, John,” he says, his voice laced with derision.

“Surely even you are able to surmise from all the available information that I’ve never done that.”

The silence following his words hangs heavy and thick in the air of the flat. Sherlock looks as though he hadn’t meant to say the last part, and John knows he shouldn’t push it, knows he should leave it be, but he’s on a roll now and suddenly he has to know more, he needs to.

“With her or ever?” he blurts out.

His head is spinning. He must be out of his damn mind.

Sherlock looks like he’s been slapped, not managing to hide his surprise at the deeply personal question. He attempts to force his features back into something neutral, but there’s anger licking at the edges of the expressionless mask. 

“Ever,” he grits out, then “god, this is so pointless.”

Sherlock slams his phone down on the table in front of them with more force than necessary.

“Why do you even care? You’re the one who encouraged me to text her back.”

Sherlock’s frustration is growing and John registers that he did do that – though it seems a lifetime ago in some ways – not long after Mary had died and before his confession about his own text affair and subsequent breakdown.

“Yeah, well…things were…different then,” is all John manages to get out.

There’s a loaded pause, the friction in the air all but crackling. Sherlock is looking at John in that way again, and John grits his teeth. It’s Sherlock who speaks first.

“Is this about our recently formed habit of sharing a bed?”

John huffs out a humourless laugh, running his hand through his hair and behind his neck at the uncomfortable direction their conversation has taken. Now that their new arrangement has finally been put into words, it sounds even more absurd than it did in his head. 

“What does it matter if we share a bed? No, really. We’re already sharing a flat, a child, every other aspect of our damn lives.”

He doesn’t mean for his words to sound like an accusation, but they do. And he knows he’s not being fair, but he’s tired and his head is a mess and he feels confused as hell right now. Sherlock doesn’t back down, meeting his glare and staring him down. They both ignore Rosie’s soft whinging from her playpen in the corner of the lounge room, the threat of an impending tantrum. Sherlock’s eyes are electric, his cheeks slightly flushed, his hair sticking up at odd angles. Finally, Sherlock addresses him in a tone that sounds calmer than he looks. 

“Problem?”

It’s a simple question but John reads it for what it really is – a challenge.

“No, there’s no problem. Why would there be a problem? It’s not like everyone doesn’t already think we’re-”

“We’re what?” Sherlock cuts in abruptly.

John ignores him, unable as always to verbalise what it is people think they are. He knows Sherlock will be reading all kinds of things into that, including analysing why it is that John cares so much about what others think. The thought only serves to make him angrier.

“This isn’t normal, Sherlock, don’t you see that? Nothing about our lives is.”

God, what is he even saying? He’s happy with their living situation. This isn’t what he meant to say.

Sherlock lets out a growl of frustration, raking his hands through his hair.

“Who wants normal? It’s frightfully dull, it’s predictable, it’s-”

“You know what, I can’t do this right now,” John interrupts, snatching his keys up from the side table and pocketing them, but Sherlock’s next words stop him in his tracks.  

“Don’t pretend you want normalcy, John, when you know as well as I do what happens when you try to seek that out.”

John just stares at him and can only imagine the ferocity of his gaze because Sherlock’s face goes from careful indifference to a sudden look of horror, as if he’s only now realising how his words might be interpreted.

“John, I didn’t mean…I only meant that-”

“Just stop, Sherlock,” he all but shouts.

John walks back towards the lounge room, closes his eyes and forces himself to heave in a deep breath and collect himself before scooping up Rosie from her playpen. She protests bitterly as John perches her on his hip and grabs her nappy bag on the way towards the exit. He gives Sherlock one final glance.  

“I’ll…I’ll see you later, okay.”

And with that he leaves the flat, ignoring Sherlock’s pained expression, slamming the door behind him.

Chapter Text

John absently gives Rosie another push in the swing, his mind a million miles away. He usually loves seeing her excitement when they go to the playground – one of her very favourite places – but right now all he can think of is the horrible row and all the questions that have opened up in his mind. Why did he say those awful things? Why does he care what people think about their relationship? Why is he so bothered by Sherlock’s relationship, such as it is, with Irene? He doesn’t even know where to begin, doesn’t even think he wants to, and he makes a mental note to schedule a therapy session this week. The inevitable guilt has already started to sink in as he dwells on their exchange – he obviously has some issues to sort through but there was no need to lose his cool with Sherlock, who has (perhaps with the exception of this past week) been astoundingly helpful, patient and kind. John heaves a deep sigh, resolving himself to go home and apologise. He’s weary, miserable and freezing, having left his jacket back at the flat in his haste to retreat, and he knows at this point that he’s only delaying the inevitable.

“Ready to head home sweetheart?” he says to his daughter, “so daddy can apologise to Sherlock?”

“Lock!” Rosie exclaims, clapping her hands enthusiastically.

John smiles at Rosie’s attempt at Sherlock’s name, a fairly recent addition to her vocabulary that she learned not long after “Dada”.

Just as he’s about to bundle Rosie back into her stroller, there’s a tap on his shoulder. He turns around and finds himself face to face with Sherlock.

“Oh,” he says, taken aback.

Sherlock’s expression is calm and resolved, the most of his Dark Mood seems to have passed.

“John, I know you need some space but I couldn’t help but notice you’d left your jacket behind…”

He passes over the jacket and John accepts it wordlessly.

“…and I thought you might be cold,” he finishes, somewhat lamely, suddenly looking self-conscious. 

John’s gaze goes from his jacket to Sherlock and back again, so moved by the small but significant gesture that he’s lost for words. He’s horrified to find that a lump has formed in his throat and he clears it quickly, tearing his eyes away from Sherlock’s for fear that he’ll see the emotion that must be clearly visible.

“Thank you,” is all he manages to get out, as he pulls on the jacket and zips it up.

Sherlock nods his acknowledgement but seems reluctant to speak, clearly unsure as to whether he should stay or go. John blows out a long, slow breath.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I didn’t mean…any of what I said back at the flat. I’m truly grateful for everything you’ve done for me and Rosie. I just…”

He pauses and turns to push Rosie again, grateful to have a reason not to look at Sherlock as he says this next part.

“I didn’t mean for things to get so…complicated.”

Next to him, Sherlock is very still, and John feels his own cheeks turn pink. He focuses on pushing Rosie in the swing, and the little girl giggles with delight.

“I know I haven’t been an easy person to get along with at times,” John confesses, not missing the humour in the fact that it’s usually Sherlock who is the difficult one.

“And I’m going to keep working on that, because I want to be better. For Rosie. And for you.”

He chances a quick glance at Sherlock, who looks a little taken aback but pleased at the same time. When he speaks, his words are once again careful, considered.

“You’re doing just fine, John,” says Sherlock, and John feels a warm bloom of happiness in his chest, even if he doesn’t believe or feel he deserves Sherlock’s kindness.

“But maybe it’s best if we…go back to less unorthodox sleeping habits-”

John’s head flicks up and he fights against the urge to protest. 

“For now,” Sherlock continues quickly.

 “Would that make things…less confusing?”

John nods reluctantly.

“Good.”

Their eyes meet and they share a small smile.

****

John takes a large gulp of his tea, refocusing his eyes on the paperwork in front of him, willing himself into alertness. Its day three of their newest case, Sherlock is fully immersed in The Work, and it’s almost but not quite as exhausting as his prior boredom and restlessness. If he’s being completely honest, John is relieved that a case came their way the very day after their argument. It’s provided him with an excellent distraction to avoid the questions he must face, the therapy session he knows he needs. After all, he’s always found his work with Sherlock to be infinitely more effective than therapy ever was. Currently its one AM, Rosie is safe with Molly, and he and Sherlock are up to their elbows in records of telephone conversations and text messages.  

John drains his tea and pinches the bridge of his nose, sensing the need for a short break.  

“Another pot then?” he says.

Sherlock just hums, not looking up from his work and clearly barely even aware that John is there, and John can’t help but chuckle. He flicks on the kettle and leans against the kitchen bench with his arms folded as he waits for it to boil, letting his eyes linger on his flatmate. Sherlock is standing at the table in the centre of the room, his eyes alert and trained downwards to the paperwork he’s absorbed in. He’s wearing the dark purple shirt today, the one that John can’t help but notice each time he wears it. The shirt fits him particularly snugly and the colour complements his skin tone in a way that John can’t quite place. Tonight, the shirt has been rolled up at the sleeves, the collar left carelessly unbuttoned, exposing what seems like miles of alabaster skin of his impossibly long neck.

He’s leant over the table slightly, bracing himself with his slim but toned arms, the delicate violinist fingers spayed on its surface. His curls are more untamed than usual, having not been as meticulously tended to these past few days, and hang over Sherlock’s face, creating interesting shadows over the already fascinating planes and angles. His brow is furrowed in concentration and his pink cupid bow lips are parted slightly, every now and then moving silently as Sherlock sorts through his thoughts and questions as he speedily reads the text, undoubtedly dismissing some and filing away others for further consideration. He really is quite extraordinary. John feels his face grow hot at the thought but he seems unable to tear his eyes away from the man in front of him. Jesus, he really is losing it.

Sherlock’s eyes unexpectedly flicker up to his, their pale jade glittering subtly in the subdued light.

“John?”

John snaps out of his reverie, eyes back on the paper in front of him.

“Hmm?” he replies noncommittedly.

“You were staring,” Sherlock says bluntly, and John can feel his gaze burning into him.

John freezes momentarily, then mercifully the kettle finishes boiling and flicks off. John turns to it, lifting it with just the faintest tremble in his hand.

“I, uh, just asked if you wanted more tea.”

As he pours the hot water into the waiting tea pot he feels Sherlock’s eyes remain on him for another long moment before he turns his attention back to his work.

“No. Thank you.” 

They get back to work.

****

John sits in his therapist’s office and the silence stretches out before him, long and unhurried. He’s told her briefly about the argument and about the odd pattern they’d fallen into of sharing a bed, but now he’s finding it one of the harder sessions he’s had in a while, partially because he just doesn’t know where to start. Ella is watching him non-judgementally, patiently giving him the time and space she’s long since learnt he needs.

“Why don’t you tell me a bit more about the argument you mentioned?” she eventually prompts.

John reluctantly agrees and launches into the story, leaving out a lot of the finer details of their interactions with The Woman.

“Why do you think it bothered you so much that they’re still in contact?”

John sighs.

“I guess because I’m…jealous, in a weird way? It’s not that I want to be with him-” isn’t it? his brain helpfully interjects “-and I know I have no right, particularly since I was married, but…”

He’s not sure how to finish that sentence because he knows, realistically, that there’s no justification for him to feel this way. Yet, he does.

“I feel confused, like I don’t know what I want or why. And I’m exhausted, quite frankly, in more ways than one,” he finishes.

Ella regards him thoughtfully before speaking.

“You lost your wife less than a year ago and you’ve had to adjust to being a full time parent. That’s a lot for anyone to deal with. In addition to the new living situation, it’s to be expected that you’ll feel confused and fatigued.”

John nods, acknowledging that, yes, it’s certainly partially about Mary and Rosie. But, at the same time, it’s more than that.

“I just…”

John stops, breathes out slowly, tries again.

“I don’t know what’s changed. Or why. I find myself…watching him. Noticing things more than I used to. Wanting to be…I don’t know…closer to him?”

“There’s nothing wrong with that, John.”

“It just…it doesn’t make sense. I’ve never…had these feelings towards…a man before.”

The words are hard to get out, and he all but squirms in his seat having to say them. He’s someone who would more often than not prefer to let things go unsaid, but he knows that it’s neither helpful nor healthy to continue down that path. Seeing his discomfort, Ella smiles at him reassuringly, trying to make it as easy on him as possible.

“You and Sherlock have been through a lot together, more than a lot of friends would ever have to deal with. It’s to be expected that you might start feeling differently towards him than you would any other friend.”

John nods, taking her words on board.

“It’s more than that though. I find myself thinking about him…physically.” A pause. “And then there was this moment the other night…”

He feels himself colour as he recalls the incident two nights ago, the night they had wrapped up the case. They’d been chasing a perp down one of London’s countless alleys – a scenario that had played out hundreds of times over their years of working together. Suddenly there had been someone on their tail, armed and closing in on them, and they’d ducked into a narrow alcove as he’d rounded the corner. They’d been pushed up impossibly close together, chests pressed against one another, shallow breath mingling, neither of them daring to move. Their hearts both hammered wildly and John, for his part, wasn’t sure if it was the adrenaline of the chase or something else entirely. He’d looked up into Sherlock’s eyes and seen that glint of adventure, his love of the thrill of the chase, and repressed the urge to giggle.

As moments passed, he’d felt hot oddly around the collar and tried to tell himself it was the physical exertion and nothing more. But the longer he’d stood against Sherlock, feeling every breath and every lean muscle underneath his coat, the harder it had become to convince himself. Out of nowhere, he’d had the mad urge to rest his palm against Sherlock’s chest, against that ridiculous shirt and at the base of that long elegant throat, wondering if it would feel as much like hard, cool marble as it looked. He’d slammed his eyes shut, forcing the thoughts away, until he’d become aware of Sherlock’s gaze upon him. “John?” Sherlock had questioned in a whisper, evidently concerned by this strange behaviour. They had exchanged an odd, heated look that seemed to stretch on into infinity. John didn’t dare breathe, almost positive his thundering heartbeat could be clearly heard. But the next thing he knew, Sherlock was pushing him out of the alcove and taking off down the alley in the opposite direction to which they came. John was off after him before he could give it a second thought.

He recounts the event in as little detail as possible, feeling mortified at having to divulge something so personal.

“Would you say that you’re finding yourself attracted to Sherlock?” Ella asks. It’s a blunt question, but one that John accepts needs to be asked and answered outright.

“Yes,” he manages to say.

“I guess that would be a reasonable deduction based on the evidence.”

He’s sure it’s what Sherlock would conclude and tries not to think about the idea that Sherlock has likely already come to it himself.  

“Even though I wouldn’t consider myself to be…”

He finds he can’t say the word and instead blows out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. Why was this so difficult?

“Gay?” she supplies.

John nods once and feels uncomfortable all over again as Ella considers him.

“Has it occurred to you that just because you’re finding yourself attracted to him doesn’t mean that you’re gay?”  

“Doesn’t it?”

“No, I don’t believe it does. Sexuality can be a complicated thing, John. It’s not always black and white. In fact, there’s a lot of grey area for many people. You’ve always been attracted exclusively to women so it’s natural for you to now feel confused about your sexual identity and struggle to accept your attraction to Sherlock.”

“Yes, that’s it exactly,” he replies with relief, glad that he’s being understood without having to spell everything out so plainly.

“It’s certainly possible and it does happen. It doesn’t mean that you need to start thinking about yourself differently or labelling yourself in any particular way,” she says in her sensible but reassuring way.   

John nods, trying to process his thoughts.

“Let’s move on,” she says, “do you find yourself feeling concerned about being judged by others?”

“Honestly…yes,” he answers, “I wish I didn’t. But I’ve always cared. I guess I’ve been around a lot of…‘blokey’ environments – college, the army, the rugby crew – and I’ve always, well, fit in.”

“There’s no reason you can’t still fit in,” she replies, and John nods, mulling this over.

“Do you feel that those closest to you would accept you for who you are, whoever that may be?”

“I…I think so.”

“Then you have to consider whether or not it really matters what strangers think of you. You might come to find that the person judging you the most is yourself,” she says gently.

John nods, he already knew this but needed to hear it. Ella seems to sense his reluctance to dissect this particular topic any further at the moment, and changes tact.

“Do you feel that you would ever want to take things further with Sherlock?”

“No,” John says quickly. He rubs his eyes, struggling to verbalise his thoughts. “I…I can’t. He’s not interested in me in that way…or anyone really, that I’ve ever seen.”

He can’t help but recognise how bitterly disappointed he sounds.

“And besides, I wouldn’t want to ruin our friendship. It would…be a big risk.”

Ella nods understandingly and jots down a quick note.

“Do you believe Sherlock to be asexual?” she asks.

John lets out a slightly exasperated puff of air.

“He’s Sherlock bloody Holmes, who knows what goes on in that head of his.”

He thinks back to their argument and some of the new information it revealed.

“I do know that he’s never…been with anyone before…but I don’t know the details, or if he’s wanted to or…”

He trails off and suddenly the whole thing seems too much. Part of him wishes things could just go back to the way they were before all this – before The Fall, before Mary and Rosie and rebuilding 221B. He’s lost so much already, and the thought of losing the person closest to him is more than he can bear. He takes a deep, shaky breath.

“Let’s leave it at that for today, John,” Ella says, her voice gentle and kind. “You’ve done really well and we’ve made some great progress. I’d like to see you again in two weeks, if that would be okay with you?”

John nods, already feeling exhausted at the thought of wrenching himself open again in just two short weeks, but he knows it’s necessary. It’s not like he hasn’t been here before. He and Ella say their goodbyes and John heads out to the street, deciding that the weather is nice enough for the walk back to the flat. As tiring as his therapy sessions are, he has to admit that his head is clearer. By the time he’s climbing the stairs to the flat, he feels lighter than he has in ages.

Chapter Text

It’s a quiet evening at Baker Street, one of the rare occasions where they’re neither working on a case nor actively looking for one. Sherlock has been occupied with an experiment, and John, in the several days since his therapy session, has started to feel a bit more accepting of his new reality. After paying close attention to the people he’s encountered in his daily life, he’s re-affirmed that he’s not attracted to men in general but he is attracted to Sherlock. No big deal, he thinks, he can live with that. Nothing needs to change and nothing should change. God knows they’ve been through enough of that for a lifetime in the past two years alone.

He is however making a particularly strong effort to be as patient and kind to Sherlock as he possibly can, having resolved that he doesn’t want to be that man anymore – the one who lets his own insecurities, guilt and anger play out on those around him. He’d made a promise to Mary that he would be a better man, and he wants to be better than that, he must be better than that. Sherlock seems to be accepting this well, throwing him the occasional quizzical look but largely not protesting when John makes his favourite dinner or brings his preferred takeaway for lunch on his way back from the clinic, or when he allowed Sherlock to openly criticise the homicide show he was attempting to watch on the telly. He even offered to pick up specimens from Molly’s lab for Sherlock’s experiment without complaining once, though he’d been careful not to look too carefully at the sealed container he’d been given.

Awkwardly, but perhaps not unexpectedly, John’s finding it uncomfortable to be physically close to Sherlock. There had been the moment where he’d all but jumped out of his skin when Sherlock had leaned over him and whispered the answer the crossword puzzle question he was working on (because of course ‘desire’ was a six letter word for a state of wanting or yearning). Or the moment when Sherlock had actually cooked, and before John had known what was happening Sherlock had been upon him, spoon feeding him a taste of the sauce he’d been simmering (delicious, John had to admit). And, most memorably, when he’d walked in on a half-naked and very wet consulting detective who was fresh out of a steamy shower and wearing only a small towel slung impossibly low on his slender hips (honestly, who doesn’t properly shut a bathroom door when they’re taking a shower?! John had thought furiously once he’d recovered from his embarrassment). But if Sherlock had noticed, as John was sure he had, he said nothing.

Currently John is sat in his chair, flicking through the paper that he’d run out of time to read that morning. He’s resolutely trying to ignore the fact that Sherlock is practically draped over his own chair, his long legs dangling gracefully over one side, and wearing what appears to be a new silk robe and matching pyjama bottoms in a flattering shade of blue so rich it was almost black. It reminds John of the section of the ocean that transitions from shallow to very deep, and the way it looks against Sherlock’s otherwise bare skin is nothing short of criminal. Again, if Sherlock notices anything amiss he says nothing, seemingly absorbed in his emails on the laptop that is perched in his lap.  

“Well, there’s simply nothing else for it, we’re off to Cambridge,” Sherlock suddenly announces to the room at large. 

John is concentrating hard on pretending to read the newspaper so it takes him a few moments to register Sherlock's words.

“Sorry, you talking to me?” he asks, lowering the newspaper to his lap and looking over at Sherlock, whose face is still buried in his laptop.

“Of course, John, do keep up,” he replies briskly, not looking up.  

John waits for further explanation, but now Sherlock has abandoned his laptop and is furiously tapping away at his phone, apparently under the impression that the matter is settled.

“You seem to be forgetting that I do have responsibilities now, namely a child and a job, I'm not just at your beck and call to go off gallivanting around the country,” John replies sternly, but he can’t quite manage to keep his lip from quirking at the side.

“We’re not leaving until tomorrow afternoon, you’ve plenty of time to make the necessary arrangements,” Sherlock replies flippantly, then holds up his phone, where he has the Air B & B app open.

“I’ve booked us an apartment within walking distance of the Chem department until Sunday afternoon, that should give us plenty of time to investigate and wrap things up, wouldn’t you say?”

John puts on his best unamused face but secretly he’s looking forward to a chance for them to work on a case, uninterrupted, just the two of them…

“Can you at least fill me in on what it is we’re investigating?”

Sherlock huffs in an exaggerated way, as though it’s all terribly inconvenient, then sets his phone down on the arm of his chair and steeples his fingers in front of him.

“One of my old Cambridge teachers, Professor Soames, has contacted me to request my assistance. It seems that someone has hacked into his well secured computer and software program, which contained the answers to an upcoming exam. There’s rather a lot at stake given that the top student was to be awarded a sizeable cash scholarship.”

The room is silent for a few moments.

“That’s it?”

Sherlock looks slightly crestfallen that this summary has failed to impress John, but recovers quickly.

“Yes, that’s it, what were you expecting, the Penn State scandal?”

“Well, no, but this seems a five at best so I’m surprised you’re willing to go all the way to sodding Cambridge when most of the time you’re reluctant to leave the bloody street.”

Sherlock brushes this off with a shrug.

“Soames wasn’t a complete idiot, in fact he was one of the few people there I actually admired, so I’ve decided to take the case as a personal favour. And besides, we could both use some time away from London. Soak in the fresh air and whatever other dull things people do when they’re away from the big city.”

John raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything further. If Sherlock wants to spend the weekend with him outside of London, who is he to argue? He has to admit that it will be a nice change of pace, if only for a few days. He heaves himself to his feet with a sigh of resignation.

“Alright, if you say so. I’ll see if Molly’s free to take Rosie for the weekend.”

Sherlock gives him a satisfied nod, and John doesn’t miss the tiny smile playing about the corners of his lips, indicating that he’s very pleased with himself indeed.

****

The following afternoon is hectic – between finishing his Friday shift at the clinic, packing his overnight bag, and dropping Rosie at Molly’s along with a frankly unnecessary amount of supplies and a cheerful bunch of thank you flowers – and by the time they’re seated comfortably on the Great Northern train, he’s rather grateful for the chance to relax for an hour or so. Sherlock, however, seems visibly out of sorts. John has long since gotten used to Sherlock’s nervous energy whilst he’s working on a case, and he’s also well acquainted with the restlessness and boredom that come when he’s not had a case for a while, but this is…something else entirely. He’s suspiciously quiet, rather than relying on his usual pastime of recounting to John at top speed what he’s already deduced about the case, though John supposes he should be grateful for the rare journey of peace and quiet. He’s also anxious and fidgety, which only seems to grow worse the closer they get to their destination. John had diplomatically decided not to say anything, but the temptation was getting stronger and stronger the worse Sherlock got.

“Alright, I’ll tell you,” Sherlock says impatiently, the statement coming out of nowhere.

John looks up from the sporting section of the paper from where he’s sitting opposite Sherlock.

“Sorry, what?”

“Clearly even you’ve been able to observe that I’m anxious, not a difficult deduction based on my body language and uncharacteristic silence. You’ve surely taken into account that Cambridge is where I studied and, if so, it would be reasonable to conclude that my current state of anxiety is directly linked to our destination. But what is it that’s effecting me? Could it be the fear of running into former students, perhaps some of whom I didn’t get along with? Possible, but unlikely that I’d be experiencing such apparent apprehension when taking into consideration the statistically low chance that former colleagues would happen to be in Cambridge during the same weekend we are. So it’s something that is sure to happen, directly related to the case then. And what else could it be if it’s unrelated to the college itself, nor the students?”

John raises his eyebrows, a little relieved that at least Sherlock’s nervous state hasn’t rendered him entirely speechless.

“The professor?” he ventures, taking a stab in the dark.

“Not bad, John, I would have hoped you’d get there with a bit less prompting but better late than never I suppose.”

John ignores this insult in favour of dealing with the issue at hand.

“What about the professor then? You said you knew him when you studied at Cambridge?”

“Correct,” Sherlock says with a nod, “I’ve already said I admired him and that we grew to become close. But what I didn’t disclose is that our relationship was of a nature that would be considered to be…inappropriate between a university student and a professor.”

John freezes, blindsided by these words for more reasons than one. Sherlock’s cheeks are slightly pink and his demeanour has lost some of the arrogance of a moment ago. John opens his mouth and closes it again, at a complete loss of what to say.  

“It was nothing too serious, John,” Sherlock swoops in, coming to his rescue.

“I was young and admittedly naive and didn’t quite know what I was getting myself into. He was a decade older than me, had studied and travelled and worked extensively, and there I was, inexperienced, fresh out of college and barely eighteen years old. I suppose he was initially impressed with my cleverness and found my mannerisms endearing rather than off-putting, but eventually he grew bored with me. Most people do.”

John is still reeling from this unexpected revelation but finds his heart throbs painfully at the casual way Sherlock talks about this rejection, as though he’s so used to it that it doesn’t bother him in the slightest.

“Things ended badly,” Sherlock continues, “which led to me making some regrettable decisions. But it was a long time ago, and we both moved on. A few years ago we got back in contact and since then we’ve kept in touch, albeit infrequently. Then, as you know, he requested my assistance and I decided I would accept…only now I’m not convinced that was the wisest decision.”

John struggles to get his thoughts in order. He’s already decided that he deeply dislikes this man, despite this happening years in the past, and feels a strong surge of protectiveness swell up inside him. There are a hundred things he wants to say (namely, to point out how wrong it was for a professor in a position of power to have any kind of relationship with a student, no matter how clever said student had been) and a thousand questions he wants answers to (exactly what kind of relationship was this? Does this mean Sherlock has had a sexual relationship after all? Does this mean he’s gay?), but he pushes these aside. He knows it’s not really his place to push for more information and, more importantly, right now his friend is asking for his support.

“It will be fine, Sherlock. It was a long time ago, as you said. You’re doing him a favour and can just keep things professional yeah? And I’ll be right there with you.”

Sherlock nods minutely, looking slightly reassured but still not his usual self. John tentatively slides his hand closer to Sherlock’s on the table between them, carefully monitoring his reaction before placing it atop of his. Sherlock doesn’t visibly react, but John senses a small amount of the tension slip away.

“I know I didn’t know you back then,” John says quietly, “but I do know there are aspects of your past that you’re less than proud of, we all have them, I sure as hell do. Just know that I’m not judging you and that I will never…get bored of you.”

Sherlock gives him a small smile and flips his palm to squeeze John’s hand.

“Thank you, John. That means a lot.”

“And Sherlock, one more thing…”

“Hmm?”

“You said he wasn’t a complete idiot…but I have to disagree. He must have been to let you go.”

They stay like that for a long moment, eyes locked and hands linked, interrupted only when Sherlock’s phone buzzes loudly from within his jacket pocket. He starts ever so slightly and reaches for it, breaking their gaze and contact, and is all business once again.

“It’s Soames, asking our ETA. I’ve advised him we’ll head there right after we’ve checked into the apartment.”

After that, Sherlock silently taps away at his phone, leaving John to his thoughts.

The rest of the train journey is otherwise uneventful, with Sherlock’s nerves visibly calmer now that he’s confessed his reasons to John. They exit the station and hail a cab for the short ride to the apartment Sherlock has rented for them. When they get there it’s…not what John was expecting. It’s homely and cosy without feeling cramped, immaculately and luxuriously furnished without being overthought or showy. A country home, but with a modern flare. As John drops his overnight bag onto the chair beside the king side bed in his light and airy room, he’s already feeling as though he could get used to this. He meets Sherlock in the short entrance hallway and their eyes lock.

“Ready to do this?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Sherlock says with a sigh.

They head out the door and towards the university grounds, and although John notices the pointed way Sherlock fastens his scarf around his neck and turns up his coat collar, he has the good grace not to say anything.

Chapter Text

They walk through the posh, immaculately manicured grounds of the university and enter the equally as refined building. John has the immediate feeling that he doesn't fit in, about as much as Sherlock does fit in. As they walk towards Professor Soames’ office, Sherlock points out things along the way that have changed since he studied there and things that have remained exactly the same. John is relieved to note that the majority of Sherlock’s nerves from earlier in the day have dissipated or at least lessened, and he seems much more like himself as he prattles on about the history and architecture. Sherlock leads them straight to Soames’ office, remembering its exact location of course, and knocks on the open door before they enter.

“Sherlock Holmes, you made it! Do come in,” says Soames, looking nothing short of delighted as he approaches Sherlock and shakes his hand warmly.

“I must say I owe you a debt of gratitude for coming to help me out, it really is a most unfortunate situation.”

Sherlock hums noncommittally and turns his attention to John.

“This is my colleague and blogger, Doctor John Watson.”

“And close friend,” John adds before he can stop himself, but is relieved to note that Sherlock seems pleased with this addition.

He and Soames shake hands firmly.

“Yes, Doctor Watson, I know you from the papers and your blog of course. With your background you must find it challenging to work with someone who has such…unorthodox methods.”

John doesn’t miss the smirk that indicates he’s having a subtle dig at Sherlock, and feels a lick of anger flare up within him. 

“Quite the contrary,” he responds sharply, “it’s an honour to work with someone as brilliant as Sherlock.” 

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sherlock’s small smile, the same one he’s noticed in the past when John dishes out praise. Soames for his part seems unabashed and his smile remains.

“Well, he’s always been brilliant, there’s no denying that.”

After that John tries to speak as little as possible because, curious though he is, he doesn’t trust himself not to say or do something that would embarrass Sherlock. Instead, he focuses on Sherlock as he navigates around the computer system, clicking various things and asking questions every now and then. It’s quickly apparent that one of their key suspects is Brian, one of Soames’s PhD students and his assistant. Soames tells them that he’s asked Brian to come by his office, so Sherlock and John will be able to question him. It’s obvious that Soames doesn’t think him at fault, and equally as obvious that he’s already Sherlock’s number one suspect. They’re interrupted a short while later by a gentle knock on the door and Soames introduces Sherlock and John to Brian.

John steps aside to talk to him, but can’t help but observe Soames and Sherlock talking – Sherlock seems to have gotten his confidence back as he rattles off deductions at a mile a minute whilst Soames looks on in admiration. It’s plain as day to John that Soames finds Sherlock beautiful, as many do, and feels not for the first time a strange sense of pride at being associated with such an impressive man. John must admit that Soames is undeniably good looking himself. Though now well into middle age, he’s clearly in remarkable shape, has minimal lines on his face, his hair is cut into a style that looks effortlessly flawless and the streaks of grey suit him in a way that is usually only reserved for ageing movie stars. His eyes are a rich hazel framed with sophisticated spectacles that John is sure cost more than what he earns in a week, and the bespoke three piece suit he wears even more so. His accent is posh and oozes class but it irritates John in way that Sherlock's, and even Mycroft’s, does not. John is also sure that Soames was somehow even more handsome back in his younger days. Realising that his thoughts are straying wildly, John turns his full attention back to Brian and forced himself to focus. There’s something about the young man’s mannerisms that remind him strikingly of Sherlock – he’s not sure if it’s the offhand arrogance, the obvious intelligence and insightfulness or the air of confidence. John places his age at around twenty-three.

The next thing he knows, Sherlock is off and out of the room like a whirlwind, Soames not far behind. Not five minutes have passed before they’re back, accompanied by another student. His large muscular build indicates that he regularly plays sport of some kind, John's bet is on rugby. The man is sullen and looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. Brian’s face goes visibly red as he enters the room.

“It was Drew,” Sherlock says bluntly, gesturing to the student. “In collaboration with Brian.”

Before anyone can protest, Sherlock has launched into his explanation.

“Drew is one of Cambridge’s most gifted rugby player but unfortunately his grades don’t quite follow suite, something that his father is growing more and more impatient with. Just last week he again threatened to cut off his funding if things didn’t improve. Armed with the knowledge that the only way he’d be succeeding in this exam is if he cheated, and knowing that he lacked the technical skills to hack into Soames’ heavily secured computer and files, he approached his good friend Brian for assistance who, despite not needing to cheat due to his above average intelligence and aptitude, reluctantly agreed.”          

“And the motivation?” Sherlock finishes, “well that’s obvious.”

He pauses here for dramatic effect.

“Sentiment.”

At this conclusion the room is painfully silent, and Brian is staring at Drew and looks as though he’s going to cry. He promptly leaves the room, ignoring Soames’ protests, and John decides to follow. By the time he catches up with Brian in the hallway of the old building, the younger man is clearly distraught and panicking. John talks him through the panic as best he can, feeling inexplicably sorry for him even though he’s quite clearly done the wrong thing. It seems unfathomably stupid to risk his entire career for one mistake, but John feels like he understands better than most. Neither of them speak, and Brian’s eyes remain lowered to the floor in defeat.

“I’ve been in love with him for years now,” he admits quietly, his voice rough.

“But he’s never going to love me back. We’re friends and that’s all it will ever be.”

John’s heart sinks a little at these words. Now he knows he understands, all too well.

“How do you know it won’t become something more?” he asks carefully.

“I’m not his type,” Brian replies with a small, sad smile.

“I thought maybe if I helped him with this he’d realise how much he means to me. I was meticulously careful and thought I’d get away with it. I guess I wasn’t expecting the world’s only consulting detective to show up.”

He buries his face in his hands and sinks down the wall slightly.

“And now it’s all just a mess. I’m an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot,” John replies kindly, “you just made a bad decision. Sometimes people do that when they’re in love.”

Brian doesn’t speak right away, considering these words, then looks up at John and regards him thoughtfully.

“You love him, don’t you?” 

“Who?”

“The detective. Sherlock.”

John opens his mouth and closes it again, finding that he has no idea how to respond. He’s tired of protesting every time someone makes assumptions about he and Sherlock, and he doesn’t even know the truth anymore.

“I…I don’t know,” he says finally, suddenly feeling very tired. He sighs.

“We should get back. I imagine you’ll need to have a serious discussion with Professor Soames. Best to get it over with.”

He starts walking back down the hallway and Brian reluctantly follows a few paces behind.

“He loves you too, you know.”

John huffs out an incredulous laugh.

“What makes you say that?”

“The way he looks at you. The way you look at each other. You’re lucky.”

John doesn’t reply but can’t deny that a tiny ray of hope has been illuminated within him. 

As they prepare to leave a short while later, Soames practically ignores John in favour for shaking Sherlock’s hand and holding it for a little too long, looking into his eyes meaningfully and thanking him earnestly. Though John has become accustomed to such behaviour, he still has to fight the urge to roll his eyes.  

“You’ve got my number so do get in touch again soon. I would love to see you again, under more pleasant circumstances, of course.”

John feels his fist clench involuntarily but the tension eases slightly at the polite but uninterested smile he gives Soames, whose own charming smile falters in response. John has the distinct feeling he’s not used to being rejected and feels a spike of satisfaction at Sherlock’s small victory. Sherlock turns to him with a more genuine smile. 

“Shall we take our leave, John?”

John nods once in confirmation and falls into step beside Sherlock, his hand going to Sherlock’s elbow in a small, unconscious gesture of affection and protection as they leave the room.

****

All in all, though it could have gone worse, it probably hadn’t been the best use of their time. But John finds that he can't bring himself to be even a little bit mad because no sooner had they wrapped things up had Sherlock been suggesting that they don't hurry home and instead stay to enjoy the peace and quiet.

"We've booked the apartment for the weekend after all," he rationalised as John had attempted to pick his jaw up off the floor.

By this point it was getting late so Sherlock suggested takeaway back at the apartment and John (along with his growling stomach) readily agreed. It was after ten when they made it back to the apartment, and Sherlock went straight about ordering Uber Eats whilst John got to work on setting a fire in the small, modern fireplace.

He’d noticed that evening that the chill in the air, which had been present for the past several weeks in London, had become more intense, a thinly veiled promise that winter would once again be upon them before long. They both shed their jackets and shoes and adjourned in the living room, so different from their own but still welcoming and pleasant. They're sitting side by side on the plush sofa and John has just finished shooting off a quick check in text to Molly when Sherlock produces a bottle of whisky.

"Thought we might have a little celebration," he says with a slightly conspiratorial smile.

John chuckles, shaking his head at Sherlock’s constant ability to keep him guessing.

“Well it was hardly one of your greatest achievements consulting detective wise but far be it for me to deny any reason for a good drink.”

“Oh not that, John,” Sherlock says, dismissing him with a wave as he gets up to fetch two glasses (and locates them immediately, of course, John notes).

“What then?” John asks curiously, keen to get to the bottom of Sherlock’s strange behaviour these past few days.

Sherlock shrugs and pours a generous serve into each glass. His fingers graze John’s lightly as he passes him the drink. It feels almost electric and John’s eyes flick up to Sherlock’s involuntarily. Sherlock’s gaze is indiscernible, his eyes flickering in the soft glow of the crackling fire.

“Nothing all that special really. Just life. You having some time away for yourself. Enjoy it,” he says, raising his glass.

“I’ll drink to that,” John replies with a grin, clinking his glass lightly against Sherlock’s.

They sip their whisky in silence for a moment, both watching the fire. John finds himself feeling more content and relaxed than he has in ages, and absently wonders when it was he last felt this way. As much as he loves Rosie and the work he does with Sherlock, he has long since accepted that it doesn’t leave much room for uninterrupted periods of relaxation.

“Thanks for this,” he says, making a gesture to indicate the drink, the apartment, the weekend, and everything else.

“Things have been…a bit challenging at times, I know,” he continues, “so I want you to know how much I appreciate everything you’ve been doing for me and Rosie.”

“I know. And you’re welcome,” Sherlock replies with a soft smile.

Their eyes meet again and they’re gazing at each other in comfortable silence. Sherlock’s face is open and relaxed, and John longs to reach out and brush his fingertips against the sharp yet appealing edge of his cheekbone. He’s no longer bothering to filter out these kinds of thoughts and he wonders what Sherlock’s reaction would be – would he be alarmed and pull away or would he lean into it? But before he can think on this any further, there’s a sharp knock on the door, snapping them both out of their thoughts.

“Food’s here,” John says, somewhat unnecessarily, and Sherlock makes his way over to the door.

John shuffles about the kitchen, attempting to find the dinner plates and having much less success than Sherlock had with the glasses. He finally locates them and before long there’s a sprawling feast of dumplings, spring rolls, pork buns, rice and noodles, which they devour as though it’s their first meal in weeks.

Afterwards, they collectively ignore the unholy mess of take away containers and leftovers that cover the coffee table in favour of settling back on the sofa with a whisky apiece.

“Urgh, I’m never eating again,” Sherlock moans, his head lolling back on the cushions.

John chuckles and pats his own full belly.

“You’re the one who insisted on eating that last pork bun, you get no sympathy from me,” he replies teasingly.

Sherlock only moans again in response, barely managing to lift his whisky for a sip.

“You did well today, Sherlock,” John says, more serious now.

“Mmm I know it bothers you when I allegedly starve myself but I hardly think that my performance just now is worthy of praise.”

“Not that, you git,” John teases.

He hesitates, debating with himself about whether to bring up earlier today. Sherlock seems to be in a good mood and he doesn’t want to bring him down. But he does want to check in with him, and has to admit that part of him is still curious to know more.

“I meant with…Professor Soames.”

 “Oh.”

“We don’t have to talk about it if you--”

“Its fine, John. I’m fine. It was…admittedly uncomfortable seeing him again. But if anything, it confirmed how far I’ve come since then,” Sherlock says thoughtfully, and John nods in agreement.

“It can be hard facing people from your past so what you did today was very brave.”

“It's funny,” Sherlock replies, “because I can face villains like Moriarty and Magnussen without a nerve in sight. But then something like this...I guess I must be human after all.”

“I guess you must be,” John confirms with a smile.

“Soames was clearly very impressed by you,” John continues, “I’m betting he’s full of regret right now.”

Sherlock huffs in protest but John can tells he’s secretly pleased that John thinks so. They’re both silent a moment, lost in their thoughts. John had seen quite clearly that Soames would have liked to take Sherlock home and feels a great surge of satisfaction that he’ll never be allowed to, that John will always be the one to –

“I suppose the revelation must have come as something of a surprise to you,” Sherlock is saying, snapping John out of his reverie.

“Given that I've never shown any apparent interest in relationships, have determinedly rejected sentiment and insisted that I'm married to my work.”

“Honestly, yes, it definitely wasn't what I was expecting. But it’s fine, Sherlock, it’s all fine,” John says, echoing his words from when they met so very long ago.

“I wasn't always this way. In fact I used to be rather the opposite. But being too emotional leads to its own set of problems. So it was easier to do away with it all.”

“I guess with today’s situation I can kind of see where you’re coming from,” he says, still thinking of Brian’s unrequited love.

Sherlock's words have reminded him of something else that has been particularly bothering him.

“You have questions,” Sherlock states, reading John's expression like an open book.

John doesn't answer right away, struggling with how to phrase it.

“Did you ever...I mean, I hope he didn't...well, take advantage...of your age and nativity.”

It's a struggle to get the words out but Sherlock doesn’t seem phased, as though he was expecting the question.

“I was naive but I knew what I wanted, even then, and I wasn't afraid to go after it.”

John feels a tiny shiver run up his spine at what Sherlock would be like when he really wants something and turns on the charm. He's seen glimpses of it of course but couldn't in all honesty say for sure that he would have been able to say no if it were directed at him.

“Our relationship was of a sexual nature but we never…well, went all the way.”

Sherlock blushes furiously now and, despite himself, John can’t help but find it endearing to see him so shy and uncertain, it’s so unlike his usual overconfidence and arrogance. He nods encouragingly, and Sherlock seems sufficiently reassured to continue.

“Not that I didn’t want to. But Soames was unwilling to take our relationship to that level. I suppose in hindsight that was for the best, all things considered. And as I mentioned, that all fell spectacularly to pieces. There were a few others after that, again, nothing serious or long term and all ended in a similar fashion. Eventually I started to accept Mycroft’s assertion that sentiment was a weakness and a waste of time. And I hadn’t looked back since.”

He pauses, and looks down into his half-filled glass.

“Until you came into my life, that is.”

John tries to find his voice, something within him too scared to speak, and his heart seems to be beating at three times its normal rate. 

“You made me feel things again,” Sherlock continues in a deep voice, “and life became confusing and exciting and frustrating and marvellous. And then of course Mary and Rosie came along and, well, you know how I feel about them.”

John gives him a small smile at these bittersweet words.

“I do,” he says quietly.

And he’s burning to ask the question he most desperately wants the answer to – “and how do you feel about me?” – but he can’t force the words out and before he knows it a shadow has passed across Sherlock’s face and he senses that the topic is closed, at least for now.

“I’m going to head off to bed,” Sherlock announces, as if on cue, draining the last drops of whisky from his glass and getting to his feet. He moves to tidy the mess on the coffee table, another surprise, but John waves him away, assuring him that he'll take care of it. 

“Goodnight, John,” Sherlock says with a warm smile.

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

He returns Sherlock’s smile but quickly goes back to gazing into the fireplace, lost in his thoughts.

***

The following morning sees them enjoying a lazy breakfast after a small sleep in, after which they decide to wonder around the town and take a long walk along the canals. It’s a gorgeous day, despite the chill in the air, and they fall into a natural rhythm and easy conversation as they walk. Around lunchtime, they choose from the many cosy looking pubs and settle in for a leisurely lunch. They Face Time Molly and Rosie from John’s phone and explain that they’ve solved the case early and will be heading back first thing tomorrow. John can see that Molly is a little puzzled as to why they’re staying without a case to work on, but thankfully she doesn’t question it. And, much to John’s relief, she’s made all kinds of elaborate plans for the two of them and they both seem perfectly happy, easing most of the guilt he feels for being away without a “proper reason”.

They’ve just finished devouring a satisfying lunch and are onto their second pint of the afternoon when Sherlock’s phone rings. He extracts it from his blazer and makes a face that leaves little room for interpretation as to the caller.

“Yes, what do you want? I'm busy,” Sherlock says upon answering it.

John is willing to bet money that the response is something along the lines of how drinking pale ale the pub could hardly be considered busy, because Sherlock’s next words are “it's called having a life, maybe you should try it sometime.” 

Sherlock listens for a moment, a frown forming across his features.

“Why?”

Then, “very well, if you must.” Another pause. “Yes. Yes. See you soon.”

Sherlock hangs up the phone with a sigh, glancing almost forlornly at his mostly untouched beer.

“Mycroft,” he explains unnecessarily, “he wants us back in London right away, though won’t say why over the phone. Typical. Probably an issue of national security, knowing him. He’s arranging a nearby car to pick us up from the apartment in half an hour. Do you mind texting him the address whilst I take care of our bill?”

He opens the Air B & B app for the address and passes John his phone. John can’t help but feel bitterly disappointed that their time together in Cambridge has come to such an abrupt end, but he knows it would be silly to say so now that they’re not here solving a case.

“No problem,” John replies casually, taking a large gulp of his beer, and Sherlock heads towards the bar to pay.

John copies the address from the app, shoots off a text to Mycroft and presses the back button. Predictably, he and Sherlock’s text conversation record is the next one down. He can’t help but notice that beside his name is a small image where the icon has been changed from the standard. He taps his own name to enlarge the picture, figuring that it’s not exactly snooping when it’s his own conversation with Sherlock. But now that he can see the image properly it almost takes his breath away. It’s a photo of John and Rosie, taken the sunny summer day they had finished rebuilding 221B and had celebrated with a picnic in the park. In it, Rosie is grasping a strawberry in her chubby little hand and is messily attempting to feed herself, and John is lying alongside her on the picnic blanket and looking at her with both laughter and obvious adoration in his eyes. John had quite liked the photo when Sherlock had taken it, as he had always been partial to candid, natural photographs. He’s nothing short of touched that Sherlock has applied it to his contact record and wonders how often Sherlock actually looks at the photo. But before he can consider it any further, Sherlock is on his way back to the table. John exits the screen and hands the phone back to Sherlock with a smile.

“All ready to go?” Sherlock says, and John nods his assent and drains the last of his drink before following him towards the door.

If he’d known what was to come, he would have spent longer revelling in this happy moment, would have somehow appreciated even more their relaxing and peaceful day together in Cambridge, what felt like a world away from London and all its troubles. But alas, there was no way for either of them to know, and so they walked out of the pub and into their future, unknowing and blissfully ignorant.

Chapter Text

The luxury car pulls into Baker Street just as the sun is setting over London. It’s been an uneventful trip, with both Sherlock and John still in good spirits even though their time away had been cut short. But as John spies Mycroft waiting patiently at the doorway of 221 he feels his heart sink slightly. There’s something about his demeanour and stance that gives John an awful sense of foreboding, for whilst Mycroft is as utterly composed and immaculately groomed as always, his limbs and very being seemed dragged down by a weight so unmistakable that it might as well be physical. John glances at Sherlock, who judging from his own expression has made similar observations, but neither of them say anything. There’s a sense that whatever awaits them is inevitable and that there’s nothing they can say or do that will change the fact. They get out of the car and collect their bags from the trunk of the car before joining Mycroft at the doorway.

“Sherlock. John,” he says, nodding his head by way of solemn greeting, and the three of them start to ascend the stairs to 221B. 

“Mind telling us what this is all about, dear brother?” Sherlock says, trying his best to sound impatient, but even John can tell that it’s a cover for his sudden nerves.

John can’t blame him, feeling distinctly troubled himself at Mycroft’s unusual behaviour.

“All in good time, Sherlock,” Mycroft responds.

His tone much gentler than John is used to hearing from him, which only serves to make him feel worse. John lets them into the flat, deposits his overnight bag at the foot of the stairs and heads to the kitchen to sort out tea, though something tells him they’ll need something stronger. When he comes back into the living room with a tray of mugs, he finds Mycroft settled in Sherlock’s chair and takes a seat next to Sherlock on the couch. John passes a sugary tea to Sherlock and takes a sip of his own, surveying Mycroft carefully.

“So what’s this all about then, another royal scandal that we need to keep hidden from the public?” he jokes, hoping to lighten the mood.

“Nothing like that, I’m afraid,” Mycroft replies evenly, setting down his mug and folding his hands neatly in his lap.

“I don’t really know how to tell you this, other than to just come right out and say it.”

His expression is uncertain in a way that John has only seen a couple of times before, and John senses Sherlock grow even tenser beside him. 

“Eurus is dead.”

For what seems an eternity the room is silent, too silent, with the weight of Mycroft’s words hanging heavily in the air. John chances a glance at Sherlock, who looks utterly shell-shocked. It’s John who manages to speak first.

“What happened?”  

“Despite the increased security at Sherrinford, Eurus managed to escape again. She took out security personnel and temporarily disabled the surveillance, though we're still not entirely sure how. By the time the situation was escalate it was too late. Eurus was already outside and they couldn't reach her in time. She threw herself off the cliff.”

At this John has a strong visual of the terrible scene. The pale figure standing at the cliff edge, the furious wind whipping her hair and white dress, her face as she plunged to her untimely death.

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock,” Mycroft finishes.

His expression is so pained and compassionate that John can hardly stand it. But Sherlock’s expression remains unchanged and John can sense he’s only half with them as his mind struggles to rapidly process this information. He reaches out and carefully places his hand on Sherlock’s, his thumb stroking the skin soothingly. The gesture seems to bring Sherlock back to the present. 

“No,” he says, his voice as strong and cool as steel.

“I don’t believe it.”

“It is with deep regret that I must assure you that it’s true, brother mine. I wish it weren’t.”

“No,” Sherlock repeats, rapidly getting to his feet.

“No, it makes no sense! Why would she do that? What would be her motivation? I saw her only two weeks ago and she was the same as always, she was-”

“She was mentally ill, Sherlock,” Mycroft interrupts, his voice cautious but certain.

But Sherlock is pacing now, working himself up to a state reminiscent of an active volcano, and John and Mycroft can only spectate from the sidelines as he spirals out of control.

“No, she was a genius. IS a genius. Don’t you see?”

Sherlock pauses and looks between their baffled faces with exasperation. 

“This is all just another one of her clever plans!”

“She is gone,” Mycroft says softly. “I’m afraid that is the truth. And you need to accept it.”

“Well I don’t!” Sherlock snarls, slamming his fist against the nearest wall.

Silence falls but Sherlock is pacing once again, full of nervous energy.

“The body,” he says suddenly, bluntly.

“Excuse me?” Mycroft replies.

“If she’s really dead I need to see her body. To identify her.”

“It hasn’t yet been recovered from the waters surrounding Sherrinford. Given weather conditions at the time of the event, and the overall treacherous conditions surrounding Sherrinford, it is possible that her body may never be recovered.”

“How convenient,” Sherlock says, and his eyes meet Mycroft’s in a wordless challenge.

They stare at each other in icy silence for several long moments. John feels desperately torn between wanting to help in somehow and not wanting to get in the way.

“So that’s it then is it brother?” Sherlock spits.

“From you who knows better than anyone that things aren’t always as they appear. You who knows better than anyone what’s she is capable of.”

“I do,” Mycroft agrees. “But not this time.”

Sherlock growls in frustration, the speed of his pace increased, hands going to his hair and pulling frantically at the wild curls. Before John knows what he’s doing he’s jumped up to stand before Sherlock, catching his arms with his own hands.

“Sherlock, stop,” he says quietly.

Their eyes lock and John feels a slight shiver at Sherlock’s expression of cold desperation, his own expression a silent plea. He attempts to draw the man closer to him, and for a moment it seems that Sherlock will accept the comfort. But then he’s pushing John away, firmly but not forcefully, his gaze now trained to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he says breathlessly. “I can’t. I need to be alone.”

And with that he storms to his bedroom, the door slamming heavily behind him. John fights the impulse to follow, knowing that Sherlock needs space but worried about what he’ll do. He looks to Mycroft helplessly, seeking direction despite himself. Mycroft’s features are heavy with sorrow and regret, and John can’t help but feel that his emotions seem genuine.

“Let him go, John,” he says, his voice weary.

“But what if-”

“The flat is clean. I made sure of it before I brought you both back from Cambridge to break the news.”

John sighs, relieved to hear this even through the small wave of anger that washes over him at this regular invasion of privacy.

“I trust that you will keep a close eye on him though. There’s no telling what he might do in this state.”

John nods in agreement, suddenly feeling exhausted at the possibilities.

“You know how to reach me if needed. Regrettably, I have my doubts that Sherlock will accept help from me in any form. In his mind, everything that has happened is my fault.”

And John feels an unexpected surge of sympathy for the older Holmes brother and the burden he bears.

“I’ll take care of him. I promise.”

Mycroft gives him a small, sad smile as he stands to take his leave.

“I know you will, John. Even though Sherlock doesn’t often say it, he appreciates your support immensely. You mean more to him than you will ever know.”

As he says these last words, a strange expression crosses Mycroft’s face, as though he’s said more than he intended to, more than he should have. But before John can even be sure he saw something, the brief moment of indiscretion is gone. With a short thank you, Mycroft takes his leave, leaving John alone in the living room.

***

The two weeks following the news about Eurus had been unequivocally difficult. All John had to compare it to was Sherlock's grief when Irene Adler had “died”. But although some elements were the same – the unending silence, the tangible sorrow – this time he was more like a cyclone and it was all John could do to stay out of the path of destruction. Sherlock had been manic in a way that John had never seen him before, chewing through cases so quickly that John could barely keep them straight. Worryingly, Sherlock had become convinced that every case he took on had a potential link to Eurus or a hint that she was somehow involved. When one case would fail to materialise the evidence he wanted, he would frantically scour his emails and the comments on John’s blog for hours on end for potential leads, and the whole cycle would repeat itself. As much as John wanted to believe Sherlock’s deductions, as much as he usually would, he knew that he couldn’t go along with it this time. Someone needed to be on the outside, making sure they didn't both get sucked into the black hole.

Trying to take a practical approach so he could feel as though he was at least doing something, John had taken to leaving small high energy snacks in his wake in places where Sherlock would find and devour them without really paying too much attention. Getting him to sleep had been a far bigger challenge, and John estimated that his micro sleeps all added up to barely a few hours a day, which as a doctor he knew wasn’t even sustainable in the short-term. Late one night several days into this madness, he’d been on the verge of drugging Sherlock’s tea with sleeping pills, unethical as he knew this was, when there had thankfully been the slightest bit of relief. He’d been lying in bed, unable to sleep from the stress of it all, when he’d heard careful footsteps outside his door. John had kept perfectly silent and still as Sherlock had slowly entered the room and crawled into bed beside him. And he’d so desperately wanted to roll onto his side and hold Sherlock close, tell him that everything would be okay, but he had a strong suspicion that this would only scare Sherlock away. Sherlock was gone before John awoke the next morning – he anticipated Sherlock had slept for maybe four hours, which was nowhere near enough but better than nothing – and neither of them spoke of it that day.

This pattern had repeated itself ad nauseam over the past two weeks. John felt lost and helpless, now feeling as though he were watching an impending car crash in slow motion, unable to affect the inevitable and devastating outcome. He’d tried gently talking to Sherlock during one of his slightly calmer periods but his friend would barely say two words, reassuring him almost convincingly that he was fine. John had brought him an extra sweet cup of tea one evening, placing a tentative hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as he stood beside him. Sherlock had closed his eyes and leant into the touch, as though allowing himself the briefest moment of comfort before pulling away. Bravely, John had relentlessly tried reasoning with Sherlock, asking if it were possible that his looking for connections and running himself ragged with investigations were a result of trying to process his grief but, perhaps not unexpectedly, he was met with either resounding silence or confident assurances that he was wrong. When Sherlock apparently grew tired of John’s comments and questions, he’d lock himself in the basement flat for hours on end, so John eventually had to stop trying. John had exchanged countless texts with Mycroft, which he had no doubt Sherlock was aware of, keeping him updated and exchanging useless ideas about how to help their friend and brother. Mycroft had floated more than threatened the idea of sending in their parents, who had in the past often had more success than he in getting through to the middle Holmes child. John was halfway beginning to come around to this idea when Sherlock had reached something of a turning point. He was eating a little more, sleeping an extra hour, and reverberating at a slightly slower pace. Though they weren’t vast improvements, John was still determined to see them as positive signs.

Now John’s sitting at his desk at the clinic, trying to focus through the static in his head and the grit in his eyes. He’s cursing himself for taking on an extra shift, the late shift of all things, but the clinic had been desperate and he’d rationalised that he could use some extra cash with Christmas not far away. He’d taken almost two weeks off whilst Sherlock was at his worst, but he knew he couldn’t be on leave indefinitely and it was hardly realistic for him to be with Sherlock every second of the day and night. Mrs Hudson had kindly agreed to take Rosie for the night, and keep an eye on Sherlock at the same time. He’s trying to catch up on some patient notes when his mobile rings. Mrs Hudson. His stomach drops at the sight of the caller display – she only ever calls when it’s something urgent and currently with her are the two people John cares most about in the world. He scrambles to answer the phone.

“Oh, John, it’s Sherlock,” she says, sounding panicked, and John’s insides squirm nauseatingly.

“He’s just disappeared! I was giving Rosie her bath and when I came out he was gone. It could have been a good twenty minutes ago,” she continues, clearly aghast.

“I’m so sorry, John, I didn’t know what to do, I can’t just leave with Rosie-”

“It’s okay, Mrs Hudson,” John says, sounding far calmer than he feels.

“Do you know where he might have gone? Did he say anything earlier tonight?”

“Not a word I’m afraid. I can’t reach him on his phone, it’s going straight to voicemail. Oh dear, and he didn’t even take his coat and it’s raining out,” she frets, sounding borderline hysterical now.

“It’s okay,” John repeats. “I’ll find him. You just try to calm down. I’ll see you soon.”

Chapter Text

John ends the call and leaves his office, barely stopping to grab his own coat, and hastily makes his excuses about a family emergency as he rushes out the clinic. Once outside, he realises that he’s not even sure where he’s going, not sure where to look, his head is spinning and he knows he needs to focus. He forces himself to take a deep, calming breath, then he pulls out his phone again. He tries Sherlock, already knowing he’ll have no luck and gets through to his voicemail once, twice, three times. Then he dials Mycroft’s number and quickly explains the situation, receiving reassurances that Mycroft’s people will find him. John heads off in the direction that he knows a few people within Sherlock’s homeless network can commonly be found, zipping up his coat to the November chill and feeling grateful that the rain has eased off to a light drizzle. He feels like he’s been walking forever when he comes across one of the network who is of no help, then a second, before finding someone who says they saw him heading towards Waterloo Bridge. Heart racing, John picks up the pace to a run, and approaches the underpass of the bridge.

At first he sees nothing, but then as he turns he can make out a small huddled figure in the shadows against one of the pillars. John picks up his pace again and can’t stop his breath from catching in his throat as he sees Sherlock. He’s sat leant against a dirty wall, his legs drawn up to his chest. He’s soaking wet from the weather and is shivering in his thin shirt and blazer, appearing far too small for such a tall and usually imposing man, and looking stiff, uncomfortable and unbearably lost. But his face. John’s heart cracks at the sight of his face. Sherlock looks utterly broken. In three strides John is at his side. He’s desperate to embrace the man and fighting a raging battle against the desire to throw his arms around Sherlock’s vulnerable frame. But he has to assess and respect Sherlock’s current emotional state and possible need for space. Sherlock’s eyes flick up and towards John’s but won’t meet them.

“Sherlock,” he says urgently, “are you okay? Have you taken anything?”
Sherlock shakes his head forcefully.
“I haven’t, John, I promise,” he says thickly.
“It’s okay, I believe you,” John says in hushed tones.
“I wanted to…so badly. I almost did but I thought of you and I stopped myself, somehow. I’m sorry,” Sherlock replies, unable to keep his voice from cracking.
At this, the overwhelming desire to take Sherlock in his arms intensifies, but instead John drops to his knees in front of his friend.
“It’s okay,” he repeats gently, squeezing his arm reassuringly.
“Can you tell me what happened?” John presses cautiously.
“Another case fell through and I just…I needed to get out,” Sherlock says quietly. “I could feel the walls closing in on me. And I wanted a hit so badly.”
He pauses, still staring at the concrete ground with the same vacant stare.
“There was no connection,” he says, and John almost winces at how dead and emotionless his voice sounds.
“I thought if I looked hard enough there would be something to explain…all of this. But even I can’t find something that isn’t there.”

Sherlock sounds utterly destroyed and John’s chest throbs painfully at his last words. He reaches out to ever so gently brush back Sherlock’s hair, half expecting to be rejected. Sherlock flinches minutely, sending a pang through John’s heart, before leaning into the touch.
“I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”
At that Sherlock lunges towards John, face buried in the space between John’s neck and the scar on his bad shoulder. John finally throws his arms around Sherlock’s frame, pulling him closer and feels him trembling uncontrollably.
“Shh I’ve got you,” he whispers, stroking his back soothingly.
Sherlock sucks in a shuddering breath, clinging to John as though he’s afraid he’ll disappear.
“I’m so glad I found you. I was so worried, I’ve been so worried,” John admits in a hushed tone, holding Sherlock tighter still.
“I know,” Sherlock replies, his voice thick and catching in his throat. “I know and I’m so sorry to have failed you again.”
“No,” John says, some of the strength coming back to his voice. “Listen to me, Sherlock, you didn’t fail, you stopped yourself tonight and every other night for the past two weeks and I’m so proud of you.”

A violent shiver runs through Sherlock and John quickly breaks away to remove his own jacket.
“God, you’re freezing,” he says, pulling the jacket around Sherlock’s shoulders and holding him close. He takes Sherlock’s hands in his own and notes that although they’re very cold he’s not in any immediate danger. Still, he needs to get out of these wet clothes and out of the chilly air as soon as possible.
“Let’s get you home.”
They struggle to their feet and out to the road, taking shelter under a building awning until they can hail a cab. Sherlock is silent for the short trip back to Baker Street, shivering getting the better of him every now and then, allowing John to keep an arm around his shoulder. John shoots a text off to Mycroft explaining that he’s found Sherlock and that he will be with him. Then he calls Mrs Hudson to let her know they’re on their way back and to ask that she please keep Rosie overnight. He has no idea what he’s doing, he’s really just playing it by ear, but he knows that there’s no way he can look after Rosie and Sherlock at the same time this evening. The cab pulls up to 221 and John pays and tips then manages to get them both upstairs. Sherlock is still trembling mildly and hasn’t said a word since they left the bridge, John has followed suite, not wanting to push him too far too soon. He decides again that taking care of Sherlock in a practical way is better than nothing at all. Once they’re inside, John grabs a warm blanket from the linen cupboard and directs Sherlock towards the lounge.
“Strip down and wrap yourself in this. I’m going to get a fire going, get you nice and warm yeah?”
Sherlock nods dazedly and follows John’s instructions as John busies himself with the fire and making tea. He comes back into the room a short while later with two mugs, setting them down carefully on the coffee table. Sherlock looks exhausted and more vulnerable than John has ever seen him. Still torn over how to deal with the situation, he follows his intuition and sits beside Sherlock on the couch. A brief flicker of relief washes over Sherlock’s features and tells John that he’s on the right track in thinking that the most important thing right now is just being there.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks softly, “it’s okay if you don’t.”
“Not right now, sorry John,” he replies, his voice ragged and raw.
“That’s alright,” John reassures.
“Have some tea, it will help.”
Sherlock accepts the warm mug and takes a sip. John can’t help but feel silly suggesting that tea is any kind of solution to their problems, but the doctor side of him knows that Sherlock needs fluids and sustenance so it really will make him feel a little better. They sit in silence for a while, sipping their tea and gazing into the fireplace. John observes that his physical condition seems to be improving as he warms up, he’s no longer shaking and has a bit of colour back in his face. Eventually, Sherlock decides to take a shower, assuring John he will be fine. He comes back dressed warmly in long sleeves and sweatpants and seems in better spirits, much to John’s relief.
“I’m sorry I scared you, John,” he says quietly, sitting back down beside him.
“It’s fine, really. I’m just glad you’re doing better.”
They exchange small smiles.
“Feel like some crap telly?” John asks, and Sherlock almost laughs, and nods.

An hour and several episodes of Black Books later, things feel almost normal again. John knows very well that they’re not, and they won’t be for a while yet, but the feeling of being safe and warm in their home as the rain beats on the windows outside is a comforting one. He’s even managed to persuade Sherlock to eat a whole sandwich and drink another cup of tea. They’re giggling outrageously at a particularly ridiculous scene when it happens, though John’s not even sure how. One moment Sherlock is laughing and the next he’s sobbing.
“Oh Sherlock, come here,” John says gently, pulling Sherlock into his arms for the second time that evening.
All at once everything seems too much for Sherlock – the stress of the past year, losing Mary, almost losing John, losing Eurus. John holds him close as he sobs, having no real idea what to do or say. He wishes that somehow he could take away Sherlock’s pain. But Sherlock seems to not notice or not care, wrapped within his own emotional turmoil. He buries his face in John’s shirt and John continues his hushed words of comfort, one hand reaching up and getting lost in Sherlock’s curls, and drops a soft kiss on Sherlock’s temple. Sherlock’s lips graze the skin of John’s neck as he slowly manages to get his breathing under control. He’s awed by Sherlock’s trust in him, proud that he’s gotten to a point where he can let another human being see him at his weakest.

“Thank you for letting me be here for you, for trusting me. I know it’s not easy for you.”
“You’re the only one I trust. The only one I ever trust like this. In the…in the past I have occasionally opened to people, and it’s always been a mistake. It’s always just reaffirmed what they knew about me already – that I’m a freak.”
“You are not a freak, Sherlock,” John says, his tone firm and reassuring all at once.
“Listen to me. You’re the most amazing, extraordinary, brilliant, kind, wonderful person I’ve ever met. Anyone who doesn’t take the time to see that is missing out on so much. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”
John pulls away ever so slightly, cupping Sherlock’s face in his hands and tracing soft, reverent kisses across Sherlock’s brow, nose, and cheeks. He longs to kiss him – not in a way that he intends to lead to anything further, but in a way that would put into actions rather than words just how much John adores him, and to give them both some desperately needed comfort. But he knows it’s not the time and neither of them are in a position to be making such drastic decisions about the nature of their relationship.

“You should get some sleep,” John murmurs, his fingers still gently carding through Sherlock’s hair.
Sherlock seems half there already and doesn’t have the strength to protest and John helps him up and towards his bedroom. He pulls back the covers and crawls into bed, barely taking his eyes off John.
“Stay with me. Please?”
“Of course I will,” John replies, excusing himself only briefly to pop to his own room and change into sleepwear.
A few minutes later they’re settled in Sherlock’s bed, facing each other but not touching, eyes closed, John wanting to wait for Sherlock to fall asleep before doing the same. After what seems like an eternity, John shifts slightly. He can tell Sherlock is still awake – his breathing hasn’t changed and his body has lost none of the tension that should have fallen away in sleep.
“Sherlock?” he whispers, in case he’s wrong.
“Mmm, I’m awake. I’m evidently exhausted but can’t seem to get to sleep. Too tense, too much going through my mind. It’s quite frustrating,” comes the weary reply.
“That’s understandable,” John says softly.

He thinks of something but isn’t sure whether to offer, torn between wanting to help and not wanting to overstep any boundaries.
“Would you…would you like me to give you a massage? It might help you relax.”
Sherlock is silent a moment, apparently giving it some thought.
“I…I’ve not had one before. But…that sounds nice.”
John smiles, stroking Sherlock’s arm gently through his shirt.
“Take off your shirt and roll over,” he says. “I’ll find some oil.”
He gets up and rummages around in the bathroom cabinet briefly, before remembering Rosie’s baby oil. He returns to the bedroom a moment later, finding Sherlock naked from the waist up and face down on the bed, his head resting to one side. John’s breath hitches ever so slightly – he’d not forgotten about the scars but seeing them again made his heart pang painfully. As he sits gently on the bed and moves closer to Sherlock, he’s glad to see that the scars have faded more since he last saw them many months ago. The light from the lamp is dim and Sherlock looks incredibly beautiful. Vulnerable. Exhausted. Broken. But still beautiful. The way Sherlock trusts him so openly, in a way that John had never dared hope, is suddenly overwhelming – his throat feels tight and his eyes prickle despite his better intentions. He clears his throat and positions himself close to Sherlock.
“Is it okay if I touch you now?”
“Yes John,” comes Sherlock’s soft but certain reply.

John pours a little oil into his palms and rubs them together to warm them up, before placing a strong and reassuring hand in the middle of Sherlock’s back and stroking gently. He sets a slow, deliberate rhythm, his hands moving across the skin in firm but tender movements. Sherlock practically melts under his touch, humming contentedly and seemingly not even aware he is doing so. As he moves his hands over Sherlock’s back, he thinks again about how soothing, how healing, touch can be. For someone like Sherlock, who has from John’s observations always avoided physical contact with other people, it must be foreign and strange. But he’s witnessed Sherlock become more and more comfortable with it over the past few months, even seeking it out now. And for John to be able to reciprocate without feeling uncomfortable or worrying about what people think…well that was…let’s just say they had both come a long way. As he muses on this, John runs a hand up Sherlock’s back and into his hair, fingers massaging the scalp. Sherlock all but moans and John chuckles lightly.
“Alright there?” he enquires and Sherlock manages a nod.
John’s not sure how much time passes, lost in the rhythm of his touch and the silky feel of Sherlock’s skin and hair, but suddenly he hits a wall of exhaustion and knows he has to stop.

“Okay?” John enquires again, starting to move away.
“That was…just what I needed. Thank you,” Sherlock mutters, sounding beyond tired but far more relaxed.
“We should get some sleep,” John says, waiting for Sherlock’s murmur of agreement before reaching to switch off the bedside lamp.
He feels Sherlock roll onto his side, his clumsy movements indicating that he’s very much on the precipice of sleep already. Through the darkness he reaches for John in a silent question and John responds right away, drawing him close and pulling him snug against his chest. Sherlock settles there as though he was made for it, the top half of his body resting on John’s, his head on John’s chest and his palm resting at John’s heart. Despite everything that is happening, John feels content in this moment. He doesn’t know, and doesn’t want to question right now, why it feels so right to be here together like this, to finally have Sherlock in his arms. John places one last soft kiss on Sherlock’s forehead, and a few seconds later hears the deep breathing that indicates that Sherlock is finally asleep. John holds him close, willing his embrace to protect Sherlock from his own subconscious.