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John stormed up the stairs to their flat, the rage he’d barely managed to conceal throughout their time at Scotland Yard seeping through the cracks of his control. How could Sherlock have done that to him? John had let Sherlock in, had let him see his best hidden secret, and the inconsiderate git had told the entirety of Lestrade’s division.
It’s not like it was something he was ashamed of. No, John was proud of his heritage. It was that he’d trusted Sherlock with a secret his family had held tight to for generations and not even fourteen hours later Sherlock had told all and sundry. The arse obviously couldn’t be trusted.
“John?”
John stiffened as Sherlock’s questioning tone seemed to echo with the pounding in his head. He couldn’t deal with this at the moment. He was far too pissed and liable to take it out on his flat mate. It was Sherlock’s fault, of course, but, as the saying goes, trying to take back words said in anger is like trying to retrieve the bullet after you’ve fired the gun.
“Not now, Sherlock,” he threw over his shoulder as he stormed up the stairs to his bedroom. He slammed the door behind him and leaned back against it, his breath coming in raged, enraged gasps. He needed to get himself under control before he said or did something he’d regret.
He threw himself across the room and onto his bed, his face burrowing into the pillow that smelled faintly of lavender. Mrs. Hudson must have done their wash. Three days out on a case tended to prevent him from cleaning the place. He’d need to thank her in the morning. Far too late now. Likely she’d had her herbal soothers and gone to bed.
A knock at the door derailed his train of thought and he let out a half-annoyed huff as he rolled over and stared at it. He wondered idly if it were worth getting up to open it or if Sherlock would ignore social protocol once more. Another knock had his eyebrow raising in curiosity. Two knocks and no bursting in. Sherlock was being repentant. At least he realized he’d done wrong. Not often that happened. Hell, in the three years (five if you count his time away) he’d known Sherlock he’d only been repentant twice before. One when he’d returned and the other when he’d unintentionally deduced Mary’s affair and the lack of genetic similarities with his supposed child (yeah, what a lie that had turned out to be, but for the best, he supposed).
“What do you want, Sherlock?” he called out and Sherlock almost immediately opened the door, holding out a cup of steaming tea as a peace offering. John couldn’t deny that a nice cuppa sounded wonderful right then so he sighed and sat up, holding his hand out for the cup.
Sherlock hesitantly stepped into the room, leaving the door open as he made his way across the floor to deposit the almost overly-full cup in John’s waiting hand. John set it aside to cool a bit as he turned back to his flat mate, his eyes taking in the confused and hurt expression. “John?”
“You can’t tell me you don’t know what you did wrong, Sherlock. I told you no one could know that… no one else was supposed to know about…” John trailed off, running his hands over his face and letting out an aggravated sigh.
“I…” John looked up as Sherlock paused, watching the blue-gray orbs shift from place to place in his room, never looking directly at him. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t even understand what brought it up? How did you go from explaining why that woman had her throat slit to… to… Ugh.” Sherlock mumbled something that he didn’t catch and he looked up at him once more. “What was that?”
“I said Donovan called you a lovesick puppy,” Sherlock crossed his arms and glared at the floor by his feet. John patted the bed beside him and Sherlock looked up at him for a moment before sitting. “She said it was just an infatuation that would fade and she couldn’t wait for the day when you realized the mistake you made in taking up with me. She said she couldn’t wait to see the day I would burn.”
John cringed at the flash of memory of a crazy, dark haired man and an indoor pool. “She had no right, but Sherlock, that wasn’t your secret to tell.”
“I realize that and I am sorry, John.”
John looked at Sherlock, taking the time to observe: he was remorseful, certainly, and only the slightest bit smug about having put Donovan in her place and even a teensy bit proud about having known something about John that no one else knew (though that pride was a bit pointless now that so many people were in on it). “Sherlock, you have got to learn how to think before you speak.”
Sherlock snorted, his eyes narrowing at John as he opened his mouth to retort, then shut it when he thought better of it. John chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled at his friend. “That’s right. Just like that.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, but couldn’t stop the slight quirk of his lips.
“How can I fix it?”
“You can’t, Sherlock. There’s no taking this back. They know now.”
Sherlock hung his head, his elbows resting on his knees and his shoulder poking up above the curve of his neck. “I am sorry.”
“I know you are, Sherlock, but that doesn’t change that they know. No one was supposed to know, not even you, but I trusted you enough to tell you.”
Sherlock jerked his head up and around, his eyes set on John in a pleading manner. “You can trust me, John. You must know that you can.”
“No, Sherlock. I don’t know that anymore. I did, before you told them about the mark. Now, I’m not so sure.” John held back the cringe at seeing Sherlock’s eyes tear up a bit at what he’d said, but he had to be honest. Sherlock had to see that he’d done wrong, that he’d inflicted damage to the relationship they had.
“John, I… What do you want me to say? What can I do?”
“There’s nothing you can say or do, Sherlock. It’s going to take time, is all.” John grabbed his tea and took a sip of the almost too cool liquid. He smiled at Sherlock as he set it back on the table. “It’ll work itself out eventually, Sherlock. Just give it time.”
“Patience has never been a strong point.”
John laughed. It was true. Sherlock was far from the most patient man John knew, but this would take time and he’d just have to accept that. Sherlock had revealed a special mark that told of his family’s special rank, something he and Harry and spent many years working hard to keep from everyone they knew. Hell, Harry had been married to Clara for a year and a half before she’d told of it.
John was a Royal Bard, though his family had retired from the position three generations prior. The mark had never faded from their skin and John was the only person since his great grandfather had stepped down to the Baker family. It was unusual for a family to keep the mark once they stepped down, but not completely unheard of. It told of future generations telling great tales. John had held true to this prediction, unintentional as it may have been. He blogged about his adventures with Sherlock with a passion he hadn’t shown since he’d first started medical school and loved every minute of it.
He leaned against Sherlock’s shoulder, letting the tension drain from his body. “I won’t leave,” as soon as he’d said the words, Sherlock’s entire body seemed to deflate. John glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “Something like that won’t make me leave, Sherlock. You ‘died’ and came back to life and I came back. Yes, I came back after all that shite with Mary, but I still came back, even before the divorce I’d already started to come back and you know it’s true.” Sherlock nodded his head in acknowledgement. “It’ll take a hell of a lot more than that to get rid of me. ‘Fraid you’re stuck with me, Mr. Holmes.”
Sherlock looked to him with a soft smile. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, Dr. Watson.”