Work Text:
James hefted the cookie sheet out of the drawer below the stove where he and Greg kept all their baking supplies. James Sholto was the last person to think of himself as a baker - he surprised himself as much as he surprised anyone around him with it - but between the physical therapy he had begun at Greg’s behest and James’ own ingenuity, he had grown rather fond of it. To him, mixing batter for biscuits and kneading the lumps out of bread dough had become its own sort of therapy, and if he looked hard enough, he could probably find some metaphors for his own life in the baking process.
Before Greg, James had begun to believe that love would never be his again. Who would want an old man who can’t use half his body? But a chance meeting with Greg Lestrade - who had been investigating a crime nearby while James had been on one of the few banking errands he could not do online or send someone else to do - had forced him to rethink the voice inside his head. James had been drawn immediately to Greg’s quick wit and intelligence as he interviewed potential witnesses, James Sholto being one of them. He had not known until later that Greg had been rendered nearly unable to do his case work, gobsmacked and speechless by James’ clear blue eyes, piercing like Dover in January wind but kind like a soft August breeze.
Several months of texts, emails, and exactly seven dinner dates later, James and Greg had realized that they had indeed fallen for one another. James needed Greg’s warmth and presence, and for his part, Greg found his home in James’ loyalty and kindness. James had fought with himself at first to not continually compare Greg to other men he’d loved prior, and one in particular that he’d loved above all the others. Over time he grew to love Greg for Greg, for Greg was his shelter, Greg was his strength. James, whose left arm had not yet regained its full function despite the physiotherapist he’d been seeing, would now give his right arm to see Greg happy. Greg, whose life had not treated him kindly to date, had found in James someone who would not take him for granted, who would never ask him to be anyone but who he was. As an added bonus, James was a bloody fantastic kisser. Before long they elected to share a home, Greg opting to move into James’ country cottage and commute into London part-time. James’ home afforded them fresh air, freedom to roam, and plenty of space for Greg’s kids when they visited him on weekends.
James felt rather than heard Greg’s footfall on the bamboo floor behind him as he laid the cookie sheet onto the counter ready to spoon out lumps of lemon drop dough.
“Good morning, darling,” whispered James, his voice still a bit croaky that morning as he’d not yet spoken to anyone. He felt Greg’s sleep-mussed hair tickle his jaw as Greg’s arms wrapped around his waist.
“Who’re these delights for this time?” inquired Greg. He didn’t mind being on the receiving end of James’ culinary expertise, but he didn’t want to assume. Years of the Yard has taught him better.
“Hold the bowl still for me, would you, dear heart? I could use an extra pair of hands. I’ve decided to make these biscuits for John.”
***********
John Watson’s days were no easier than his nights. By day he abhorred the empty flat, lifeless since Sherlock had jumped and left him. Seven months, nineteen days, four hours, and twenty-three minutes since he had watched Sherlock, his dearest friend, his confidant, his beloved (even if he admitted it to no one but himself), jump from the St. Barts roof. John’s world had ended, for all intents and purposes, at that linchpin in time. He could go nowhere without being reminded of Sherlock and the life they had once shared. By night John dreamt of Sherlock, always one of three dreams: Sherlock’s eyes when he laughed at one of John’s ridiculous jokes, Sherlock’s body pressed beneath him moaning with pleasure, or Sherlock’s bloody lifeless body on the sidewalk. On the worst nights, all three were jumbled together in a tortuous mangled clot, leaving John wrenched and knotted in despair upon waking in the pre-dawn hours.
For John Watson, living felt harder than dying, but he could not bring himself to do the one final thing that would end his own life. Not only would Sherlock not have wanted that, Sherlock had taught him what it was like to have a life with someone, to have unadulterated happiness. To have someone to come home to, to eat dinner with. He could not imagine ever being as happy again in this life as he had been while his best friend was alive.
Because John Watson could not imagine any other way of moving forward (he dared not say moving on, there was no moving on), he decided to return to work at the surgery. If he could not heal his own heart, he might at least be able to heal the physical maladies of others. He could at least make himself useful. John Watson, always the good soldier.
The first day of work had been more than he’d bargained for, with far more sick cranky children than he’d been expecting. He did manage to find the slightest bit of solace in the several lacerations needing sutures. Winding and throwing the vicryl first one way, then the other untangled the scribbling chaos of his brain, if only slightly and temporarily. Nothing here could ever take the place of Sherlock, this work would never completely reverse the shattering damage done by the sight of Sherlock’s coat billowing from the roof and his friend’s final words ringing in his ear. Goodbye, John on a horrible interminable internal loop. His work might, however, give him some reason to stay alive.
At the end of his first work day, he stumbled into his office nearly comatose on his feet from exhaustion. Imagine his surprise to find a small plate of cookies on his desk, with this note attached:
Dear John -
We know this is your first day back at work since Sherlock died. We know what kind of person you are - you’re a good bloke who keeps things to himself and doesn’t want to ask for help, but we aren’t daft. We know how much Sherlock meant to you. We know what love looks like, and we aren’t blind. We know that you loved him beyond words. These biscuits won’t fix a broken heart, but we hope you know that we are here any time you need anything. Sherlock loved you back, you know.
Fondly, Greg and James
And for the first time in eight months, for the first time since he had watched Sherlock die on the rainy St. Barts pavement, John Watson wept.