Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Sherlock woke to a loud banging at the door of 221B, he didn’t question who. When he sprung from his bed in a swirl of his dressing gown and unkempt sheets at four o’clock in the morning to rush down the stairs and answer it, he didn’t question the time. And as a soaking wet John Watson stumbled into the flat, eyes red and jacket reeking of liquor, Sherlock Holmes didn’t question why.

The rain was falling in sheets, the gusting wind intruding upon the entrance to 221B as John pushed past Sherlock, shivering from the cold. Sherlock glanced into the empty street and neither heard nor saw a sign of a cab pulling away into the twinkling shower of the early morning darkness. Evidently, John had sought no assistance in his journey to Baker Street on this rainy February night, and by the looks of the bedraggled mess pulling itself up the stairs in a trail of water, Sherlock was not going to receive an explanation. He left it unwarranted, and pulled the door shut behind him. John had already dragged himself to the top of the stairs, and Sherlock turned to follow him up, eyeing him with curiosity. He shook his head, expelling the dampness that had settled into his messy curls, and trailed after John cautiously as John threw open the door to the living room and dropped his jacket to the floor, which set about forming an apathetic puddle of water on the rug. Sherlock’s gaze flickered from John to the jacket, and then back up in time to see John turn down the hallway to the bathroom, into which he retreated with a slam of the door.

Sherlock stood still, the silence settling about him as a lethargic drip pooled water from the edge of the discarded jacket onto the floor. He was slightly surprised at himself – he could not remember the last time a knock at the door had awoken him in the middle of the night, mostly because he could not remember the last time he had been asleep for any substantial amount of time to allow for this variety of an unexpected disturbance. Which was not necessarily odd, either, considering the fact that his nights had grown more sleepless as the weight of his solitude sunk lower and lower into his chest. But, all surprises aside, he was awake now and had no reason to retire to his bedroom once more. There were a few eyeballs gathering frost in the refrigerator that could use a productive cross-sectioning. Sherlock stepped over John’s jacket and made his way into the kitchen, where he began to rummage through the knife drawer for a proper instrument.

Every day, there were fewer and fewer knives in the drawer. Plates and cups and spoons were strewn about the kitchen, on top of the refrigerator, piled on a chair shoved neatly and inconspicuously under the table, hidden from Sherlock’s sight so as to avoid catching the detective’s eye and reminding him that he had adult things to do in his adult life and his adult flat and his adult kitchen. Boring. No more knives in the drawer. Boring. Eyeballs in the fridge… Sherlock leaned against the kitchen counter for a moment, feeling restlessly spiteful towards the turn he had allowed his day-to-day functions to take. He felt as though decades had come and gone in which he had allowed himself to live this way, and it had never mattered. But for the few years, the few, ephemeral years now so much more precious in hindsight in which John had managed to settle himself into Sherlock’s life, Sherlock had somehow developed a sense that he could do better. But, that had all passed, and now… back to boring. Sherlock sighed, and turned to resume his search, but before he could find a suitable instrument for his pointless ocular experiment, he heard his name called wearily from down the hall.

“Sherlock? A minute?”

Sherlock dropped the utensil he was holding back into the knife drawer and exited the kitchen, taking long strides towards the hallway but stopping abruptly before John came into sight. He turned the corner to the hallway, meticulously casual. John’s head emerged from the bathroom, and with a tired voice inquired as to whether or not he could borrow a dressing gown from Sherlock. Sherlock nodded silently, whisking his way down the corridor into his room to retrieve a gown from his dresser. It was an old blue gown, one that had been worn both by himself and Irene Adler. The Woman’s face flashed through Sherlock’s mind, and he shook away from the memory, tugging the gown free from the assortment of clothes in the dresser. He made his way back to the bathroom, and knocked twice at the door. There was a muffled noise from within the bathroom, but as Sherlock reached for the doorknob, it turned in his grasp and revealed not John’s face, but a hand. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the hand. The hand made an impatient beckoning motion, and when Sherlock cautiously placed the dressing gown in its open palm, it was whisked away and quickly replaced by a jumper and a pair of jeans, both heavy with water. Sherlock rolled his eyes, about to deny the unwanted offering, but the soaking wet clothing was thrust towards Sherlock and the door was slammed in its wake.

Sherlock’s jaw dropped in shocked irritation, but he quickly shut his mouth and fumbled to hold the dripping clothes away from his body as he testily retreated from the hallway and back into the kitchen, where he draped the clothes over the back of a chair. The clothes began to drip onto the table from the chair, and Sherlock furiously ripped the chair out from underneath the table. A pile of dirty dishes crashed to the floor. Sherlock glared into the souls of the dishes with intense hatred as the silence resumed after the shatter, unbroken except for the maniacal drip of John’s stupid clothing onto the chair and the floor. Sherlock turned his glare up to take in the rest of the kitchen, eyeing the knife drawer he had left hanging out of the cabinet when John had called his name. He reached across the table and slammed it shut as loud as he could, and retreated from the mess.

He marched into the living room, eyeing the silent bathroom with annoyance as he passed the hallway, and flopped down on the couch with a humph, turning his back to the room and glaring moodily into the unsympathetic couch cushion. His eyes drooped, which made him even more irritated, because he wasn’t interested in being tired and was beginning to wish he had allowed John to continue his indiscriminate banging on the door until Mrs. Hudson had taken care of it. He allowed himself to slip into a doze, mind quieting down, exploring the question of just what John Watson was doing at Baker Street at four in the morning. He pressed his head deeper into the pillow. It wasn’t a good sign. 

Just when he was about to let himself slip into unconsciousness, he heard the bathroom door creak open, and slow footsteps move into the living room. He opened his eyes, ripping himself back into a state of alertness, but made no motion that would reveal he heard John enter the room. The footsteps paused, and Sherlock desperately wanted to turn himself to face the room, see John standing there in a dressing gown several sizes too big for him, sleeves longer than his arms and the hem of the grown pooled around his feet. But before he could convince himself to do so, John spoke.

“Interesting how much more you seem to be sleeping now,” John said softly. He paused, perhaps waiting for a response. Sherlock waited as well for John to continue, which he did. “And I’m right back to being unable to sleep at all.” John sighed, his voice shifting from a conversational tone to a softer, more introspective murmur.

“I wish things could go back to the way they were.”

Sherlock tensed at John’s words, and concentrated his effort on trying to appear asleep. This could be interesting.

“I didn’t know I would miss it. I mean, of course I knew, because I did, after you… well…” John trailed off, and Sherlock shut his eyes, the image of looking down at John from the top of St. Bart’s panning through his mind.

John resumed his conversation with himself. “But I think, even if I had found someone when I had the option of leaving you still, when that was an option… well, before you chose that option for yourself…” Sherlock grimaced. He didn’t know what he was expecting this to turn into, but he felt a pang of guilt at what John was remembering. “I would have felt the same way if I had chosen to leave you. Yeah, I suppose that’s it. I still would have felt this way if I had moved out of Baker Street on my own accord and settled into a life with someone else.”

John’s voice became shaky. “Then again, maybe if I had chosen someone else…” Sherlock opened his eyes. What had happened? Mary… “Maybe I deserve all of this. It’s my own fault for choosing her and so it’s my own fault if she’s the way she is.” John raised his voice. “So it’s my own fault if she’s been a bloody liar about everything this whole – ”

John stopped midsentence as Sherlock rolled over to put him in view. John looked so much like Sherlock had expected, engulfed in what appeared to be a giant dressing gown, which would have been unfairly adorable were it not for the lines drawn on his face from exhaustion and anger.

“Don’t stop,” Sherlock murmured, trying to keep his voice soft so as not to anger John. “Tell me what I can do.”

John stared at him. “What can you do? How about what you could have not done? Lie to me about Mary’s reasoning for shooting you, convince me it was alright to toss her past aside without examining it – that’s what you did. I didn’t need to be babied. I needed the truth. And now – ” John spat out his last comment – “I have the truth.”

The two men stared at each other, John with a glare and Sherlock with a look of sleepy concern. Silence fell about them, and John looked down at the floor where his jacket was wallowing in its pool of rainwater. He gathered up the enormous dressing gown about himself, and turned in a comically decisive manner to his armchair, into which he lowered himself with a heavy sigh. Sherlock laid his head back down on a pillow and closed his eyes halfway, surreptitiously eyeing John. John, in his own manner, did the same, cradling his head in his hands but occasionally glancing to the side towards the couch where the sleepy detective was trying to avoid eye contact. The room was still. The two men continued to watch each other and avoid letting the other one know. Sherlock finally shut his eyes completely, and turned back towards the wall. There was another heavy pause, the tension between them crackling.

Then, they both stood simultaneously. John looked at Sherlock in surprise, and Sherlock looked away.

“I’m… just going to, well…” John attempted to break the silence. “I’m going to see if there are still sheets on my bed. I mean, I figured there might be. You know, because, Mrs. Hudson probably, just like when you left, she probably kept it – ” he stopped midsentence. Sherlock watched him, wondering if he would continue, knowing he wouldn’t. John didn’t look tired or angry anymore. He simply looked lost, and he cast his eyes to the ground, once again eyeing his jacket on the rug. “I’m sorry, I’ll clean that – ”

Sherlock didn’t give him a chance. He crossed the room in a single stride, pausing in front of John, eyes upon John’s surprised face. John had gone through enough hell, Sherlock knew, and had a bloody awful best friend in tow with him through it all too. Sherlock was still surprised John even considered him as much, seeing how erratically Sherlock shifted in and out of John’s life, and he realized in that moment that John had returned to Baker Street for the comfort of familiarity, after whatever it was that had happened with Mary. Sherlock might as well give him that, do the ‘comforting shoulder to cry on’ thing people did, he supposed, and he folded his arms around John and pulled him in to an embrace, resting his cheek against John’s tousled hair and closing his eyes. He felt the smooth fabric of the old blue dressing gown that was sagging around John's frame, and bunched it in his hands against John’s back, pulling him closer. John, who had initially tensed against the embrace, now relaxed into Sherlock’s arms and buried his face against Sherlock’s shoulder, breathing out a heavy, shaky breath.

“I’m sorry,” John whispered, and he was not the only one.

For what it was worth, John was a mess. When Sherlock came into the kitchen the next morning, he found waiting for him a steaming cup of tea and his disheveled blogger, mulling over a cup of his own tea with bags under his eyes and an absent look strewn across his face as he slumped over the table in the only chair left that was not covered in dirty dishes or chemicals. Sherlock took the cup of tea John had prepared for him from the counter and crossed to the other side of the table opposite from John, eyeing him warily. The two maintained an uncomfortable silence that seemed considerably lengthier than it actually was until Sherlock finally forced himself to break it.

“So… last night, what ha – ”

“Nope.” John cut him off before the detective had a chance to enquire about John’s evident marital issues.

Sherlock gave him a look of suspicion, but closed his mouth.

John watched him, then glanced back down at the table, seeming to want to counter his curt outburst. He cleared his throat. “Any good cases recently?”

Sherlock hesitated, shifting in his mind through the variety of cases he had received the past week. All boring. But John need something to talk about, to get his mind off of whatever it was that had happened, and if Sherlock was ever going to learn what had unfolded he decided it would be best to play along. However, before he could say anything, John spoke again.

“Never mind.”

Sherlock glanced up, and John continued. “Cases always seem to help you, so I figured perhaps I would try that out, but…”

John closed his eyes and shook his head. Sherlock was silent; he wasn’t sure what to say, and was growing impatient with himself, wishing he could give John some distraction or reassurance, or… something. He decided he would suggest that John check his blog and see if something recent had been submitted, but once again, he was cut off before he could suggest anything.

“I think I know what I need,” John declared, and stood up from the table, pushing his chair back roughly. “I need to go to his flat, I’ll find him… I’ll tell him! If you think you can just keep on seeing my wife and keep getting away with it then you haven’t reckoned with the fact that I – ”

“John!” Sherlock stood too, looking at John with alarm. Sherlock made a move as though he were about to speak, but decided against it. Instead, with intense calm, he grabbed John’s arm and marched him into the living room and set him down in his arm chair. With that done, Sherlock returned to the kitchen and retrieved John’s abandoned mug of tea, which he promptly deposited on the table next to John’s armchair and took a seat in his own. He didn’t like feeling as though he were an intermediary but he could not handle an out-of-control John. He was severely unused to it and it made him uncomfortable in a way that irritated him and made him want to kick John out of the flat entirely, which was coincidentally the last thing he wanted to do as well. But if John was not going to cooperate, keep Sherlock up to date on whatever had happened, then Sherlock was going to make him do so whether or not he liked it. Sherlock settled into his chair and spoke in the most deliberate tone of voice he could manage.

“John, you are going to tell me, now, what exactly happened.”

John glared at him. Sherlock could see the anger welling up in him.

“I’m not going to get you involved in this one, Sherlock. Because the last time something happened in my life that required my careful deliberation and decision, you manipulated me back into believing that everything was all fine and Mary was fine and our marriage was fine and everything. So no, I’m not involving you in this one.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him. “Seeing that it was I who revealed to you Mary’s secret and it was I who she shot I fail to understand why you see that incident as one over which you had enough control to perceive yourself as able to determine my ‘involvement.’"

John’s frown deepened. “Not in the mood, Sherlock. We are not doing this. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to – ”

“No,” Sherlock stated simply. “You’re not. Your mind functions with action on the forefront, as if it is the most pliable solution to any problem. So – ”

“What?!” John looked incredulous. “I’m the one who acts before he thinks?”

“Yes, John, I always think before I act, it just happens too quickly for you and anyone else to notice.” John glared furiously. Sherlock ignored it. “But as I was saying, you need to expel your built up emotion before you act on it and do something stupid. So.” Sherlock leaned forward, fingers steepled. “Here I am. Tell me what happened and it will calm you down.”

John maintained his look of heated disbelief. It was a few minutes before he sighed, closing his eyes and breathing out deeply and finally speaking in a quiet, defeated tone.

“I’d been doubting for so long after we found out about her issue with Magnussen, and the damn flash-drive, and…” John put his head in his hands. “I was just doubting, okay? That’s why I was angry with you. I wanted you to let me doubt. I don’t know if you thought my happiness hinged on my marriage, but just so you know there’s never been anything in my life that I let my happiness hinge on that turned out to last.” Sherlock broke eye contact with John, looking at the floor in discomfort. He had been a part of that pattern, he knew.

John was still speaking. “So I was doubting. Yeah. And it was more than that, as a doctor, I was having doubts too…” John looked uncomfortable. “I confronted Mary’s physician about her pregnancy. It had been clear, when the symptoms had started, and in accordance with the due date I hadn’t given a moment to count back and wonder if that lined up with the last time we, you know,” John shrugged his shoulders, shaking his head a bit. “And I just realized, Sherlock. It didn’t. It just didn’t. So when I did count back, when I did consider when her symptoms had started and what date that would have made sense with conception… Sherlock, it was just a few weeks before the wedding. It couldn’t have made sense. I was with you, my stag night…”

Sherlock stared.

“So it wasn’t lining up. And I realized, then, you were wrong. No, you had led me on, you knew the truth but you chose to be wrong about it to what, save me, Sherlock?” John sighed, and Sherlock looked dejected. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop… blaming you. But Sherlock, you were wrong. And I was there, I was there when you flat lined, god,” John’s voice broke, and he cleared his throat quickly, shaking his head again. “I was there, that time. And when you told me later, that it was surgery… it wasn’t surgery. It was Mary, who was selfish and uncaring and bitter and – ”

“John. Stop.” Sherlock leaned forward farther, his hands on his knees, listening intently. “Tell me how you caught her.”

“She just, she…” John looked up to the ceiling, and he threw his hands in the air. “She said she was going out! Made some bloody excuse I had always overlooked. You’re right, Sherlock, I don’t see anything. I let it all slip by. I don’t understand anything. But I didn’t let on what I had realized at work earlier that day, I just said, ‘Okay love, see you when you get back,’ and off she went and I followed a minute later. And I thought it would be difficult, see, maybe I would have to get another cab to follow her if she called one, maybe, but no, in she went to a car across the street, and I saw him, and I couldn’t believe it, that she just like that could – ”

“Who, John. Tell me who.” 

John looked up at Sherlock, and leaned back in his chair. “It was David. The stupid prick from the wedding. Do you remember?”

Sherlock glowered. “Of course I remember. I have his number.”

John gave Sherlock a sideways look. “…why on earth do you have his number?”

Sherlock fought off the urge to say, because I’m cheating on you with him, too! and had to fight off the urge to giggle at the wayward thought, as well. Inappropriate, he reminded himself. Instead, he said, “Because I also have a useful older brother who can make anyone’s life a government-infiltrated hell if it so conveniences me for him to do so. And it sounds to me that this ‘David’ could use a few terrorist plots pinned on him, don’t you agree?” Sherlock smiled, and to his surprise, John smiled back, though it was a sad smile.

“Yeah, Sherlock, but… you know, you were right. I needed to tell someone about this. I’m not going to go after David. I’m not going to let you do so, either.” He flashed Sherlock a warning look. “Mary is the problem.”

“And do you plan on making amends with her once you inform her what your sleuthing has revealed?” Sherlock hoped with all his might John would not assent to this, and John did not disappoint him.

“No, I don’t.” John sighed, but then gave Sherlock a resolute glance. “I’m not going to be dependent on her. I don’t need to be, anymore, I…” John stopped, a look of realization crossing his face. “I’m going to see Ella Thompson.”

“What? Your therapist?” Sherlock spat the word out, but closed his mouth quickly. He realized it would be best to let John decide what would help, and John was giving him a dangerous look that was saying the same thing. “Yes… you’re right. She’ll have something to… tell you, I guess.” Sherlock restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Ordinary people. But John…

“By the way,” Sherlock said quietly. “You’re wrong.”

John crossed his arms. “Wrong about what?”

“You don’t let it all slip by. You see more than I do most of the time.” Sherlock gave him a half-smile, and stood up from his chair. “Thank you for informing me of the situation. I do hope the therapy helps.” I’m here too, you know – but Sherlock didn’t say so.

John smiled back. “Thanks.”

There was a well-timed knock at the door, and Sherlock knew who it was. “I’ll let you handle that,” he told John, and retreated into the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson’s voice wafted into the room, and he heard John tell her that he would be needing his old room back, “just for a bit.” Sherlock smiled sadly. He would take whatever he could get, he supposed. 

Chapter Text

Baker Street was quiet that afternoon. John had phoned Ella to set up a meeting with her, and Sherlock had spent the last several hours crouched on the edge of the couch with his laptop perched precariously on his knees, victim to its fate of bizarre search engine queries and overheating. For the most part, Sherlock had left John to his own devices, and John was fine with this. His first few months at Baker Street, what seemed like decades ago, were a whirlwind, and yet at the same time the constant motion Sherlock introduced in his life brought a steady peace to John. His return into civilian life left abandoned his insatiable and antiphonal desire for both normalcy and distraction, of which he could find neither. The distraction of Sherlock Holmes was predictable – but the normalcy of living at Baker Street with this odd, self-identifying sociopath came much quicker than John could have ever possibly imagined.

The unpredictable domesticity was a relief equal to none John had ever sought after, nor imagined as an answer to all of his problems.  This abnormally comforting environment had come with its price though, a price John had paid in dull agony for the two years Sherlock had been gone. In that time, finding Mary honestly was the best thing that could have happened to him, simply because it was exactly how he had pictured settling his life down would commence after he had returned from the war. But time slowed down and became stagnant. He was floating through his life, convincing himself he was happy, but it was the idea of this lifeless way of living that had terrified him from the moment he had stepped foot in London again after he had returned from Afghanistan. He could not bring himself to move on, and the aftereffects of the war had no longer been on the forefront of his mind simply because that troubling void had been refilled by the death of Sherlock. And now, back at 221B after what was practically a different era of his life with Mary, he felt as though he could begin to move forward once more.

But he was going to need help. When he returned from the war, Ella had been there for him, though only professionally. He was lonely, achingly, both for social intimacy as well as mental stimulation. When he met Sherlock, he was still attending sessions with Ella, and it began to help tremendously. Perhaps it had been the therapy, just as John had assumed at first, but he was beginning to realize most clearly that his returning happiness owed its thanks to Sherlock. Nevertheless, despite the source of his happiness, Ella had been a contributing factor, and John knew she could be so once again.

So the next Monday morning, when John sat quietly in the back of a cab on the way to Ella’s flat, he allowed himself to think back to his first days with Sherlock, the first things he had told Ella about his new flat mate.  He had omitted some of the details then, mostly the ones that including guns and corpses and near-death experiences, but she could not have known they were missing and had been satisfied with and encouraging of the rest of the things John told her, simply because he had seemed relatively excited about his new living circumstances, which was more emotion he had allowed himself to show her, ever.

The thoughts of his first days with Sherlock lingered with John as the cab came to a stop in front of the therapist’s flat, and stayed with him as he knocked on Ella’s door. As she had been expecting him, Ella opened the door almost immediately, a smile on her face.

“John! I’m so glad you called. Come in.”

John smiled back, the memories warm as they still flickered around him, and he vaguely wondered if he actually did need Ella’s help – if it would be better to allow for his own self-counseling just through the day to day activities of Baker Street. But as he entered the flat, saw the open room, the soft drapes, the armchairs, he was swept back to the days after Sherlock’s jump, alone in the shadows of the corner of the room she used for her sessions and doing his best to keep from completely breaking down as he tried to tell Ella what had happened. His heart sunk in his chest, and the support Mary had given him to help work against the ghosts of those memories was gone, no longer there to serve as a buffer against the repressed memories, dammed up in the back of his mind. He sank into one of the armchairs and closed his eyes, chest hurting.

Ella sat down across from John, and John exhaled heavily, trying to prepare himself to tell her about Mary. Ella gave him a sympathetic smile, and asked, “How have you been, John?”

John smiled wearily. It was going to be a long session, and he didn’t know how long he could handle the formalities. 

“Ella, I’ve… so much has happened. I don’t think there’s a good answer for that.” He laughed, and it felt strange, foreign and at the same time bleakly genuine.

Ella laughed too, understandingly, and John slowly let himself unravel to her what he had told Sherlock the previous week. The story was not as raw as it had been that day, though at the same time it wasn’t nearly as easy to explain to Ella as it had been to explain to Sherlock. Sherlock had about him an air of unapproachability that under normal circumstance made him difficult to have a practical conversation with, but at the same time, Sherlock seemed to have his guard down on the day John told him what had happened. Sherlock's cautious display of concern that day allowed John to feel comfortable pouring out to Sherlock all of his vulnerabilities and dislodged hopes.

The emotional vulnerability was an unconscious key for both John and Sherlock, one through which they silently identified with each other. Despite this, and for what it was worth, Ella was an acceptable substitute, and she had proven to be so in the past years through the advice she had given to John.  When John had finished his story, voice low and shaky as he tried to hold back the ferocity of his broken spirit and his weary desire to return to the confines of Baker Street for the day, Ella was watching him, a look of concentration in her eyes.

“John, you’ve always proven to be willing to talk about what’s happened to you. You’ve been that way since our first session, with the exception of just a few times. Many people aren’t willing to elaborate as much as you are, and I am thankful for you for that.”

John smiled sadly, wondering how that would help him. “I’ve just always heard it’s supposed to help.”

Ella nodded. “It is. But often times, it’s the people who have to work towards confessing their feelings and their situations that it does help in the long term. You’ve always been willing to talk about it, from the start.”

John furrowed his brow, confused at what Ella was suggesting. “So you don’t think talking helps me?”

“Do you?”

John paused. He had always assumed it did, but then again, he had assumed he could trust Mary, he had assumed he knew who she was, and in the end, he assumed he could continue to trust her, even after her past had been partially revealed. He glanced at the ground, and shrugged his shoulders. “I guess I thought it was, since it’s supposed to.”

“It is possible for you to think one way and act another. Cognitive dissonance, you know.” Ella shook her pen at him, smiling. “It won’t help. So I’m trying to decide: if getting all of your problems out through talking about them doesn’t help you, what will? What helped you when you moved in with your new flat mate a couple years ago?”

John looked up, his thoughts catching on what she had said, shifting his concentration. “I think… what you said – thinking one way and acting another. Maybe that’s it.”

Ella raised her eyebrows. “Acting? In what form, do you think, helps?”

John sat back in his chair and pondered the question. He picked his words carefully as he answered. “When I first met Sherlock, he brought back a sense of – movement in my life. Does that make sense?” John asked with uncertainty.

“It does,” Ella mused. “Go on.”

“So… when I was with him, I wasn’t focusing on my thoughts because I didn’t have enough time to focus on what I was thinking. I was just… doing. Following him. Allowing him to guide me, even if it seemed, well, crazy.”

Ella looked concerned. “John, I think the reason moving in with Sherlock helped you was because he became an enormous distraction. But I want you to understand something. If you truly want to help yourself, you’re going to have to be the one to do it. Not Sherlock – you.”

John bristled inwardly at the statement, an involuntary feeling of defensiveness for Sherlock rising, but he didn’t say anything. Ella wasn’t completely correct about his willingness to pour out his feelings – he managed to reserve his feelings for Sherlock, keep them to himself. They almost came to the surface when Sherlock jumped, fell from John’s life for two long years, but even then John feared confessing what he had buried in the back of his mind, afraid that if he told Ella that Sherlock was different, different from any man or woman he had ever met, that the pain would shift into a different, more agonizing scar. And at the time, John couldn’t take that. Mary was the perfect distraction, but it was ironic, because she was distraction that took his mind off of the man who was the distraction in his life that saved him.

“John?”

John snapped out of his thoughts. “What? Yeah – yes, you’re right.” He wasn’t sure what she was right about. He couldn’t remember.

“Then I have an idea. A friend mentioned it, a long time ago.” Ella looked eager. John felt disheveled.

She continued. “She had a client, a very pessimistic one. And she came up with something, out of the blue, that she thought would help him feel more positive not just about his life, but about his day to day experiences.  She suggested that every morning when he woke up, the first thing he should try to do would be to say, ‘yes.’”

John stared at her. Ella had never suggested something that sounded so… pointless. “Are you… serious?”

Ella grinned. “Yes! In the end, my friend’s client was transferring the positive reinforcement of the simple word ‘yes’ to the first actions of his day, and over time, he began to transfer that to the rest of his day, and eventually he was waking up with a positive outlook on the day before he ever even said the word.”

John was incredulous. “How could that possibly work?”

Ella’s smile faltered, but she seemed insistent. “I promise you, I thought the same when I heard it. But my friend’s client needed help from himself, and I think you do too. Sherlock lied to you, and Mary lied to you – ”

“No,” John said. “Sherlock isn’t to blame for anything. He’s back, and that’s all that matters to me.” And he meant it, meant it more than he had ever before, and he felt for once that stating what he was thinking out loud gave him an unexpected amount of clarity, and a surge of affection for Sherlock in his defense of him.

“I’m sorry, John. I didn’t mean to word it that way,” Ella said apologetically. “But please, just give this a chance. Just for a week. And then you can come back, this time next week, and tell me how well it went.”

“Or how badly,” muttered John, but he nodded.

John returned to the flat to find Sherlock balancing on one of the arms of the couch and staring at the ceiling.

“What are you doing? Have you even eaten today?” John enquired, feeling a familiar, nostalgic sense of his usual concern for Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced down at him, and gave him an odd look, but he smiled. “No time, John. Lestrade sent through the strangest case about a shopkeeper who was found dead in his locked flat.”

John looked curious. “Suicide?” he asked, knowing the answer.

“Obviously not.”

John grinned. “Then enlighten me.”

Sherlock did so eagerly. No gun in the flat, execution style shot, all the doors locked and no broken windows, but a “fascinating” issue with the victim’s hairbrush. Sherlock was practically bouncing up and down, and John watched him, trying to absorb the moment as a happy memory for later times, for what always seemed like would be inevitably darker times. John sighed heavily without realizing, and Sherlock ceased his chatter.

“John?” Sherlock paused. “How did the… therapy session go?” he asked cautiously.

John felt drained. “It wasn’t very helpful.”

Sherlock removed himself from the edge of the couch and quietly slid into his armchair. “What did she say?”

“She… she listened to everything I said, and Sherlock, I’m so tired of talking about everything.” John shook his head dejectedly. “But she said talking isn’t helping me. Which just made me feel as though I was wasting my time, and then she suggested this ridiculous experiment – ”

“Experiment?” Sherlock sat up, visibly bouncing again. John cursed himself silently for calling it an experiment. Why on earth did he pick that word? John hadn’t wanted to tell him about Ella’s suggestion; at least, he hadn’t been planning on it. More than anything, the whole task seemed so simple that he was thinking about just lying to Ella about it when he returned for another session next week. But Sherlock seemed so excited… This can’t end well, John warned himself, but he told Sherlock anyway.

“She wants me, every morning when I wake up, to sit up in bed and say, ‘yes.’” John glanced at Sherlock, wanting Sherlock to declare how idiotic the idea sounded, but instead, Sherlock leapt out of his chair. 

“Will you start immediately? Tomorrow morning?”

“I wasn’t planning – ” John started, but Sherlock kept going.

“This is excellent, oh, this is not boring! We need variables. Let’s identify the variables. There will of course be the time of day you wake up and the effect that has on your ability to recall your assignment, then there will be the issue of your stamina level and the amounts of stress accumulated the previous day, and then – ”

“Sherlock! Sherlock, stop.” John knew telling him was a bad idea. “This is not an experiment. You are not going to… keep data on me.”

“And why not? It’s not going to hurt you. I promise.” Sherlock held up his hand, a feigned solemn expression crossing his face. “I swear I will not drug you unexpectedly – ” “At all” John interrupted – “Fine,” Sherlock snapped. “I swear I will not drug you at all, or harm you in any way.” Then he dropped his hand, grinned at John, and began to pace the room excitedly, muttering to himself about sleep cycles and monitoring reaction times.

John watched him, feeling annoyed. This wasn’t helping the situation, and it especially wasn’t helping John that Sherlock was so enthusiastic about it. “Sherlock,” he sighed. “I’m sorry, but I don’t want to do this. I’m exhausted enough as it is. I don’t have enough energy to wake up in the morning and try to remember something as ridiculous as saying ‘yes’ to myself. So, no, this isn’t happening.”

Sherlock looked irritated, and ceased his pacing to fling himself back into his armchair crossly. “You’re ruining a great opportunity.”

“This isn’t about you, Sherlock!”

Sherlock’s face fell, and his downcast expression pulled at John’s heart. “Please, John!” Sherlock said, and then, quieter, with a strained effort to sound logical, “It sounds like it will help you.” Sherlock gazed up at John, piercing blue eyes pleading with him, and John rolled his eyes. He didn’t believe for a second that Sherlock genuinely meant that the experiment would help, but at least it had crossed Sherlock’s mind to use it as a manipulation point. That was something, John supposed, for a sociopath. He turned his back to Sherlock to avoid giving away how quickly he was going to give in to this.

“Listen, Sherlock. If we do this, you have to promise me you won’t treat me like data. I can’t handle that.”

Sherlock grinned, and said obediently, “Of course not. You’re my best friend.”

God damn it, John thought. Sherlock was playing every stupid card in the book. John tried to stop himself from blushing. “Okay, well… where do you want to start?”

Sherlock whisked into the kitchen, and John heard drawers open and the sound of dishes crashing to the ground. He followed Sherlock precariously into the kitchen, eyeing the mess and feeling apprehensive about what it was that Sherlock was trying to find. John was fully prepared to veto any chemicals or monitors that Sherlock might suggest, but as it turned out, Sherlock was simply looking for a pen. He jumped up triumphantly from the floor, clutching a pen that had been hiding in fear under the table.

“Now, we need to make categories.” Sherlock dashed back out of the kitchen and into the living room, where he grabbed a pad of paper from his desk. He scribbled furiously on the paper, line after line to create an empty table with several different columns. John, meanwhile, had made his way back into the living room and practically collapsed into his armchair, resting his head in his hands. Then, from Sherlock – “How do you suppose we should divide this?”

John rubbed his eyes, and sighed. “How about you make a column labeled “hours of sleep” or something like that, to start.”

Sherlock’s face lit up. “Perfect!” he exclaimed. Then – “how shall we time that?”

“Maybe… I’ll write down the time I get in bed.”

“Then, after completing your assignment in the morning, I have an assignment for you,” Sherlock declared.

John looked up quickly, his heart skipping a beat. “…what’s that?”

“Write down the time again.” Sherlock stated his request simply.

John smiled softly. “Okay.”

Sherlock resumed his scribbling, and John watched him, feeling a rush of comfort at Sherlock’s interest in the experiment. John didn’t exactly want to call it an experiment, but, what the hell. It couldn’t hurt anything, he supposed. And besides, it was possible that referring to it as an experiment could help him feel as though it was a structured part of his routine, or at least, it could help speed up the process of incorporating it into his everyday activities.

“What next,” Sherlock mused, though John felt that Sherlock was speaking mostly to himself now. Sherlock moved off of his armchair and back up onto his perch on the arm of the couch, and he did so in a way that made John think that Sherlock hadn’t even realized he’d moved. Sherlock was strange that way. It felt to John as though there was no in between with Sherlock – he was either always on the move or he was managing to remain deadly still for what seemed to be inhumanly long periods of time. He was either so immersed in a case that he wouldn’t notice that he hadn’t eaten in days, or he had no case and was thus bored out of his mind in what he probably considered with drama to be the prison-like confinement of 221B. Whatever state he was in, John was appreciative of it. He felt as though he could either wrap himself in the whirlwind of excitement that was Sherlock’s life, or he could identify with Sherlock’s dramatic, agonizing boredom. Sherlock was a pendulum, making wide, oscillating swings, and John was smaller, like the shorter hand on the clock, experiencing the same motion and movement for the same duration of time, but at a reduced, subtler level.

“Alright,” Sherlock declared. “I think this will cover the possible statistical inconsistencies we would otherwise encounter.” He smiled, seeming proud of himself, and handed the notepad to John. John skimmed the paper tentatively.

Time in bed, time awake, hours slept, pulse at time of bed, pulse at time of awakening, pupil dilation at time of statement of ‘yes’…

“Um, Sherlock?” John eyed Sherlock quizzically. “How do you expect me to take my pulse and measure my… pupil dilation?”

Sherlock gave John a blank stare. “Why, when you wake up of course. It’ll be easy, I’ll show you. I have an eyeball in the fridge with the perfect pupil dilation of a person who has just – ”

“No way.” John grimaced. “And I’m not going to take my pulse, either. This whole ‘yes’ experiment is enough to remember as it is.”

Sherlock looked crestfallen, and started to protest, but John cut him off, trying to be gentle. “Listen, Sherlock – why don’t you give me a couple days of getting used to this routine, and then I’ll let you know if I want to add on the weird data like that,” John finished what he was saying, pointing at the paper. Sherlock pouted, and with a swift motion ripped the notepad out of John’s hands and stormed out of the room with something along the lines of ‘massive gaps in the data explanation’ muttered under his breath. John sat back in his armchair, slightly irritated, but a moment passed and Sherlock returned into the room and placed the notepad back on John’s lap. John looked down at it, and found a simpler chart:

Time of bed

Time of awakening

Hours slept

John looked up at Sherlock, who had a troubled look on his face, as if his desire to prove his ability to compromise with his friend was in clear ethical violation of his scientific moral standards. Sherlock was going to have to cope – at least until John felt more comfortable with the whole process.

“Thank you,” John said, trying to make sure he sounded grateful.

Sherlock shrugged, then leaned himself on the edge of John’s chair, hovering above him as he looked at the notepad. John felt a shiver snake down his spine at how close Sherlock was, but Sherlock evidently didn’t feel the same, because he slid away back to his own chair and changed the subject.

“Do you need to return to your… previous residence for anything?” he enquired.

“Oh…” John hesitated, then assented. “Yes, I think I do. Though I’d rather not go alone.” He gave Sherlock a look, hoping Sherlock understood that he had specifically been avoiding the thought of returning to his and Mary’s flat. He knew he could not do so forever, though, and at least he would have the company of Sherlock if retrieving his possessions from his old flat was really something he had to do.

Sherlock stood from his chair. “Then you won’t be alone. Shall we?”

“What, now? Why now?” John asked.

Sherlock frowned. “Because I’m bored.” He turned to find John’s coat, and upon retrieving it he pulled John up and helped him into it. John turned red, and turned his face away from Sherlock, but followed him down the stairs and out of the flat, where Sherlock waved down a cab just as quick as he always did. John smiled. It was good to be back.

Chapter Text

The venture to Mary’s flat that afternoon did not go smoothly. When Sherlock and John arrived, they were met with a door that already had a different lock installed in it so that John’s key no longer worked, and upon an insistent knocking from Sherlock they were met with an angry look from Mary, who unwillingly let them inside. Sherlock stayed close to John, and kept an eye out for David. That complete and utter prick – Sherlock should have known he was no good, and he wished he had been able to trust Mary and expect more from her. He leaned over John, feeling protective, and John mulled about and gathered up old photographs and clothing and a few other items that he had in his possession when he returned from the war and from Baker Street.

“Any furniture? Appliances? Anything we need to have shipped back to Baker Street?” Sherlock tried to think of something helpful to tell John, but John shook his head.

“Everything here we purchased together. It was a new start for me. It was supposed to be, at least,” he mumbled bitterly. Sherlock kept close to John still, unsure of what to say to help his friend, but hoping his presence could help, at least.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock started. “Yes – what?”

John looked uncomfortable. “Could I have a bit of space, maybe?”

Sherlock stepped away quickly. “Yes, of course, excuse me.” John smiled at him understandingly, and placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock stiffened.

“Thank you,” John whispered. Sherlock smiled, trying to look encouraging rather than in a state of dysfunction at John’s touch, then backed away and out of the room.

The flat was thinly decorated – it resembled a hotel in its generic design and embellishments. It saddened Sherlock, slightly – the touches of John at 221B were absent here. He was glad John was returning to 221B. It was where John belonged, Sherlock felt, and he hoped that John felt the same way as well. His thoughts shifted as he heard someone enter the room, and he turned to see Mary watching him with a wary look on her face. Sherlock scowled.

“Where’s David?” He asked flatly.

Mary scowled back. “None of your business.”

Sherlock crossed the room in a swirl of his coat and came to a menacing halt in front of Mary, towering over her with a glare. “Anything that has to do with John Watson will always be my business,” he hissed.

Mary shrank back against Sherlock’s glower, but said with a smirk, “I think the point here is that what you thought has to do with John, never did.” Both she and Sherlock glanced down at her stomach at the same time, and it was quickly the last straw for Sherlock. 

“Understand this,” he breathed, his voice deadly quiet. “I have connections in ways you could not in your worst nightmares imagine that can quickly and easily rekindle your past adventures you’ve so carefully swept under the rug for what is going on six years of your treacherous life. I know what was on that wretched flash drive of yours and believe you me when I say that information did not disappear with that flash drive – it is in the eager hands of the British government and at the snap of my fingers I can reignite all the previous connections you’ve had in a way that will ensure that you will suffer a silent but painful death within twelve hours of the release of that information, so if I were you I would reconsider your little fling because I will personally make sure you suffer for what you have done to – ”

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock paused at the sound of John’s voice, still holding Mary in a furious glare.

“It’s time to go, John.” Sherlock turned, breaking eye contact with Mary to address John, his voice gentler. “Did you get everything you need?”

John glanced between Sherlock and Mary, then nodded. “Yeah, I think so. For now.”

Sherlock smiled curtly, then turned towards the door. “Back to Baker Street with you then,” he said, his voice feeling strange. John cocked an eyebrow at him, but Sherlock ignored it. He was feeling uncontrollably defensive and strongly possessive of John, and he felt as though he had made his message to Mary clear. Mary still had her eyes locked on Sherlock; the look on her face was one of regret. Sherlock could see through it though – it was not regret at what she had done, rather, it was regret that she had been caught. That was what disturbed Sherlock about Mary, and to add to the problem, it disturbed him further that John could not see her in her true light, for what she was.

“Mary…” John began, but Mary cut him off.

“Time for you to go.”

Sherlock glared daggers at her. She was an astounding liar. He knew what she was hiding, and she knew that he did. Now wasn’t the time, though, he knew. John needed distance, and someone in his life who would be good to him while he recovered. So Sherlock simply said, “Come on, John.”

John looked helplessly from Mary to Sherlock, his eyes tired, revealing the state of misery into which he was sinking just from being in Mary’s presence. Sherlock hesitated, then placed his hand at the base of John’s back and guided him to the door, turning him tersely away from Mary. They exited the flat, and Mary slammed the door shut behind them. John winced under Sherlock’s hand at the sound of it, and Sherlock took a deep breath and told himself it wasn’t time for John to know the truth yet. The two flat mates walked out to the street, Sherlock looming and dark in his long coat as he hailed a cab and John wearily holding himself up next to Sherlock, arms wrapped around a box of clothing and a few of his other belongings. Sherlock watched John carefully from the corner of his eye, afraid of the state John was in. He turned suddenly down to John and took the box from him without a word, straightening himself back up as a cab came to a halt in front of them. They slid into the back seat, and Sherlock placed the box at his feet and turned to John, who to Sherlock’s horror had tears in his eyes.

“221B Baker Street,” Sherlock muttered inattentively to the cabbie, and then back to John he turned and said quietly, “It’s going to be alright, John. None of this is your fault.”

John looked up at Sherlock, and Sherlock saw the knowing look in his eyes that screamed exactly what John was thinking: that it was his own fault. John blinked back his tears with anger, and said brokenly, “Too many bad coincidences happen in my life for it not to be my fault, Sherlock.”

John’s words hit Sherlock roughly, and Sherlock felt a sudden rush of shame at all the pain he had caused John. He was not used to this overwhelming sense of guilt, and shook his head with regret. “I’m sorry, John. Everything would be better if you and I had never met. You could have led a normal – ”

John cut him off, a look of alarm in his eyes. “Sherlock, are you serious? Sherlock. I wouldn’t be alive right now. I would never have made it. I would have given up.” And then John was visibly doing his best not to break down, not to let go of a sob, and Sherlock was consumed by how ashamed he was of himself for leaving him. His time in eastern Europe had been torturous, an unrelenting siege of gunfire and knives and unthinkable scars, and at the end of the day when he sat in a broken hotel room and silently watched the phone in front of him, he had to force himself not to think about how much of a relief it would be to pick up the phone and ring John and hear, just for a moment, John’s voice on the other end. And yet, that was new – John brought that into Sherlock’s life, and it was not anything Sherlock had ever expected to feel desire for, to feel pain in his chest from how deeply in his heart he wanted to return to London, find John and collapse in his arms and never let go of him.

But even then, as Sherlock had not paused to think just how deeply his suicide could wound John, he had not for a second considered that it would destroy him – John was his anchor, a steady object from which Sherlock could gain all of his silent comfort, John was invincible… and yet there was so much left for Sherlock to learn about human beings, and he was beginning to realize that. Because as John was showing now, he was anything but invincible, anything but that unmovable object to which Sherlock could always cling. And with growing fear, Sherlock was beginning to realize the notion that his flat mate was his anchor was true for John as well, that John saw Sherlock just as Sherlock saw John, as a source of comfort, as his anchor – and Sherlock had let him down, let him go and betrayed him. And now, John was the one paying the price for it. Sherlock felt sick, angry with himself for what he had allowed to happen. John needed help, and Sherlock hadn’t been there when John needed it the most.

Sherlock moved his feet over the lonely box of clothing on the floor of the cab and placed himself next to John, who was resting his head in one hand and covering his mouth with the other, his breaths irregular and his chest heaving as he choked back tears. The whole ordeal was making Sherlock anxious – he had never known John to be someone to succumb to his emotions like this, and he felt even worse that John was doing his best to hide it. Sherlock carefully rested a hand on the hand John was using to prop himself up with, and guided John to his chest, putting a firm arm around him and using his other arm to press John against him, holding him in what was unavoidably a cradle. John turned his face into Sherlock’s coat, and balled up Sherlock’s shirt with his fist as he clung to him. This was the second time recently that John had allowed Sherlock to comfort him like he was, and the change was both terrifying and welcoming to Sherlock.

The trip back to Baker Street ended too quickly for Sherlock’s liking. John had calmed back down, but still had his face buried in Sherlock’s coat, his body shuddering periodically from time to time. Sherlock still felt nauseous from the fact that he had allowed this to happen to John, but he hoped dearly that John would feel better after this. Nevertheless, a wiser part of him knew it wouldn’t be that easy, and as the cab came to a stop in front of 221B and the two flat mates clambered out into the street, Sherlock put a hand on John’s shoulder and murmured to him, “If you don’t want to do this ‘yes’ experiment, I will certainly not force you.”

John looked up at him, his eyes red and his face in a state of wretchedness. “No, I want to do it. I need all of the help I can get right now.”

Sherlock nodded, but felt broken at those words, speechlessly furious with himself as it seemed it was too late to be good to John for John’s sake, to fix everything for him.

That night, Sherlock ordered takeaway for himself and John and made John tea and unpacked his clothes for him. He shifted about the flat with caution, keeping a wary eye on John, who had spent most of the evening rotating between the couch, his armchair, and the window. When the takeaway arrived, Sherlock slinked into the kitchen and, with an inward groan at the desolate state of the kitchen, picked through the pantry until he found a trash bag and began to retrieve the broken bits of dishware from the floor. He had almost completely cleared the floor when he heard a sound behind him, and turned to see John slip quietly into the kitchen and retrieve another trash bag from the pantry.

“I’ve already got one – ” Sherlock started to say, but John gave him a look and took the bag of ruined dishes away from him.

“They’ll break the bag without proper support,” he said quietly, and shook open the empty trash bag and placed Sherlock’s inside of it. Sherlock watched him, feeling bad for not thinking of the precaution previously. John knelt down next to Sherlock and helped him pick the last bits off the floor and the chairs. When they were done, they located a couple dish rags and wiped down the counters and the table. John pulled out a chair and lowered himself into it slowly, as if moving physically pained him. Sherlock turned to retrieve the takeaway from the counter, and placed it on the table in front of John and sat down as well.

Sherlock and John picked at their food for a few minutes, and Sherlock felt even worse for not remembering to clean the kitchen before ordering takeaway, because now the food was lukewarm. He sighed heavily, blinking down at the food and wishing he hadn’t suggested that they go to Mary’s that morning. He was about to apologize for doing so when John stood up and put his almost untouched plate in the refrigerator.

“John…”

John looked at Sherlock wearily.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock mumbled.

John’s expression did not shift to anger, as Sherlock was usually afraid it would. Instead, John simply said, “You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” and departed from the kitchen.

Sherlock didn’t sleep at all that night. The situation that had unfolded at Mary’s and afterwards in the cab weighed heavily on his mind, and he was both lost in his own thoughts on how he felt about John as well as consumed with his concern for John’s mental state of well being. John had not reacted the way Sherlock had expected him to when Sherlock reintroduced himself into John’s life almost a year ago, and had presented himself as hardened, allowing a calloused wall to remain between him and Sherlock. Sherlock had expected a more welcoming return – then again, Sherlock had expected John to remain alone at Baker Street.

Sherlock shook his head, staring at the blank screen of his laptop as he sat deep in thought. John had changed, rightfully, and used it as a shield when Sherlock returned. But Sherlock had changed as well, and was slowly letting his guard down around John. It had still been there for the years before Sherlock jumped, not because he didn’t trust John but instead simply because it was his personality. But eastern Europe changed him. It forced him to understand what it truly meant to be alone, not just in an assumed mentally superior state that was unavoidably accompanied by solitude; no – instead, his dismantlement of Moriarty’s network left him deeply and fearfully alone, both in his mental and physical state, but when he was finally able to fulfill his desire to return to John, John was a different man, in a different state of mind as well.

Sherlock had been prepared to let his guard down around John, but not in the way he ended up being forced to do. Instead of confessing his affections for John, he was focusing on John’s well being, spending every meticulous hour trying to devise schemes that not only would keep John safe, but would keep him close to Sherlock, and Sherlock was too blinded by this to foresee that it would be Mary who would bring him and John back together at Baker Street once more. Nevertheless, Sherlock felt even worse, because while he could secure John’s safety here, John’s happiness seemed permanently gone.

Sherlock sat up, suddenly remembering the experiment. He exited the living room, making his way quietly up to John’s bedroom, and slipped in the door with caution. John was asleep on top of the duvet, fully clothed as he had been when he ambled out of the kitchen hours before. Sherlock eyed the notepad on John’s nightstand, and silently picked it up to see if John had written in the time he had gone to bed. He had not. Sherlock smiled sadly, and, retrieving the pen from John’s nightstand, wrote 8:45 pm in the first box under time of bed. They had eaten late because of the disarrayed kitchen, and Sherlock had arranged to pick the food up at 8:00 pm. Forty five minutes later was his best guess, in conjunction to however long it would take John to fall asleep.

Sherlock wondered at that thought. Would he ever know? Did John always slip out of consciousness as soon as his head hit the pillow? Or did it take him several minutes – would he have a few words to say as he settled into the covers? Would it take him hours to fall asleep, preoccupied with the events of the day on his mind, turning to ask questions at all hours of the night? Sherlock gazed down at John’s sleeping figure, wishing he knew. He sighed, and turned back to the notepad once more, where at the top of the sheet he wrote, don’t forget. Hopefully John would see that in the morning and remember to check the time he woke up. If he didn’t, Sherlock wasn’t going to mention it. John needed to do what was best for himself, and Sherlock still kept an unspoken promise to do whatever it would take to make John content.

Sherlock returned to his armchair for the rest of the night, his fingers steepled under his chin as he allowed his thoughts to turn about him. As the morning light began to trickle through the drapes into the flat, Sherlock heard John’s shower turn on. He started to wonder if John had remembered the experiment when the water slammed off and he heard a loud exclamation of shit! followed by an angrily reluctant “…yes.”

Sherlock laughed to himself, but quietly so that John would not hear. The water turned back on, and the day began for Baker Street.

When John had finished his shower and made his way down into the living room, Sherlock was in hot pursuit of a case Lestrade had just sent through via email. There had been a string of robberies the previous night that included evidence of large items stolen – TVs, couches, and so on – but no evidence of a large group of robbers. The cameras had caught one figure leaving each location, each time, and none of the stolen merchandise in visible tow with him. Lestrade was in hysterics, calling every few minutes.

“I have no way to track this guy, Sherlock!” Lestrade’s voice carried far past the phone in Sherlock’s hand, and John eyed Sherlock with curiosity.

“Give me the address of the most recent burglary and we’ll head that way in a few minutes,” Sherlock said. Then – “why don’t you phone my brother? You have street level footage of the robber from the cameras in the shops, but I can promise you Mycroft can give you more.”

Sherlock glanced at John and rolled his eyes as Lestrade gave him the address with a flustered tone and hung up. John chuckled, grinning at Sherlock, and Sherlock felt his heart speed up at John’s smile. “Would you like to go?” he enquired of John.

“Of course,” John replied, then shook his head, his wet hair splaying out in all directions. Sherlock watched him intently, eyeing John’s tousled, damp head of hair much more raptly than he should have allowed himself to do. John cocked his head at him, and Sherlock quickly stood and brushed past John, face completely red, and retrieved his coat. John smiled at Sherlock’s back and followed him out the door and down the steps.

When the cab arrived at the scene, Sherlock was surprised to find Mycroft, donned in a headset connected to a small tablet, standing next to Lestrade and in deep conversation with him.

“Here is the view from a CCV two blocks away. See? Same truck as in the previous footage. I think we know what we’re up against,” Mycroft turned his gaze from the tablet to Lestrade and smiled. Lestrade grinned back, and said, “I’d give anything to have access to this type of security footage at all times.”

The two held each other’s gaze until Sherlock stepped up to them and demanded to be shown what was going on. Only then did Mycroft acknowledge him with a typical, “Oh, hello, brother dear.”

Lestrade nudged Mycroft with his shoulder and said to Sherlock, “Mycroft here has an amazing system going. We know how the robber is doing it now. This guy’s figured out all of the shops in this area that have a glaring blind spot in security coverage and has been transferring all of his goods into a truck he has positioned there.”

“So the next place we should go to look for him is…” Mycroft started to say, and Lestrade finished his sentence for him. “wherever in this couple-mile wide radius of the city there are shops with security blind spots.”

Sherlock looked at Lestrade, amazed, and then at Mycroft, who was watching Lestrade with a strange look in his eyes. Suddenly, Sherlock heard John yell his name. The three men turned to see John beckon them, then disappear in a sprint down the alley by the shop. Sherlock looked at Mycroft, and said, “I think we won’t have to look much farther,” and took off after John. 

When Sherlock turned the corner down the alley, John was gone. That’s odd, Sherlock thought, and his heart picked up speed as he ran to the next turn behind the building. He heard the pounding of John's rushed footsteps around the turn, just out of sight - and then a struggled shout followed by silence. Sherlock's mind filled with dread and he pushed himself to run faster. Mycroft and Lestrade were a few paces behind him, and Lestrade shouted John’s name, which was heralded with no reply.

Sherlock turned the corner and stopped dead in his tracks. A crumpled figure lay on the edge of the street. Sherlock’s heart dropped in his stomach, and he yelled, “John!” as he ran towards the figure. John was unconscious, a welt bruising the side of his forehead, and his jumper was dirty and splattered with the mud from the gutter. Sherlock felt for a pulse, and breathed a sigh of relief when he found it, then reached up to John’s face and urgently whispered his name, wishing he would wake up. Mycroft and Lestrade rounded the corner after Sherlock, and Mycroft made some exclamation about calling an ambulance.

“No,” Sherlock replied, “I’ve got him.” He took John up in his arms, gently so as not to disturb the blow to his head, and repeated, “I’ve got him.” John’s head lolled against Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock let out a shaky breath at the sight of the welt on John’s temple, relieved to see it was just a surface wound. Images of war and Afghanistan and Russia were flashing through Sherlock’s head, memories that belonged to him as well as ones that belonged to John, but Sherlock held John close to him as he carried him back out of the alley to the front of the shop.

“I don’t think it was too damaging of a hit,” Sherlock said softly to Mycroft and Lestrade. “I want to get him back home.”

“Do you really think that’s a good idea, Sherlock?” Lestrade asked. “If he needs stitches, or has a concussion, the doctor in him is going to be furious that you didn’t take him to the ER.”

“I’m aware of that,” Sherlock murmured. “But he also doesn’t deserve to feel like he’s being a burden anymore than he already thinks he is.”

Lestrade didn’t reply, and Mycroft was silent as well. Sherlock pressed his forehead against John’s.

After a moment, Mycroft suggested that he would call a car to take them back to Baker Street, and Sherlock assented. Lestrade asked Mycroft quietly if he could see the tablet to try and find which way the attacker had gone, and Mycroft nodded gently with a smile. Lestrade took the tablet and left to go sit in his police car, focusing absorbedly on the screen as he slowly made his way off, and Mycroft watched him.

“First time you’ve met George?”

Mycroft jumped at Sherlock’s question, and then raised an eyebrow at him. “Who, Greg? Why, yes. The first time in person, at least. He’s… a very nice man.”

At any other time, Sherlock would have given Mycroft hell for his lingering gazes, but he had a more important issue at hand, one who was currently passed out against his shoulder. Mycroft had turned a light shade of pink, and stammered something about calling a car to pick Sherlock and John up, and Sherlock thanked him quietly for doing so. Mycroft watched Sherlock, a look of sympathetic worry passing over his face.

“I know what happened with Mary,” he said.

Sherlock looked up slowly. “I know. And so you know what’s going to have to happen to her eventually,” he added.

Mycroft nodded. “With pleasure.”

Sherlock’s expression darkened. “No where near as much as it’s going to give me.”

Mycroft chuckled. “I can see that.” And then – “Is he doing alright? With moving back to Baker Street?”

Sherlock considered his answer. “I suppose so,” he concluded, deciding not to mention that this was day one of John’s experiment. “For now, at least,” he added, for good measure.

“Good,” Mycroft looked at John, then up at Sherlock. “And what about you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock, in a normal circumstance, would have scowled at Mycroft and thrown the question aside. But now, with the scare he had just experienced and the tenseness of seeing Mary yesterday and what it had done to John, he wasn’t prepared to ignore the emotional toll that was being taken on him. He sighed. “I just want to make him happy.”

“I know,” Mycroft murmured. “I’m here if you need anything.”

Sherlock felt weak, suddenly thankful his brother was there. “Thank you, Mycroft,” he whispered, closing his eyes.

The car arrived shortly, and Mycroft helped Sherlock lower John into the back seat, but as Sherlock turned to follow, Mycroft caught his arm. “Take care of yourself,” he said, and Sherlock looked up at him and smiled slightly. “I’m trying, brother mine,” he said with an exhausted smirk, and turned back into the car.

Chapter Text

John opened his eyes to the pale sunlight of the afternoon and the sound of keys clicking away on a laptop. He sat up, blinking, and unaware of where he was, until the long windows on the back wall of the Baker Street living room came into focus, as did a very busy consulting detective. It felt like it should have been morning.

“Yes,” he said.

Sherlock looked up at the statement, and John smiled wanly, though he was still feeling confused. “What happened?” he asked Sherlock.

“You got attacked by our robber,” Sherlock replied, and resumed his typing. It began to come back to John; he had seen a man standing silently in the shadows of the shop that had just been robbed, and had gotten a strange feeling about him. He had decided to consult the man… but the man took off, and John called to Sherlock and took up his pursuit.

But that was all he remembered. His head throbbed dully, and he rubbed at the impressive welt that had formed on his temple, covered partially by a makeshift bandage he assumed Sherlock had assembled himself.

“Did you take me to the hospital?”

Sherlock glanced back up from his laptop. “Do you feel faint?”

“… No.”

“You didn’t suffer from a concussion, and you don’t need stitches. So no, I didn’t take you to the hospital.”

John frowned. “It would have been safest to do so.”

Sherlock sighed, and closed his laptop. “I wanted you to wake up here. Waking up in the confines of a hospital room would have put an unnecessary amount of stress on you, which is the last thing you need.”

John felt inclined to protest Sherlock’s logic, but he supposed he could see where Sherlock was coming from. He surprised himself, actually – he had remembered to say ‘yes,’ which probably would not have happened, had he awoken in a hospital. That could at least make up for this morning, when he had completely forgotten for several minutes. He’d even forgotten to write down the time he had gone to bed the previous night, as was evident from Sherlock’s sprawled handwriting in the first box on his chart, though John didn’t have the heart to blame himself entirely for that. He had not expected the toll seeing Mary would take on him, and he winced at the thought of the awful cab ride back to Baker Street, embarrassed by his lack of ability to control himself, and in front of Sherlock of all people, as well – though he was silently grateful for how empathetic Sherlock had been. There were very few times in his life that John had lost control as he had in that cab, but it was the second time it had happened since his return from the war. No other time had he let himself go as he had yesterday, save but one event – and with that event in mind, he had to admit to himself that Sherlock’s feigned death was a much better reason for depression than his adulterous wife. He suddenly found it ironic that while at that point in time it was Mary who was there for him as he suffered from Sherlock’s lie, it was now Sherlock who was helping him through Mary’s.

John smiled sadly to himself, easily thankful that it was Sherlock at his side now, after all he had been through. But the two events built on each other cumulatively, so perhaps it was not surprising how terribly he was reacting to Mary’s infidelity – rather, he knew he still was not completely recovered from losing Sherlock. The weight was still there, and while Mary had helped him carry it, he felt as though the floor had gone out from underneath him, and he had few options left, alone and scared and nowhere to turn except back to the conventional option of therapy. Speaking of which…

“Sherlock, do you happen to know what time I was knocked out?” John asked, feeling slightly sheepish.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “I don’t think it would be fair to include that in the data,” he warned. “You didn’t fall asleep naturally.”

“But I did wake up and remember to say ‘yes’ for the first time. So that should count for something.” John wasn’t quite sure why he was defending this ridiculous experiment, but he somehow found himself in that position.

Sherlock smiled. “Well, I suppose since you are the test subject, you get the final say.”

“Okay, then. What time?”

“11:50 a.m.,” Sherlock responded mechanically, and John smiled at the quick response. He retrieved his notepad from his room and wrote in his tighter, bolder handwriting under Sherlock’s, 11:50 am, and then with a glance at the clock he wrote in the column next to it, 6:35 pm. It was a better start than he could have hoped for.

Sherlock’s phone buzzed, and he answered it immediately.

“Mycroft,” He said. “Tell me you’ve caught him.”

John watched Sherlock, wondering why Sherlock was not out right now, chasing down the robber himself. It was not like Sherlock to come to a halt mid-case, and John felt a pang of realization that it was probably because of John’s incident with the robber. That, also, would explain why Sherlock was smiling so widely.

“Good. His records will be easy to delete,” Sherlock commented, and then laughed at Mycroft’s response and replied, “No one is going to find the body then, certainly,” and hung up the phone. John stared, wondering if the Holmes brothers had just murdered someone on a whim.

“…Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked up at John with a glint of dark satisfaction in his eyes, and John realized that the robber had signed his death wish with Sherlock Holmes the moment he had struck John. John shook his head, incredulous and somewhat… flattered. He turned away, giving Sherlock no response, but he felt as though he understood – he felt as though he, given the opportunity, would do the same to anyone who tried to hurt Sherlock as well.

The day slipped by quickly for the residents of Baker Street. John spent the afternoon reorganizing his room, and Sherlock spent it face down on the couch. That night they ordered takeaway once more, and this time the kitchen was ready to be occupied, so they had a good meal together – quiet, but comfortable. The night slipped soundlessly from the last day of February and into the first day of March, and the nights shifted from a biting frost to a more even chill as the city slowly began to thaw out after its mild winter.

For four days, John awoke, sat up, and told himself ‘yes’ after a moment of recollection. He would turn obediently to his chart, jotting down the time on his watch and checking it with the time he had gone to bed the night before to calculate the number of hours he had slept. He detected no pattern in his length of sleep to coordinate with his reaction time for remembering to say ‘yes,’ but he supposed that Sherlock would be able to find a connection somehow. Sherlock was always able to find the catches, the seemingly invisible dips in the design flaws of every day life, and while John was astounded by it at first, he felt reliant on it now, somehow dependent upon Sherlock’s ability to pull a solution out of the impossible. More than anything, he hoped Sherlock would have some type of answer for as to whether or not this experiment was helping, but he had a sinking feeling that he wouldn’t like the answer until it was one he could affirm for himself.

The next two days, John was able to tell himself ‘yes’ before he sat up in bed. The first morning that he did so, it surprised him how quickly he remembered. The second morning after he said it unthinkingly, he smiled to himself, glanced at the clock to remember the time, and turned back in his sheets. He nestled his head into his pillow, closing his eyes and wondering if Sherlock was up yet. He was looking forward to telling him. Telling Sherlock… John opened his eyes and sat up. He had his weekly appointment with Ella today. He sighed, and dragged himself out of his bed, jotting down his time on his notepad and slumping into the bathroom to start the shower.

When he arrived at Ella’s flat later that afternoon, the sense of contentment and personal accomplishment John had felt that morning no longer lingered with him. Ella let him in with a smile, and chattered about the weather as he lowered himself into a chair and listened halfheartedly to her formalities. When she eventually trailed off, reacting noticeably to John’s silence, John looked up at her with a weary gaze.

“How are you feeling, John?” Ella asked.

John looked around the room, thinking about his conversation with Sherlock that morning. Sherlock had been sprawled sideways in his armchair, lost in thought when John entered the room. John grinned, and told him he had finally woken up and said ‘yes’ without thinking about it, and the look on Sherlock’s face was not one similar to the times when he had emerged from the kitchen from a successful experiment; instead, it was a gentler look, a more satisfied look, one that outlined its support for John and the genuine gladness Sherlock was feeling for John. John stood there, grinning stupidly for a moment as Sherlock’s eyes twinkled with his warm empathy for his flat mate. Looking up at Ella now, she looked concerned – no; she looked like Sherlock did when he was looking for data, and that was how John felt in that moment: like a statistic.

He let out a heavy sigh, and told her he was doing okay. She frowned, and with forced casualness asked John how saying ‘yes’ in the morning was working for him. John’s voice caught on his own words, trying to decide how he wanted to answer.

“Yeah… well, it’s good. Good.” John looked up at Ella uncomfortably. “Sherlock suggested I keep track of how long I sleep each night and he helped me keep up with the first couple of entries since it slipped my mind the first several times, but he’s suggested that the amount of sleep deprivation I experience directly affects – ”

“John, this isn’t about Sherlock. I told you that. You have to do this for you. Sherlock can’t help you the way you need to be helped.”

Ella’s comment angered John, and he had been tense for the past few minutes, worried preemptively that she would try to convince him that Sherlock couldn’t help him.

“Ella, you don’t understand. He’s an unarguably critical part of my life. Whatever I do to help myself, it will always include him, in some way or another.” It felt good for John to say that, another moment of clarity in his ability to confess a bit of what had been shifting through the back of his mind for so long.

“And what if he leaves again? If you give him your trust completely, it will be all the more difficult when he rashly chooses to disappear again.”

John stood suddenly from his armchair, feeling himself shake as he forced himself to process her comment calmly. “You do not understand,” he said through clenched teeth. “Sherlock is not going to disappear again. I trust him, and because I trust him…” John paused. “Because I trust him he won’t do what he did again. That’s not a choice for him, now, either. It can’t be.”

Ella remained calm in her seat, and said simply, “You know you cannot know that. If you let go, then your recovery will be much swifter than – ”  

“No,” John said quietly, shaking his head with a measure of finality and reaching for his coat. “No. I cannot let Sherlock go. I would rather die.” And with that, he wished Ella farewell and left the flat. He felt foolish for his dramatic last words, but once again realized that by stating out loud what he usually kept locked so securely away, his truth was solidifying, becoming reality, no longer just suppressed thoughts. His head hurt from the sudden surge of the reminder of Sherlock’s suicide, the reminder of the emotional toll it took on him the moment it had happened. The level of shock John had experienced had been inhuman, and it had just pressed down upon him freshly as he stood in Ella’s flat and allowed the thought of Sherlock leaving or dying once more to strike through him like lightning, reopening the sting of the scar Sherlock had left the first time. John stumbled into a cab, chest hurting with the poisonous vision of Sherlock’s lifeless body tearing into his mind as he struggled to take deep breaths and lower his pulse, once again furious with himself for not being able to control his emotions.

That night, John’s mind flashed through the sands of Afghanistan, the hot dirt on the side of the road, as he drove endlessly, unable to escape from the scorching desert. Over and over he cried out for Sherlock as he drove, and every time he did so he heard a curt Goodbye, John, and then the skies turned black and thunder crashed, the rain blinding him as he heard gunfire, terrifyingly indistinguishable from the thunder. And all of a sudden, through his mind the image of Sherlock falling towards him ripped at his heart as he tried desperately to reach Sherlock before Sherlock hit the ground. Over and over again he failed, and over and over Sherlock’s body cracked against the pavement, eyes wide open and empty. He shook Sherlock, begging him to wake up, and then suddenly it was he himself who was falling, hurtling from the top of the hospital towards Sherlock’s lifeless form, but before he hit the ground, John snapped awake and bolted up in his bed.

“Sherlock!” he shouted, and in just a few seconds John’s door was thrown open and Sherlock was at his side, bent down on his knees next to the head of John’s bed and his eyes scanning John’s face with a look of deep concern as he pressed John back down into his pillow. John’s chest was heaving from the image of Sherlock’s bloody figure on the pavement, and he turned closer to Sherlock, squeezing his eyes shut against the vision. Sherlock had placed one of his hands on John’s cheek, and it was cool and soothing against John’s flushed skin. Sherlock said nothing. The silence was comforting. John reached up and held on to Sherlock’s hand, breathing out slowly.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.” Then, he opened his eyes. “Yes.”

Sherlock eyed him warily. “That’s not the first thing you said,” he said softly.

John averted his gaze, then shifted away from Sherlock, angry at himself. He felt Sherlock pause against him, then slowly remove his hand from John’s face, which John deeply regretted. Sherlock sighed, and John heard the door close and felt the light turn off, and the room grew quiet once more. He pulled the sheets up as far as he could and forced the nightmare out of his head, determined to fall back asleep and forget what he had allowed himself to remember.

John woke the next morning and said a firm ‘yes’ before he pulled himself out of bed. The night before he had been angry at himself, but remembering to say that word now was a self-encouraging reminder that although he hadn’t remembered immediately the previous night, he had managed to remember now – but it was also more than that. He felt invigorated by the word, and determined to let it start his day the way it was supposed to – as a positive influence. When John got in the shower that morning, he smiled to himself as the hot water rushed over him, and a nagging realization grew slowly in his mind, despite his efforts to shove it back down: he could force himself to say ‘yes’ every morning and it would feel good, but he had woken in the middle of the night and without a pause said ‘Sherlock,’ and it had felt right.

The next week passed much better than John was expecting. He hesitated on Thursday morning, but every other morning it was quick, effortless – a slowly merging part of his morning routine. He called Ella and thanked her for her advice, but admitted that he wanted to carry on by himself. She had sounded disappointed, but John could not help that, and did not care to focus on it. Sherlock watched him closer now, obviously still concerned after John’s nightmare, and John was openly grateful for Sherlock’s attentiveness, making sure Sherlock knew it was helping, and as he did so, Sherlock opened up more to him, smiling more than he had in months.

The warmth of March fluctuated in and out as spring gradually took its hold, but it was on an especially bitter evening that Sherlock received a phone call from a very concerned Lestrade that involved a violent murder in a homeless shelter. Sherlock was quick to react, as his network would be expecting his involvement, and John knew that Sherlock felt he owed it to them. As a cab pulled Sherlock and John away from Baker Street, Sherlock turned to John and asked, “How have you been sleeping?”

John looked at him, surprised. “Well,” he began, “I have been getting on average about seven hours of sleep, assuming that it takes me about fifteen minutes to fall asleep after I write down my time. Then, when I wake up, I – ”

“No, John,” Sherlock said somewhat strangely. “I mean, are you sleeping well? Do you have many dreams, or… nightmares?”

“Oh,” John said. “Well, I guess there’s usually something, but it goes away when I wake up. So it’s okay. I just say ‘yes’ and it goes away.” John smiled up at Sherlock, and Sherlock returned the smile warmly.

“Just making sure,” Sherlock added, and John was grateful that Sherlock would think to do so. In fact, John had still been having flashes of nightmarish images every night, but when he awoke and remembered that Sherlock was alright, safe and occupied somewhere down in the rooms of 221B, he could say then, ‘yes.’

When the two flat mates arrived at the homeless shelter, Lestrade was waiting outside for them, Mycroft at his side. Sherlock smirked, and John caught a glimpse of it, wondering what was going on that would bring Mycroft here, and he asked as much of Sherlock.

Sherlock gave him an amused look. “It’s not so much what drew Mycroft here as it is who,” he said, shifting his eyes to Lestrade, and John blushed as he realized what Sherlock was implying.

Lestrade looked tired, wearily greeting Sherlock and John when they approached, and beckoned them to come inside the homeless shelter with him.

“You see,” Lestrade whispered as they made their way through the groups of people strewn about the room, “these people are afraid to talk because they’re afraid that what happened to their friend may happen to them.” Mycroft turned his nose up at an old man who shuffled past him, easing himself closer to Lestrade.

“Oh, calm down, Mike,” Lestrade retorted. “They’re people, just like you and me.” Mycroft gave him a doubtful gaze, but to John’s surprise, Sherlock spoke up in support of Lestrade.

“Very true. They have the same types of desires, same ideas of ambition, same forms of fear. And if you can understand that, you should understand why it is so helpful to know them, not only because they can help you, but because they know that you can help them.” With that, Sherlock departed from their side and confronted an old woman, seated at a card table in the corner with a few other people. She smiled up at him and Sherlock greeted her warmly in return, sitting down at the table and striking up a conversation with her.

John watched Sherlock do so fondly, strangely appreciative that Sherlock was not someone who succumbed to the misleading stereotypes of the homeless, though he knew it was because Sherlock masterfully exploited his homeless network. He was about to join Sherlock at the table when he caught sight of an old man in an army uniform slumped against the wall. A pang of recognition shot through him at the sight of the uniform, and he approached the man, kneeling down next to him.

“What’s your name, sir?” John enquired of the man, who looked up at him with a defeated and yet surprised expression.

“Jim Cromwell,” the man murmured.

“When did you serve?” John asked softly, and the man muttered something about the Gulf War. John sat down next to him.

“I was stationed in Afghanistan until just a few years ago,” John told him. “How long have you been here?”

The man stared up at him. “Afghanistan? Waste of your breath. I’ve been here decades. No family, no friends, no nothing. It’s a bloody honor being a veteran. Figured that out yet?”

John looked down, feeling guilty for no specific reason. “I’m sorry,” he said, and could not think of anything more to say. He paused for a moment, then asked tentatively, “Sir, do you know anything about the man who was murdered here yesterday?”

The man shook his head. “I don’t know why the police are involved,” he muttered. “They never get involved in this sort of thing.”

John was inquisitive. “But do you know anything about it? Is anyone else in danger?”

The man gave John a blank stare, and shook his head with a look of incredulousness. “If you make bad for yourself here, you’ll pay for it. Hell, you make good for yourself, you’ll pay for it. I figured out a long time ago that it’s better to stay under the radar and out of the picture. No one’ll hurt you then.”

John nodded, but a silence grew between him and the man, who evidently was not interested in any more conversation. John felt his stomach twist in pity for the veteran, a heavy understanding weighing on his mind that this could have easily been him, lost and alone with no where to turn, waiting for an end to it all. The apathy towards civilian life that this man suggested was a dead end path down which John knew many turned after seeing battle, and John knew he had wanted to turn to it as well. Feeling an ache of sympathy for the veteran, John retrieved from his wallet a £50 note and handed it to him. The man blinked up at him with gratitude written across his face.

John stood and turned away, wiping his eyes, and found Sherlock approaching him quickly from across the shelter.

“There’s a minister who apparently heard a man in a church not far from here confess to the murder,” Sherlock whispered tersely into John’s ear. “Stay here and see if you can get anyone else to give you details. If they don’t want to talk, mention my name. I know most everyone here.” And before John could protest, Sherlock was gone, his coat whipping out the door into the cold night. There was a clap of thunder, and John felt a sense of lonesomeness wash over him. He exited the homeless shelter and waved down a cab to return to Baker Street, deciding that Sherlock would probably do the same if the weather got too dreadful. The crisp air smelled like rain, and John did not have the emotional energy to remain in the homeless shelter and interrogate person after person who would simply remind him of himself. By the time John was back at Baker Street, the rain was falling in relentless sheets against the cutting wind.

Sherlock was not in the flat, and was not answering his phone or any of John’s texts. The clock had struck one o’clock in the morning by the time John heard a banging at the door, and he rushed down the stairs to open it. When he did, in from the howling wind stepped a shivering Sherlock, staring up at him tragically.

“John. I couldn’t find the minister.”

John looked at him incredulously, a flash of lightning illuminating Sherlock’s figure, which was completely drenched in the rain. “And so you couldn’t find a cab either?”

Sherlock didn’t answer him, but instead dragged himself into the flat out of the torrent of the downpour and collapsed against John, who stumbled backwards at the unexpected weight.

“Um… Sherlock?” John struggled to drag Sherlock’s limp form up the stairs and into the living room, but Sherlock was soaked to the bone, his enormous coat drenched in water, and was not giving John any help. John shook his head, and pulled Sherlock into the hall towards the bathroom, where upon his entrance into the little room he shed Sherlock of his coat and began to unbutton his sopping wet shirt.

“Sherlock. You need to help me.”

Sherlock shivered in response. John glared at him, but removed Sherlock’s shirt, forcing himself not to look at Sherlock’s pale torso, which was an absolutely idiotic internal fight he never would have imagined that he would be having. Sherlock’s head lolled onto John’s shoulder, and in an abrupt motion he grasped both of John’s arms tightly.

“There, there,” John spoke softly to Sherlock, whose hands were freezing. John placed his hands over Sherlock’s, hoping it would warm the detective, whose teeth were chattering. Suddenly, Sherlock jolted his head up and stared, searching, into John’s eyes, just a breath away from him, something of which John was keenly aware.

“I love you,” Sherlock said meekly, and then collapsed once again against John, limp and fast asleep.

John stared at the mass he was holding in his arms, no longer aware of the increasing wetness of his jumper in the area where Sherlock’s shirt was pressed. A shiver shot down his spine, and it was thrilling. He suppressed a grin, and stripped Sherlock down until he was in his pants. John dragged him out of the bathroom and into Sherlock’s bedroom, where he heaved Sherlock onto the bed. Sherlock settled into the sheets, and John pulled the duvet tightly over him, eyes moving over the glistening curls and the quiet, peaceful face. John was reminded of their incident with Irene Adler, of a very drugged-out Sherlock flinging himself around his bed and calling out, “John!” when he had awoken, unaware of where he was, but instinctively inclined to call out for John rather than to call out for help.

John paused for a moment, mulling over the decision he was about to make, and then decided against it. He was not going to go get his notepad and stay in here with Sherlock. Cold, wet, unconscious, and in love with me. No, that wasn’t what he was going to do. Sherlock could become extremely sick. He wasn’t thinking about it and he wasn’t going to. I’m a doctor, this is supposed to be my job. He turned and left the room, flipping the light switch off, and made his way to his own bedroom. Next to his bed, John found his notepad, and gazed down at the trail of numbers that had accumulated over the weeks there. He glanced at the top of the page, and his eyes caught on Sherlock’s spidery cursive note next to the column labeled, “time of awakening:”

Don’t forget.

John read the two words over, two times, three times, and then picked up the notepad and ventured back through the darkness to Sherlock’s room. He opened the door quietly and found a chair in a corner, which he pulled up next to the head of Sherlock’s bed and into which he settled himself, eventually allowing himself to fall forward, head resting next to Sherlock’s chest.

John’s mind did not drag him through any nightmares that night.

Chapter Text

Sherlock stepped off the stairs leading down from the plane. The video clip had worked. Mycroft’s timing was impeccable, and Sherlock was feeling bold. He swept across the tarmac towards John and Mary, who were standing next to the car with looks of shock on both of their faces. All this time, holding himself back, doing his best to make sure John was happy, and now, Sherlock was going to make sure John understood.

In a single swift motion Sherlock reached John, pushed him roughly against the side of the car, took his face in his hands, and kissed him deeply and insistently. John responded perfectly, just the way Sherlock had hoped, had dreamed for, and John melded himself against Sherlock’s body, strong arms pulled tightly around Sherlock’s torso, asking to be closer to Sherlock, imploring for more. Sherlock gave it to him, his tongue snaking over John’s lips, and he forced himself nearer to John, insatiable and craving John's taste. He lowered his hands to John’s hips and pulled him in, leaving no space between them as they pressed into the kiss…

“Yes,” said John, and Sherlock opened his eyes. There sat John in a chair next to Sherlock’s bed, a ray of light passing lazily into the room from the window. John yawned, and gave him a strange look. “Did you sleep alright?”

Sherlock paused, pulling himself reluctantly out of the dream. “I… yes. Yes! Don’t forget. Write it down.” Sherlock gave John a quick, hesitant nod.

John smiled at Sherlock, a smile that Sherlock, had he not known better, would assume was faintly affectionate. “Alright,” John murmured, and turned away from Sherlock to reach for his notepad, which was laying on Sherlock’s nightstand. Sherlock watched him, his eyes trailing over John’s jawline and up to his rumpled hair, and was thankful that John couldn’t see what he had been dreaming about. That day on the tarmac had gone no where near as Sherlock’s dream had wanted him to believe. It was no where near as simple, either – too many questions from John, and Sherlock, who knew what had happened, allowed Mycroft to fabricate a story to John and Mary as they drove away from the open field and the plane that had flown the flight it was supposed to fly – a devastating minute away from John, and then immediately back to him after an ‘unbelievable’ phone call from Mycroft.

When Mycroft had deposited them safely back at Baker Street and had given Sherlock a ‘make sure you end this now’ warning look, Sherlock had sat Mary and John down and explained to them that the video had been faked, that Mycroft had created an entirely fabricated file elaborating upon how Sherlock had used the pixel count in the video clip to track it back to Moriarty and end him once and for all, and thus the government had ‘chosen’ to let Sherlock remain in London. Sherlock did not mention that Mycroft had quietly told him before they created the clip, “I know you cannot leave him, and I cannot force myself to make you. But you must agree to let him go and live his life if I do this for you.” And that was what Sherlock did. John and Mary accepted the explanation wordlessly, and they left Sherlock there, alone at Baker Street.

Sherlock sighed. He could not handle himself without John, but evidently London could not handle them together. Magnussen’s steady flick against John’s face pulsated in Sherlock’s mind, and Sherlock calmly relished how it had felt to pull the trigger against Magnussen, see the life extinguish from him. And now…

“You know,” John commented, “I think Ella may have been right. I’ve felt a bit better these past several weeks. Perhaps this ‘yes’ experiment wasn’t a sham after all.”

Sherlock smiled, pulling himself away from the memories. “I’m glad, John.”

He felt John’s eyes on him, and turned to see John staring at him.

“Do you remember anything from last night?” John asked quietly.

“…Yes,” Sherlock replied, feeling confused. “I couldn’t find the minister.”

John sighed, and nodded his head, and Sherlock suddenly felt as though John was hiding something.

“What? Why?” Sherlock sat up in his bed, sheets pooling around his waist, and he realized he was wearing nothing but pants. Odd, Sherlock thought. He didn’t remember discarding the rest of his clothing. He looked up suspiciously at John.

“Alright. Tell me what happened.”

John glanced away. “You… you came in drenched in rainwater and freezing and I just wanted to make sure you weren’t going to be sick.”

So you stayed here with me, Sherlock wondered, feeling guilty for worrying John. Still, John seemed on edge about something beyond just that fact that he had fallen asleep in Sherlock’s room, but Sherlock was beginning to learn it was better not to push John for an explanation for everything.

“So did you learn anything else after I left?” Sherlock enquired, but John shook his head.

“I just went back to the flat. Being in that shelter was a bit of a stress, and it was getting late and starting to rain, so…” John trailed off, seeming to lack the energy to elaborate more. Sherlock watched him, wondering what he could do to pull John out of his unhappiness. He had lived with John for so long, learned how John functioned, observed John’s day to day quirks and demeanors, but despite what he had observed, he was beginning to feel he did not know John as a person as well as he thought he did. He knew there had to be something John desired, something that could help quicken the process of healing, but Sherlock did not have a clue what it could be. The most Sherlock could do was to be, well, Sherlock. He had never had the need to be more for anyone in his life before, and now he was regretting that, quickly backtracking as he wondered what he could do to help the one person in the world about whom he cared most, who was silently crumbling in front of him.

Sherlock put a hand on John’s shoulder, remembering how John had done so when they were in Mary’s flat.

“Don’t worry,” he said gently. “Lestrade will find who did it. We don’t have to concern ourselves with it.”

John looked up at him, an astonished look on his face. “No, Sherlock,” he said. “We should find who did it. It’s what you would do if you were…” John paused.

Sherlock finished the sentence for him, feeling uncomfortable. “If I were on my own.”

John closed his eyes and nodded, and Sherlock realized what was going on. He saw it in John’s figure, the way his posture grew smaller as he sunk lower in his chair, and suddenly, Sherlock was determined to put a stop to what he had started. He slipped his legs out of the covers and sat on the edge of his bed, ignoring his scant amount of clothing and looking John in the eye.

“John. Listen to me,” he said firmly. John eyed him with a drained but surprised look. “I let you down – ” Sherlock drew a deep breath. “I… let you down and selfishly abandoned you because I was deep in a case that I thought was growing very personal. I did not fake my suicide and leave you uninformed simply because of the threats that were made on you and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson’s lives. I left you uninformed because I was working as though I had blinders on, and the only person in my line of sight was Moriarty.”

John stared at him, and Sherlock felt extremely exposed, but he knew he had to explain himself in light of the fact that he had never done so before.

“When I returned and you asked why I did it, rather than how, I explained to you just that: I had to eliminate Moriarty’s network. What I did not take into account was that when you said you wanted to know ‘why I did it,’ you actually wanted to know ‘why I would do it,’ and the more that has weighed on my mind the more I have begun to wonder the same: why would I do that to you?”

John was silent. Sherlock’s nerves were rattling him, but he kept going.

“That type of question was not something I would ever have asked myself of anyone before.” Sherlock closed his eyes. “Ever, John. So when I found myself asking how I could do such a thing, I realized that you most likely were tearing yourself apart wondering the same.”

John leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and listening closely as Sherlock talked.

“So let me tell you why I would do that to you.” Sherlock felt himself shaking, aware he was skirting the edge of who he thought he knew himself to be, teetering dangerously as he slowly began to give light to a side of himself that was foreign territory even to him.

“I did it because I am a high-functioning sociopath.”

John gave him a confused look, a hint of disappointment in his eyes. He started to say something, but Sherlock wasn’t finished.

“And I’ve always considered myself to be as much because I never thought I would be in a position in which I would succumb to the emotions of normal people. But…” Sherlock’s eyes were stinging, and he wanted to brush the feeling angrily away, to ignore it, but he knew that was no longer a choice.

“I am not a high-functioning sociopath.” Sherlock exhaled heavily. “And I never was. I’m not a sociopath. And I’m certainly not high-functioning right now,” he added with a shaky laugh, and to his surprise, John laughed too.

“You and me both, Sherlock,” said John.

Sherlock shook his head, feeling like his life had been knocked off of its tracks. “For what it’s worth, it’s your fault.”

John grinned, a mischievous look in his eyes. “What’s my fault this time?” he asked, and Sherlock’s voice caught on what he was planning to say, quickly wishing he could backtrack what he said so as not to make John feel at fault. But to his amazement, John was smiling still.

“I’m kidding. I get it.”

“You do?” Sherlock asked incredulously.

“Yeah,” John answered. “Yeah, of course I do. I know what it’s like to think you’re stuck with who you've decided to be, who your friends and family have decided you are. And then I know what it’s like to meet someone who does the impossible and gives you the opportunity to recreate yourself.”

“Without even realizing you’ve done so,” Sherlock whispered, and John nodded. Sherlock sat back for a moment, not knowing what to say. He hadn’t expected John to empathize so much, and he certainly hadn’t expected the look of relief that was written across John’s face as they sat there in silence in Sherlock’s bedroom. He wanted desperately for that empathy to be something more, to reach beyond a mutual consideration and into a more intimate understanding, but he knew that whether or not he ever mustered up the courage to ask as much, it was his responsibility to pull John out of his depression.

John stood, and returned the chair he had borrowed to its corner. He retrieved his notepad and turned to leave, but before he disappeared through the door he glanced back at Sherlock and said, “Let’s find this murderer.”

Sherlock’s mind took a moment to process John’s request, but then he remembered the homeless shelter and the promising lead with the minister, and nodded his head, smiling. John slipped out the door and Sherlock shifted through his closet for an outfit, determinedly planning out the day before them. 

Sherlock and John left Baker Street by mid afternoon, and they were in high spirits. It was mid-March, and quite warm – perhaps the first legitimately warm day of the year. It didn’t take nearly as long as Sherlock expected for them to find the minister, and the man was a surprising help. When Sherlock and John walked in the church, the minister was the first to approach them, as though he’d been expecting them. Sherlock had stopped several people in the church the night before to ask for the minister, and evidently they relayed the messaged to the man, who now gave them a vaguely detailed description of the suspect.

“This wasn’t his first time here, either,” the minister added as Sherlock examined the pews and John wrote down the appearance of the suspect as the minister had given him.

“He’s been here several times, and we’ve always been happy to let him stay. Many of the homeless from that shelter frequent this church.”

Sherlock finished his sweep of the church and turned back to John and the man.

“Thank you. That is quite enough for us to go on,” Sherlock said cheerfully, and then to John, said, “Someone at the homeless shelter owes us a visit.”

It was late in the afternoon by the time Sherlock and John reached the shelter. Sherlock had called Lestrade beforehand, confident their suspect had been there all along, hiding in plain sight, and it was no surprise to Sherlock that when they entered the building, Mycroft was right there next to Lestrade as well.

“Hello, brother dearest.” Mycroft nodded to Sherlock, and Sherlock decided there was harmless fun in making life difficult for Mycroft at the moment.

“Oh, hello,” Sherlock grinned. “Overly fond of the poorer members of London now, are we?”

Mycroft gave him a strained smile. Sherlock turned to Lestrade and asked politely, “Lestrade, do you frequent the Queen’s? There’s an excellent production of Les Miserables at the theatre right now. It’s one of Mycroft’s favorites.”

Lestrade lit up just as Mycroft’s face fell under a shadow of irritated darkness. Sherlock grinned widely. “I’ll treat you to the tickets,” he said merrily, and then lowered his voice and said, “I know who our murderer is.”

Lestrade visibly shifted into a state of concentration and whispered urgently, “Who?”

Sherlock found the man in no time. Lestrade took good care to be subtle about the arrest, and as he led the man out to a police car with Mycroft in tow, Sherlock felt a hand on his arm. He turned to see the woman he had been talking with the day before, a look of relief in her eyes.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “He had a debt with several of – ” 

“No matter,” Sherlock said, holding his hand up to silence her. “He’s gone, so the debt is as well. You’ll be safest not to mention it.”

The woman smiled knowingly, then said with her voice barely above a whisper, “You know where to find me if you need to make a delivery or send a message.”

Sherlock smiled in response, and nodded. The woman turned away, and Sherlock caught John’s eye, John of whom had remained silent through the ordeal.

“Easy cases like these are important,” he told John quietly. “Because often times the police never get involved, but Lestrade is aware of my network and pays attention to the times when he thinks I am needed.”

“You’re a good man, Sherlock,” John replied softly, and Sherlock felt his cheeks go red. He turned towards the door and said, “Let’s go find the dynamic duo.”

The dynamic duo was standing next to a police car outside the shelter, Mycroft with a hand resting on the angle between Lestrade’s neck and shoulder, and the two were in deep conversation with one another. Sherlock approached Mycroft silently from behind and clapped him on the back, which solicited a noticeable jump from Mycroft.

“Let’s get dinner,” Sherlock said, and turned to John for affirmation. John smiled up at him and nodded.

“Where shall we go?” Mycroft asked.

“I know a good place,” Sherlock said, and smiled at John. “We haven’t seen Angelo in a while.” John grinned from ear to ear, and Sherlock could have scooped him up and hugged him from how glad he was to see John smiling like that again.

When they arrived at Angelo’s, Sherlock insisted they sit at the normal table in the window, despite its cramped location. Angelo shrugged and pulled up two more chairs, and the four men crowded around the table together, John at Sherlock’s side and Lestrade at Mycroft’s.

“When was the last time you two had a family dinner, hmm?” Lestrade asked, glancing between Mycroft and Sherlock.

“Define ‘family dinner,’” Mycroft replied. “If that includes drugging the Christmas punch and stealing the laptop of the most influential man in the British government, then last Christmas would be our most recent family dinner.” He leered at Sherlock, who returned the gesture with a mischievous smirk. Lestrade looked between them with a bit of an awkward expression, and changed the subject.

“So, Mycroft,” Lestrade said. “Who is your favorite character in Les Mis? I always liked the bishop of Digne. Small role, but important from the beginning to the end.” Lestrade smiled at Mycroft, waiting for a reply, and Sherlock had to do his best to keep from laughing.

“I’m partial to Javert,” Mycroft growled.

“Oh! Javert,” Lestrade said with a laugh, then asked a very flustered Mycroft whether he preferred Terrence Mann or Russell Crowe’s interpretation of Javert, to which Mycroft mustered up some reply that Sherlock did not hear. Sherlock turned shrewdly to John and said low in his ear, “This is brilliant.”

“You’re a rotten brother,” John whispered back, but he appeared to be holding back laughter as well.

“It’s not my fault that Lestrade has been nursing a secret obsession for Les Miserables,” Sherlock said, winking, and John rolled his eyes good naturedly.

Just as Lestrade was about to launch into a self-proclaimed eulogy for Colm Wilkinson’s Jean Valjean, his phone sounded from his pocket. He frowned as he listened to the caller, then upon hanging up he turned to Sherlock and shook his head.

“Another case,” he said. “I’ll have to go.” Mycroft looked both concerned for Lestrade and visibly relieved that he would be relinquished from Lestrade’s fixation on Les Miserables.

“We’ll come,” Sherlock said, glancing at John, who nodded. They exited the restaurant, and Sherlock waved an apologetic farewell to Angelo, who beamed at him and winked at John. They all climbed into a cab, much to Mycroft’s dismay, and Sherlock insisted that Lestrade give him all of the details as they drove to the police station.

It was raining again. Sherlock flew through the case, solving it before Lestrade was even able to usher them out of his office to investigate the scene of the murder. The steady pour of rain was clear, not the uncomfortable mist of the first cold days of autumn that soaks into jackets and hair and skin and crawls into the mind and serves as a reminder of all the nasty things forgotten until that moment.  The rain was also different from the thunderstorms of John’s nightmares, the crack and boom that mixed so stealthily in with the explosions of artillery shells around him in the freak desert storm, the torrent of relentless sheaths of biting rain that drowned his spirit in the sand. This rain was a spring downpour in March, and the day had retained enough of its warmth for the evening to be fairly pleasant in lieu of the rain, which surrounded John and Sherlock entirely as they picked their way down the sidewalk towards Baker Street.

“Do you wish you’d called a cab now?” Sherlock shouted out to John, who was several meters in front of him, walking with urgency to get out of the rain.

John turned back to Sherlock and grinned. “It was a nice evening for a walk when we set out!” he exclaimed, then added, “At this point I’d rather be soaked for the next couple minutes than waste money on a ten second long trip. Baker Street is not even a block away now.”

Sherlock caught John’s gaze and grinned back, picking up his pace to catch up to the doctor. The rain was coming faster now, and Sherlock was in high spirits, feeling uplifted by the downpour and the successful case. He turned towards John again, who looked up at him. Sherlock smiled, a gentler grin than before, now more of a murmur than a laughing smirk. John returned the smile, and Sherlock felt warm despite the dampness of the evening. To Sherlock’s surprise, John slowed his pace.

“It’s funny, Sherlock,” he said thoughtfully. “I never cared for the rain before I went to Afghanistan. But then, I hated it. I thought I would be ready for it to come, seeing how it was so dry most of the time, but when it did come, it was terrifying. It made everything confusing… it was relentless.” John hesitated, a shadow of the memory passing over his face for a brief moment. Sherlock walked closer to him, slowing down with him, until they were at a casual amble. Neither seemed to care that they were soaked to the skin, their clothes clinging to their bodies.

“But when I came back to London, the constant drizzle was even worse,” John continued. “It just was a reminder to me that nobody cared what I’d gone through. It was like a gnat buzzing in my ear. Reminding me over and over. Nobody cares, John!” John shook his head, but then smiled. “But when I met you, it was the first time I realized it was possible to meet someone not only who cared, but who understood. Not in the way that you’ve experienced… what I have. But Mycroft told me once that if I walk with you, I’d see the battlefield. And what you told me this morning made me realize that I have. I do.” John turned to face Sherlock, who was staring intently at him.

They came to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk, the street empty and silent next to them except for the pitter-patter of the clear raindrops.

“So when I found myself at Baker Street, drunk in the pouring rain the night I found out that Mary had been having an affair, it wasn’t because it was just somewhere to stay the night. It was because you were there, too.”

Sherlock’s face softened at the remark, and he kept his eyes on John, who was allowing his walls to wash away as he spoke. The two men stood in the rain alone in the London night.

“That’s what this rain reminds me of. The rain that led me back to you.”

John’s voice was a whisper, barely audible above the downpour, but it no longer mattered. The silence was drowned out, and the things John had needed to say, he had said. John reached up to Sherlock’s face and pressed a warm hand against his cheek, then moved up to his soaked curls, plastered to his neck by the rain. He brushed a wayward curl behind Sherlock’s ear, and Sherlock gazed down at John gently, never as he had done before with anyone he knew. John smiled, and his face looked younger than Sherlock had ever seen it. The two were immersed in the eyes of the other, sharing the same thoughts without knowing that they did – thoughts they had shared for years without being brave enough to confess so.

The bridge had been formed, and held now against the quiet rain, and Sherlock pressed his hands into John’s, grasping them tightly as though he would never get a chance to do so again. John held fast to the gesture. Then, together, they closed the gap between them. Sherlock let his hands fall to a stronghold on John’s waist, and John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck, pressing his lips softly against Sherlock’s at first, and then more confidently as they let their doubts and fears cascade to the ground with the rain as they merged together in the kiss long past due.

Returning to Baker Street mattered no longer, nor did escaping from the rain. Their surroundings fell away from them, and the only reality left that mattered was the kiss that was binding them. Sherlock pressed closer to John, clinging desperately to him, not knowing where he began and where John ended, wrapped in the tangle of John’s heavy coat and soaking wet hair and soft lips against his. John unwrapped his arms from around Sherlock’s neck and slid his hands up to Sherlock’s face, holding him closely, possessively, and Sherlock mirrored him, lifting his hands to hold John’s face, covering each of John’s cheeks, and raised him gently up into the kiss, their lips parting against each other and the rain and their steaming breaths in the twilight. Sherlock pulled him closer, back into the kiss, and they melted together once again.

When their lips parted at last, John pulled Sherlock down towards him and they pressed their foreheads together in an unspoken gesture of affection and intimacy. And when they moved apart, hands still pressed to each other’s faces, their eyes twinkled as they gazed at one another, pouring out their confessions silently as the rain dripped from their hair and their coats and their eyelashes and immersed them in its steady beat on the pavement of the silver London streets.

Chapter Text

Sherlock and John finally reached Baker Street, drenched to the bone and both in a daze. They stumbled up the stairs, laughing, and John felt brilliant, almost unbelieving of what had just happened. He held fast to Sherlock’s arm, and Sherlock turned to him when they entered the living room, the look on his face slipping from the same amount of giddy awe John was feeling into a deeper gaze, his eyes soft, pulling John in. John felt a shiver go down his spine, his eyes taking in Sherlock, letting go of all the reservations he had, the awkward moments in which he had tried to shake the sneaking feeling that he was in love with Sherlock, who stood now in front of him, eyes quiet and focused completely on John.

John leaned up to Sherlock and kissed him. He closed his eyes, trying to memorize the curve of Sherlock’s lips, the firmness of Sherlock’s hands against his back as Sherlock drew him closer. The kiss was soft, still and silent, and it had shifted from the desperate, searching kiss they had shared in the rain to a calmer, more intimate caress. John broke the kiss gently, but stayed where he was, pressing his nose into Sherlock’s cheek and breathing in the smell of the night air on Sherlock’s skin, a deep, dusky smell that enveloped John and washed a sense of peace over him. He sighed, and felt Sherlock tremble against him.

John pulled away slightly and looked up into Sherlock’s eyes. He saw everything he wanted in those electric blue irises; he had done so, since the day he met Sherlock – he saw within them their mystery, and a second chance, and then gradually, the opportunity of peace; and now, he saw safety, and was lost in wonder at the greatness he had at his fingertips as he laid a hand against Sherlock’s neck, which was warm to the touch.

“Your hand is freezing,” Sherlock whispered, and it was true. The flat was chilly, and John’s damp clothes were growing cold as well. It took Sherlock’s comment for John to notice as much, though, and suddenly, John was shivering, his body drained of energy.

“I’ll go put on some dry clothes, then,” John replied wearily, but smiled up at Sherlock, who yawned in response. John reached up and kissed him on the cheek, lingering for a moment, and when he turned away, he felt dizzy, like a teenager again, blissful at the possibility of being in love for the first time.

As it were, John could not find any clean shirts. He turned to the pile of dirty clothing in the corner of his closet, wearing nothing but a pair of pants.  He sighed, about to pick through the pile to find a suitable undershirt, but before he could begin there was a rapt knock at his door, which opened without invitation and revealed Sherlock, draped in one of his dressing gowns.

John stood up quickly. “Oh, Sherlock, I was just – ”

John’s sentence was reduced to a muffled mmf as Sherlock crossed the room and wrapped John in his arms.

“Sorry,” Sherlock mumbled, his face buried in John’s hair. “Couldn’t wait.”

And John adored him.

“Stay with me tonight,” John whispered, and Sherlock released him and collapsed on the bed without any hesitation.

“Good.” Sherlock closed his eyes, a look of satisfaction crossing his face.

John gave up in his search for a shirt and joined Sherlock, shivering as he slipped under the duvet. Sherlock followed suit, and once again folded his arms around John’s torso and pulled him close, warmth emanating from his body. John snuggled into the embrace with a heavy sigh, pushing his nose up against the base of Sherlock’s neck and nuzzling closer, the relieving warmth washing over him.

“John…” Sherlock murmured. “How long have you wanted this?”

John thought for a minute about the question. He knew the desire had sat dormant within him for years, but he had never allowed it to slip fully into consciousness. Nevertheless, he knew the answer, a twinge of a sad memory at the back of his mind.

“Since you jumped,” he said, raising himself up to look at Sherlock, and when Sherlock’s face fell at the reminder, John placed a hand on the nape of his neck and pulled him in, kissing him fully, then pulled back once more.

“What about you?”

Sherlock didn’t hesitate. “Since the moment we met,” he said simply.

John was speechless at Sherlock’s response. Everything that had happened… every case, every cab ride – the bombs strapped to his chest at the pool, the phone call as he stared up at Sherlock’s silhouette against the sky at St. Bart’s – Sherlock had loved him through all of it. Every woman John had dated, and Mary… John was bewildered.

“You watched me get married,” he said, and Sherlock nodded.

“And you watched me take Mary back after she shot you…” John fell silent. Sherlock nodded again.

“Why, Sherlock?”

Sherlock shook his head, smiling sadly. “I thought it was clear you would never be interested. So my last option was to help preserve your happiness, and if it meant that I was not a part of it, then so be it.”

“You complete amateur,” John said in astonishment, holding back a sudden urge to shout with laughter at how reticent Sherlock had been. “You’re slipping. What type of consulting detective do you think you are? It should have been the easiest deduction ever for you to see that the only times I’m truly happy is when I’m with you.”

Sherlock ducked his head and laughed with a tinge of embarrassment. “I have significant problems with making deductions about myself,” he sighed.

John shook his head and grinned. “Well then, you’re going to have to leave that up to me from now on.”

“And you think you know me well enough to deduce who I am just as I deduce everything else?”

“I think I do,” John said, and with a softer tone added, “And I can make one right now if you’d like.”

Sherlock nodded faintly.

John leaned up next to Sherlock’s ear and breathed softly, “I deduce that you’re in love with me,” and Sherlock shivered against John’s mouth.

John slid back to where he could look into Sherlock’s eyes, and Sherlock watched his every move, shaking. John smiled, feeling like all of the loose pieces that made up his life were clicking in to place. He pressed a kiss against Sherlock’s mouth, and, lips parted, confessed what he had ached to say for so long.

“I’m in love with you, too.”

Sherlock noticeably relaxed at the words, and John eyed him with a look of concern. “Do you not believe me?”

Sherlock shook his head and said, “No, it’s not that. It’s just…” he trailed off, unable to find the word he was looking for.

“It’s just all a bit unbelievable, right now, isn’t it,” John said, resting his head in the crook of Sherlock’s arm, and Sherlock nodded.

“The first time I allowed myself to openly consider kissing you, I was so angry at myself for allowing that type of thought to get in the way of our friendship.” Sherlock frowned. “I pushed it as far into the recesses of my mind palace as I could. And then when I first considered the possibility that I was in love with you, I pushed myself away further. I couldn’t lose you, John,” Sherlock said, somewhat frantically. “No matter what the setting. Whether you just wanted me as a flat mate for the living quarters, or because splitting the rent was cheaper, or because you somehow managed to put up with me – no matter whether you hated me or you considered me your friend. I couldn’t lose you. And if I tried to push you any further in the direction I desperately wanted you to go, I was too fearful of you pulling yourself away.”

John let Sherlock’s words sink in, mind turning quickly to the question of why Sherlock would have left him for two years if he was afraid of losing him, but John knew the answer without needing to enquire for it. If John’s life was in danger, of course Sherlock would blindly focus on eliminating the threat, down to the last link, and that’s precisely how he had handled the threat of Moriarty.  

“No wonder you considered the case with Moriarty so personal,” John murmured.

Sherlock turned on his side to face John, freeing one of his hands to rest it against John’s face, and said quietly, “You have no idea.”

John started to reply, but Sherlock spoke again. “When you came around the corner with that enormous coat on next to the pool…” Sherlock’s eyes grew dark. “I would have very much so liked to rip Moriarty limb from limb in that moment.”

John nodded against his pillow, and Sherlock added, “I also very much so wanted to kiss you after that incident, as well.”

John smiled. “We can make up for that now,” he replied, and Sherlock pulled him in and kissed him fiercely. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s torso, and Sherlock turned onto his back and John went with him, hands pressed against Sherlock’s firm chest as he deepened the kiss. When their lips finally parted, Sherlock pulled John down onto his chest and ran his hands through John’s hair, and John closed his eyes and memorized the feel of Sherlock’s caress. He slid back down into the sheets next to Sherlock’s side, and wrapped an arm over Sherlock, cuddling up to him, and Sherlock kissed his hair and whispered, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” John sighed, and as he drifted to sleep in Sherlock’s arms, Sherlock memorized his breathing, the feel of John’s body pressed against his, and thought with awe that he was the luckiest person in the world.

John awoke that morning to Sherlock tangled about him, a leg sprawled over John’s waist and arms stretched loosely around John’s body. John stretched, but as he shifted his body weight, Sherlock pulled him into a tight embrace and cuddled against his neck, giving John a mouthful of curls as John turned his head to look at him. The night before came back to him, and he grinned, feeling blissful.

“Sherlock,” he said, nudging the sleeping detective with a free arm. “Wake up.”

“Why,” Sherlock groaned, and flipped onto his back dramatically, a smile playing across his lips.

“So I can do this,” John replied, and leaned over Sherlock and kissed him gently. Sherlock kissed him back, then pulled him down into a hug.

“Wow,” Sherlock mumbled against John’s skin. John nodded in agreement. Suddenly, Sherlock pushed John onto his back and straddled him, hovering over him with a grin.

“Do you know what you said?” he asked.

“What?” John replied, confused.

Sherlock silenced him with a forceful kiss, grinning into John’s mouth as he pushed him roughly against the pillow. He kissed John’s lower lip, then planted a trail of kisses across John’s face to his ear, which he grazed gently with his teeth and whispered, “You said my name.”

John, who felt lightheaded from the caress of Sherlock’s breath in his ear, realized Sherlock was right, that he had said Sherlock's name instead of 'yes' when he awoke. He sat up, and Sherlock tumbled to the side back into the sheets and looked innocently up at John.

“You’re right,” John said. “I’m not surprised though,” he added, returning Sherlock’s gaze.

“No?” Sherlock asked.

John shook his head. “You’ve been the first thought on my mind since I started the damn experiment,” he said, and Sherlock grinned from ear to ear. 

“Sorry for distracting you,” he said. 

“I’m certainly not,” John replied, and was about to lean back down and kiss him when Sherlock’s phone rang. Sherlock reached for it and answered it. 

“Mycroft,” he said, then he grew very still.

“What is it?” John hissed.

“Alright,” Sherlock said with a businesslike tone. “Call me when she wakes up and we’ll head to the hospital.” He thanked Mycroft and hung the phone up.

John looked at Sherlock with curiosity. “What is it?” he repeated.

“Mary’s had the baby,” Sherlock said. “So I need to tell you something.”

John frowned, confused. The timing was impeccable – the baby was both conceived and born on nights that John was with Sherlock. And furthermore, it made no sense that Mycroft would be calling Sherlock to tell him the happy news.

“John…” Sherlock gave him a careful look. “Let’s go in the living room.”

John nodded, stomach suddenly twisting with anxiety. They made their way out of John’s bed and to the living room, but instead of sitting in their respective armchairs, Sherlock led John over to the couch. They sat.

Sherlock closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and said, “Do you remember the flash drive Mary gave us, labeled AGRA?”

John nodded. “Of course I do.”

“Mycroft and I read what was on it.” John opened his mouth to reply, but Sherlock stopped him.

“More accurately, Mycroft insisted that he read it even though I told him I was inclined not to for your sake.” Sherlock glanced at him, and John closed his mouth.

Sherlock continued. “But then, Mycroft told me that I needed to know what was on it.”

“Why?” John asked, dreading the answer.

“Because…” Sherlock looked strained. “Because she was assigned to you.”

John went very still. “She was… assigned to me?” he asked quietly.

“She was one of Moriarty’s best. In fact, she was one of the only assassins I could not locate. But, that had been years ago, long before Moriarty surfaced as a public threat.”

John was furious. “And you let me stay with her?!”

“She wasn’t a threat to you, John! She was a threat to me. Moriarty managed to locate her, despite her identity change. Actually, she was one of the snipers at the pool, and later, she was the sniper assigned to kill you if I didn’t jump. When I did jump, her assignment became to monitor your activity, and in the event that I returned, to kill me. She was Moriarty’s safeguard against the possibility that I would not die after he shot himself.”

John felt faint. “So it wasn’t surgery,” he said in bewilderment.

Sherlock shook his head. “Not completely, no. Here lies the issue: she was assigned to you before she developed any feelings for you. There should have been no danger in that area because if I turned out not to be dead, Moriarty assumed it would be a quick discovery for her. My feigned suicide and my abrupt retreat from the country left her to believe that I was dead, but she kept her assignment in fear that Moriarty wasn’t. Two years was a long time, though – she ended up introducing herself to you, weaving herself into your life, and slowly, she developed some selfish sort of affection for you. So, when I returned, part of her wanted to kill me immediately, and part of her did not want to do so because she saw how important I was to you.”

“What pushed her over the edge, then?” John wondered.

“Good question,” Sherlock replied. “I assume it was partially Magnussen. When I killed him, I did it to protect you – not from him, but from Mary. I deduced that his death would lead her to believe that he was the last link to her past, and when I stepped on the plane and Moriarty’s face flashed across the country, it was imperative that she understood it was a fake. If it were not a fake, I believe she would have shot me when Mycroft returned us to Baker Street. So you see, the video was the last straw. I used it to remove myself from your life so Mary would not see me as a threat, and thus, would not do anything to harm you.”

John laughed incredulously, and shook his head. “Not harm me? Well, she didn’t kill me, if that’s what you mean.”

Sherlock bowed his head. “I had no idea the baby wasn’t yours, John.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his forefinger and breathed out heavily. “I know, Sherlock. It’s not your fault.”

Sherlock watched him warily. “But… there’s something else you should know.”

John looked up, and Sherlock said, “She was seeing David before I jumped.”

“…Okay. And?”

“… she never stopped.”

John stood up. “How do you know that?!”

Sherlock looked uncomfortable. “I told Mycroft that you had caught her having an affair and he did an extensive background check on David, whose records showed that he – ”

“Okay,” John snapped. “How long have you known that?”

Sherlock looked at the ground. “Two weeks,” he mumbled.

John slammed his fist on the coffee table. “Okay…” he said. He took a deep breath, and exhaled. “Okay.”

Sherlock looked up at him, distress in his eyes. John sat back down on the couch, noticing how ashamed Sherlock looked, and put his hand on Sherlock’s thigh.

“It’s okay. It’s all fine. Tell me what we are going to do.” He stated each sentence in a businesslike manner.

Sherlock shook his head. “She’s a major threat to the British government. Mycroft wanted her dead. I told him to wait until the baby was born.” Sherlock looked up. “It’s not the baby’s fault,” he whispered, and John looked away, tears stinging his eyes.

“No,” he agreed, shaking his head. “You’re right. It isn’t. The baby can go to David, where she’ll belong. But I don’t want Mary dead.”

To John’s surprise, Sherlock nodded. “I don’t, either,” he replied. “So Mycroft said as a compromise he could exile her.”

“And what did you say?” John asked.

“I said that it should be up to you.”

John felt a rush of gratitude at Sherlock’s words, aware of the awful situation and the toll it was taking on Sherlock to be its messenger. He put an arm around Sherlock, and Sherlock let his head fall to John’s shoulder.

“I’m terribly sorry for everything, John, I – ”

John shushed him. “Don’t be. You did what you thought was right. We’ve both gotten our second chances now, with each other. So we need the clean slate.” He lifted Sherlock’s chin up, and looked him in the eye.

“I love you.”

Sherlock nodded, but said, “I don’t deserve it.”

John shook his head in protest, but before he could respond, Sherlock’s phone buzzed. Sherlock answered it immediately, and after a few seconds, he hung it up and turned to John.

“It’s time. Mycroft’s expecting us at the hospital.”

The morning had turned bitter cold in contrast to the unseasonably warm previous day. Sherlock and John dressed and departed from Baker Street in a cab, holding hands and shivering. When they reached the hospital, Mycroft was waiting outside for them. Sherlock muttered something about Lestrade’s whereabouts and John said, “What?” to which he received a swish of Sherlock’s coat as Sherlock swept out of the car.

John paid the cabbie and hurried after him. Sherlock enquired of Mycroft which room Mary was in, and Mycroft led them into the building, giving John a worried glance. When they reached Mary’s room, John hesitated outside of the door. Mycroft and Sherlock stopped, watching him warily, but John turned to Sherlock, took him by his collar, and kissed him firmly.

“I love you too, by the way,” Sherlock murmured, and caught Mycroft in a stare as John turned to open the door.

Congratulations, Mycroft mouthed.

Shut up, Sherlock replied, and followed John into the room. Mary jumped at the sight of John and the Holmes brothers, and said suspiciously, “What do you want?”

Before John could say anything, Sherlock stepped forward and said, “I want to hold your baby.”

Mary scowled at him and told him no, but John gave her a dangerous look and said, “Let him.”

Mary handed the baby girl to Sherlock reluctantly, and Sherlock said, “What’s her name?”

“Elizabeth,” Mary answered.

“How lovely,” Mycroft said merrily. “After David’s mother. Congratulations.”

John glared at Mary. Sherlock crooned at Elizabeth, rocking her back and forth gently. “She’s lovely. David will take good care of her.”

Mary paled. “Excuse me?” she said, and started to climb out of her bed.

Mycroft shook a finger at her. “Ah, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said. “We have approximately two dozen snipers covering the area – this room as we speak, as well, if you will.”

Mary went still. “What’s happening…”

“You’re leaving,” John told her. “It turns out your past was my business, after all.”

Mary glowered, and Sherlock said, “I wasn’t lying to you, that day at your flat. We do have your information. It was a gamble on your part to assume that John wouldn’t read it, and even though it turned out you were correct, you couldn’t slip away from it forever.”

“And just as it goes,” Mycroft added, “You’ve presented yourself to be an overwhelming threat to the government. There’s a police car outside waiting for us.”

“And what about my baby?” Mary shouted, a furious look on her face.

“As I said,” Sherlock replied silkily, “David will take good care of her.”

“Greg will be here in a minute,” Mycroft said. 

The room went silent for a moment. Mary looked away, and Sherlock squeezed John's hand. John tried to take comfort in Sherlock's presence, but he knew he had questions he had to ask. He cleared his throat, and turned to Mary.

“Why?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“Why what?” 

“Why couldn't you choose? Me or him?” John struggled with each word. “Were you just going to let me believe a lie for the rest of our lives together?”

Mary hung her head, but then shook it. “I have led two lives for a very long time, John. It wasn't so difficult. It's been five or six lives in the past.”

John winced at her words. He could feel Sherlock watching him. Sherlock anchored him to the ground. John stood up straighter, and louder than before, responded, “Well then. I'm glad I wasn't difficult on you.”

Mary smirked, and John felt Sherlock tense up next to him. But before either could speak again, there was a knock at the door. Everyone turned to see Lestrade enter the room, who briefly glanced at Mycroft before he turned to Mary and said, “Time to go.”

Lestrade handcuffed Mary, then looked up at Sherlock. “Mycroft explained everything. I’m glad to help you take out the last of Moriarty’s accomplices.”

“Oh, please, Inspector,” Sherlock replied, his voice stiff but resolute. “Be my guest.”

The group made their way out of the hospital and down to the police car. Lestrade guided Mary into the back of the car and turned to Mycroft and John, and Sherlock, who was still holding the baby.

“Mary will be under maximum security, which you may see to,” Lestrade announced, nodding to Mycroft. “And then she’ll be on a plane and across the pond, which you can oversee as well,” he added, his gaze still on Mycroft.

“Brilliant,” Mycroft replied. “We have a few matters to clear up with the father of this lovely child, then I will be right behind you.”

Lestrade nodded and turned to get in the car, but Mycroft caught him by his shoulder and whispered something in his ear. Lestrade smiled. Sherlock and John exchanged a glance. Mycroft gave Lestrade's hand a squeeze, and whispered, “See you soon.”

The police car pulled away from the hospital, and Mycroft turned back to John and Sherlock.

“Congratulations,” Sherlock said.

“Shut up,” Mycroft replied.

John grinned. “I think we owe Angelo another double date.”

Mycroft scowled, but Sherlock could tell he was pleased.

“A later time, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said. “For now, I’m going to need you to leave. David will be here shortly. I’ve decided that Mary passed away tragically in childbirth.”

“You expect him to believe that?” John asked.

“Trust me,” Mycroft replied. “I’ve formulated more for the story than that.”

John nodded. He did trust Mycroft. Mary’s back story was a blow, but the more he considered it, the more he wished he had looked at what was on the flash drive when Mary had given him the chance – perhaps he and Sherlock could have been together sooner, and all of a sudden, the rest of his life didn’t seem like a long enough time for him to spend with Sherlock.

“Let’s go, John,” Sherlock said. He turned to Mycroft and gently handed him the baby. “Thank you,” Sherlock told him.

Mycroft nodded. “Greg and I will take you up on that date, you know.”

Sherlock smiled, and Mycroft did as well.

Sherlock and John spent the rest of the day in 221B. The afternoon passed lazily by, the cold air ensconcing the living room as evening came and the flatmates decided to retire for the night. Sherlock sprawled across the duvet, and as John joined him, he noticed his notepad lying on the nightstand.

“Shit!” he exclaimed. “I never wrote in the times from last night.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I wonder why.”

John shoved him, grinning, and Sherlock added, “You didn’t even say ‘yes’ this morning.”

“I know that,” John replied. “I said ‘Sherlock,’ which was even better.”

Sherlock’s eyes twinkled at John’s words. “I love you, John,” he said.

“I know,” John answered, and Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him.

“You’ve told me that before,” John clarified.

Sherlock gave him a funny look. “Well yes, John, I’ve said it several times throughout the day.”

John shook his head. “No, you… you said it when you came in from the rain after you couldn’t find that minister.”

Sherlock stared at him. “Are you serious?” he asked.

“Completely,” John said, and kissed him. Sherlock kissed him back, then rolled onto his stomach and draped an arm across John’s chest, burrowing his head against John’s shoulder.

“I’m an idiot,” he told John’s shoulder.

John laughed, a smile passing across his face. “No,” he said softly, stroking Sherlock’s cheek. “I adore you. And by the way,” John added, “Don’t ever tell me that you don’t deserve me.”

Sherlock looked up at him, and John said, “You did what you had to this morning. It wasn’t easy. But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve me.” He paused, then added, “We’ve both been through enough hell. Enough so, that we deserve each other.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said.

“Sorry for what?” John was confused.  

“Sorry, that I said that I didn’t deserve you.”

John smiled gently, and leaned down to press his lips to Sherlock’s, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him nearer. Sherlock sighed into the kiss, and John murmured against his lips, “Just promise me you won’t let yourself think that.”

Sherlock nodded, pushing deeper into the kiss, and reached a hand up to John’s neck and held John against him.

“I promise,” he whispered. He laid his head back down against John’s shoulder, pressing his nose into John’s shirt, and snuggled nearer to him. John rested his head against Sherlock’s soft curls and sighed. Everything felt perfect.

The two slipped quickly into sleep, and over the course of the night nestled closer against one another, bodies peacefully entwined, warm against the cold night and safe under the covers. And when John awoke the next morning and felt Sherlock in his arms, he smiled as he realized that he never thought he could have this happiness -- that Sherlock could be his. He kissed Sherlock’s hair, breathing him in. Sherlock shifted in his arms, and John murmured, “Sherlock.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up at John, holding him in his gaze with a contented smile.

“Yes.”

Chapter Text

The rest of the year slipped by for Sherlock. As weeks turned into months with John, the surreal feeling of being with him, of knowing him, began to slip by, as well. It was no longer his greatest hope, greatest dream, greatest fear – it just was. He felt like he had moved mountains to get to John, and on the mornings they slept in, on the afternoons when they rested against each other on the couch after a case, Sherlock often paused in wonder at how monumentally normal their relationship was becoming. He never had taken time to consider the possibility of this stage before. The electricity of longing for a first kiss, a first touch – he had fixated on those moments, those wishes, those fantasies, and had not believed he deserved for himself the follow up of just being.

John seemed to be improving, too. Sherlock felt it his duty to make sure he saw a smile out of his blogger every day, and every day, it was easier. Each morning, Sherlock savored the chance he had to wake before John did, to watch John sleep and to lose himself in every detail of John’s face, his laugh lines and his quiet breathing, his nightshirt that Sherlock would press himself against and listen to John’s heartbeat. And eventually, John would stir; maybe move a hand to Sherlock’s hair; maybe turn against Sherlock and press their bodies together, so that Sherlock could revel in John’s warmth. Then, sometimes before he opened his eyes, and sometimes after, John would speak, his soft voice rough from sleep, always a comfort to Sherlock. A happiness he could never have imagined. John’s first word would either be “yes”, which would come as a relief to Sherlock that John remembered, that John was doing better; or, it would be “Sherlock”, which would send a thrill down Sherlock’s spine. He desperately belonged to John. He felt it deep in his soul, that this man was his whole world now.

John stopped his experiment midway through the summer. The hot breeze in the flat that turned into cool twilight kept them awake with each other long into the nights. At the same time, Sherlock had never gotten so much sleep in his life. Every night, slipping into bed with John, turning him around to hold him close, see the love in his eyes and the soft trace of a smile on his lips, felt like home. They could have been anywhere, and it wouldn’t have mattered. John was his home. Drifting to sleep in John’s arms, or with John wrapped in his arms, were the moments that still caught him off guard, the moments in which he realized how dearly he cared for and adored John Watson. The peace in his love for John wrapped around him and laid his worries to rest with every caress, every embrace, and whereas in the past it had taken him hours to fall asleep, now it took just moments. Now, when they woke, “Sherlock” was John’s first word every morning. Now, Sherlock made sure he was always awake first to hear it.

They took walks together as the season cooled. The leaves changed and the first frost bit the air on their final walks of autumn, leaving them hurrying for home, pressed against each other. Sherlock was beginning to find a balance between how much he cared for and relied on John, and how much he realized that John needed him. On one particularly cold night while Sherlock was deep in research on his laptop, he noticed that John was uncharacteristically quiet. John, who in Sherlock’s eyes looked absolutely perfect sitting in his armchair with the fire roaring and a cup of tea untouched in his hands, was gazing out the window into the dusk, eyes unfocused and mind clearly elsewhere. Sherlock closed his laptop with a quiet click and joined John, perching himself on the arm of John’s chair.

“What’s on your mind, love?” Sherlock asked, tasting the words in his mouth, relishing that he could speak to John like this, in passing, in a normal moment.

John looked up from his reverie and smiled at Sherlock, wrinkles under his eyes, pulled back to Earth and to their flat. Sherlock’s heart melted. Despite months of living with John like this, in this new way, it was still easy for him to get lost in John’s presence.

“Just thinking, you know, about what we’re doing. All of this. My life was vastly different a year ago.”

Sherlock ducked his head. “I know.”

“But it’s good. It’s all fine now,” John continued. “But sometimes, the commitments I made, in the past...” John paused, eyes staring back out the window again. Sherlock felt John’s sorrow and did not speak, uncertain of what to say and feeling a sense of guilt wash over him.

John refocused, and looked up at Sherlock. “You have to understand that I still feel I have not made one decision, one commitment, in my life, that did not go sour. The closer I get to you, the more moments I experience that remind me of... well, of her, Sherlock, putting my faith in her.”

“Anniversary moments.” Sherlock’s voice was quiet. “Reminders of stages of your past relationships, where you were, the decisions you made and the reactions you had. The reactions she had. It’s a normal emotional experience, John, especially as new memories come into your life with me that follow a path in anyway reminiscent of the past.”

John considered. “Yes, I suppose that’s it. And I just need to get past them. I guess I was just hoping that this wouldn’t happen because you’re so...”

“So different.” Sherlock finished John’s thought, and John nodded. Sherlock took his hand.

“I want to be different for you, John. But you must have noticed as I have, loving you has become a part of me. Has it not for you?” Sherlock eased himself into the chair with John until he was in his lap, his legs dangling over the arms of the chair. He turned his head into John’s neck, breathing into his skin, taking in John’s scent, the hint of tea and the rough smell of the wool of his jumper. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held him close, pressing his lips into Sherlocks hair. He exhaled, and Sherlock felt him relax.

“Of course it has, Sherlock,” John murmured against Sherlock’s curls. “Loving you comes to me easily, so easily it scares me that I hid myself from it for so long.” Sherlock nestled deeper against John’s chest, in silent agreement with him. Being with John was natural. It was right.

“Anniversary moments...” John mused out loud. “I think you’re right. And I hope you’re right. That means they will pass.” Sherlock felt him nod, and John placed a hand on Sherlock’s face, guiding him up so that he could kiss him. Sherlock kissed him back, and John sighed.

“Sherlock, do you understand how much I need you?”

Sherlock looked into John’s eyes, searching for the intent of the question. He simply nodded and kissed John once more, hoping John would elaborate.

John did. “All that time without you, losing you, and then finding and losing Mary, I lost a lot of faith in this world. Sometimes, I don’t think I’m strong enough anymore to give myself up, lay myself bare to trusting another person so completely. There’s a high to it, but god, Sherlock...” John’s voice cracked. “There is such a low.”

Sherlock saw what was going on now. For a long time, he had silently punished himself for the reason John felt this way. He knew now it was better he be steadfast in his determination to prove John wrong, rather than wallow in what he hadn’t done right in the past. He pulled back from John, taking John’s face in his hands. John looked up at Sherlock, his eyes on the verge of tears.

“John,” Sherlock said, and then closed his eyes, picking his next words carefully. He opened his eyes and spoke again.

“John, all I care about, for the rest of my life, all I care about, is proving to you that you deserve happiness. I will probably never understand why I have the privilege to be part of your happiness, but as long as you want me, I will be here, here, with you, and I will never leave you.”

John let his head rest in Sherlock’s hands, and gave him a crooked smile. “Then you better get it through your mind that there won’t come a day when I do not want you.”

Sherlock leaned into John, one hand trailing to the base of John’s neck and pulling him back into a kiss. Sherlock felt compelled to hold John there, to prove to him that he would stay different, no matter how normal different became. John smiled against Sherlock’s mouth, and then deepened the kiss, his hands moving to Sherlock’s face. They lingered like that for a moment, then John broke the kiss and pulled Sherlock into an embrace.

“Bed? Come with me?” He asked Sherlock. Sherlock smiled into John’s shoulder, turning his head into John’s neck and nodding. He knew he would say yes to that offer for the rest of his life.

“I love you, John, so much,” he whispered. John hugged him tighter.

December arrived, and Sherlock began to make plans for Christmas. It had never been too important of a holiday for him, but this year he felt a strange sense that after the last holiday season, he needed to cement some new memories in his head, better memories, that could replace the anxiety that had accompanied his desperation to protect John the year before. With his parents out of the country for the season, the plans John and Sherlock made were scant. Lestrade had offered up his flat for a Christmas party, and Sherlock and John accepted the invitation with warmth, knowing in that case, at least Mycroft would join them for the holiday as well.

The next step was finding John a present. This task was nerve–wracking for Sherlock. All of a sudden, John was too important to him. Trinkets seemed ridiculous; sweets seemed silly. And worst of all, after suggesting they buy presents for each other, John never mentioned it again. In fact, any time Sherlock mentioned the Christmas party, John averted his gaze. It seemed that John did not want to go at all. Sherlock began to wonder if it was an anniversary moment for him. Throughout the week before Christmas, their conversations began to shorten. Sherlock found himself unable to sleep, anxiety eating at the back of his mind.

On the morning of Christmas Eve, Sherlock was starting to worry. Not only was John growing distant, Sherlock still hadn’t been able to find a present for him. The task was getting worse and worse to think about.

“I’m going out shopping today,” Sherlock told John over lunch. “Would you like to come?”

It was a test. He needed to go on his own anyway, but he wanted to see if John would even agree to an outing.

The answer was no. John shook his head. “You go,” was his short reply.

After a particularly frustrating afternoon of trying to do normal–people last–minute shopping with Mycroft, Sherlock happened across a small shop with hand knit jumpers. Sherlock had rolled his eyes and made a comment under his breath that “John has too many of these blasted things,” but Mycroft nudged him in with a kind smile, and before he knew it, Sherlock had picked out and purchased a green and red jumper he would have found atrocious on anyone other than his perfect blogger. His heart faltered for a moment as he pictured John in the jumper, after trying to block their disconcerting exchange from his mind all day. Mycroft caught his eye and cocked an eye brow, inquisitive, but for once, respecting Sherlock’s boundaries. Sherlock smiled weakly back at him and they exited the shop.

Something had changed with Mycroft. He and Sherlock were more amenable to each other now. Sherlock mused that it was a new kind of empathy between them, uncharted territory into which they would have otherwise tread with caution if the two of them had not been so wrapped up in, well, how happy they were now. They spent the rest of the afternoon popping in and out of shops until Mycroft found a watch he decided would be fitting for Lestrade, who Sherlock knew would have passed out if he ever caught wind of the price tag that Sherlock was fairly certain Mycroft hadn’t even checked.

That evening, Sherlock felt an unfamiliar weight in his chest. He and John stayed up later than usual, stretched out on the couch, tired but too comfortable to move to Sherlock’s bedroom. John, who had barely begun to move back into Baker Street when they realized they were in love with one another, had found it easiest to move himself into Sherlock’s bedroom and let his room become a messy amalgamation of a storage room and a study. Sherlock did not protest. Watching John grow accustomed to Sherlock’s bedroom was a thrill, another ever–present reminder that his dreams and his hopes had been permitted not just to exist, but to thrive.

Now, lying on the couch in the dark of the evening, Sherlock felt pensive.

“There have been many firsts and lasts this year,” he said to John. “Do you feel that, too?”

John, who was resting his head against Sherlock’s chest, turned now to look up at him, and considered for a moment before speaking.

“I’ve been thinking about that, yeah.”

Sherlock paused. “You have?”

John turned his head back down, and again hesitated before speaking. Something felt off to Sherlock, and he felt his body tense.

John finally spoke. “It’s bittersweet, you know? Lots of new memories. Fleeting moments, though, like in my heart I know we won’t always feel this way.”

Sherlock felt his own heart grow heavy, thudding in his chest as John returned to his silence. Sherlock moved himself back on the couch and sat up, and John reacted, moving back to the other side of the couch. Sherlock stole a glance at him, but John was staring across the room towards the fireplace. They sat in the quiet for a few minutes. To Sherlock, it felt like hours. He felt his head growing hot. John continued to look away. Sherlock couldn’t bear it, and finally interrupted the silence.

“I think I’ll be going to bed now. Come with me?”

John gave him a weary smile. “In a minute, okay?”

Sherlock nodded, and concentrated on not losing his balance as he stood and made his way up the stairs, wanting to turn back, run back to John, shake him and ask what was going on. Something was wrong.

John came to bed at some point in the night, Sherlock knew. He had felt the sheets move next to him, the warmth of John’s body up against his, and John’s arm curled around his waist. He felt John’s shallow breaths against his neck and he relaxed a little, allowing himself to doze back to sleep. But the night started and ended with nightmares, visions of John gone again, flashes of the wedding and of Mary, of John’s chair missing from the living room, of Sherlock restless and bored, of Sherlock alone. When he awoke and realized John was gone once again, the pit in his stomach that had begun forming the night before deepened. Sherlock sat up and wiped his brow, realizing he was in a sweat. He glanced around the room, and called for John. When he received no answer, he eased himself out of bed, desperate to find John but reluctant to move, lest every step he take from that moment on lead him farther from John, not towards him.

Sherlock donned a dressing gown and wandered around the flat, beginning to do irrational things. He opened the fridge door as if he was going to find John hiding among the week old takeaway boxes. He kicked the chair out from under the kitchen table in frustration. He knew he was starting to panic. He stopped dead in his tracks at a knock at the door, and then broke into a run to open it.

It was Mrs. Hudson, who took a step back in surprise. “Sherlock, dear, are you alright?”

Sherlock stared at her, trying to regain his composure. He nodded at her, knowing he probably looked as insane as he usually did, hair disheveled and still in his dressing gown late into the morning.

“Have you... have you seen John?” He asked, perhaps too quickly.

Mrs. Hudson peered around Sherlock into the flat, and then back to Sherlock. “No,” she replied. “I haven’t noticed him leave today. Aren’t you two going to the Inspector’s this evening for the holiday?”

Sherlock barely heard her. He mumbled an assent back to her. She seemed concerned, but if he didn’t know any better, something was off with her as well. She didn’t look him in the eye when she spoke.

“I’ll let you know if I see him, alright, Sherlock?”

Sherlock nodded weakly, and Mrs. Hudson turned to leave. The door latched behind her. Sherlock sunk to the ground and leaned back against the door. What would he normally do? With a person missing? Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why was he acting like this? John had probably gone out for, what? A drink at 11 o’clock in the morning? He turned and took the stairs two at a time to retrieve his phone from his night stand, and dialed John’s number. The phone rang, Sherlock’s heart beating quicker with every gap of silence between the rings. When the call went to voicemail, Sherlock cursed. He redialed and tried again, but with the same results. This was new confirmation that something indeed must have been wrong. John never ignored Sherlock’s calls.

Sherlock shifted tactics. He dialed Mycroft, who answered after the first ring.

“Hello, dear brother. Everything alright?”

Sherlock started, feeling suspicious. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

He could feel Mycroft hesitate. “When are you and John coming over?”

“John’s not there yet?” Sherlock felt dread growing in his stomach.

“No, Sherlock, we weren’t planning to have Christmas dinner for another three hours. Don’t you remember that?” Then, “Is John not with you?”

Sherlock didn’t reply.

“Maybe he had some last–minute shopping to do, as well, Sherlock? Why don’t you come over now? I’m sure he’ll be –”

Sherlock ended the call and threw the phone on the bed. His eyes swept around the room, and he felt himself growing cold, taking in the room as a detective, not as its occupant. John’s phone was gone, his side of the bed... his side of the bed had been made. Interesting. Sherlock threw open the dresser and by process of elimination concluded what John had decided to wear that day. Nothing out of the ordinary. Sherlock slammed the drawer shut and turned to his own to change. He opened it to find the brown parcel containing John’s Christmas present. Refusing to look at it, he shoved it as far back into the dresser as he could, then threw on some clothes and slammed the drawer for good measure again.

Sherlock made his way back down stairs. John’s coat was gone from the hanger. That was something. His keys were gone, too. Sherlock began to backtrack, looking for a sign of a struggle, but found none. He didn’t know which was worse – the fear that John had been taken from him, or the dread that John no longer wanted to be there.

The cab ride to Lestrade’s was agonizingly slow. Sherlock was cursing himself the entire way there, mind whiplashing through possibilities, none of which made sense. He had left John’s present at Baker Street, his mind reeling with choices. If he left the parcel, perhaps he was preemptively accepting his fate, that in the pit of his stomach, he knew John would not be there, that John was long gone. But if he took the parcel, he was a victim of his own emotions, no, a fool, to hope that this was a misunderstanding and that John would be there to greet him with some excuse about his phone being dead. But, if Mrs. Hudson had not noticed John leave, when and where could he have gone? Sherlock felt disgusted with himself for hoping John would be there, knowing Mycroft would have phoned him by now if John had arrived. So, the parcel remained where it was, alone in the dark of Sherlock’s dresser at home.

The cab drew to a halt in front of Lestrade’s flat. Sherlock threw a wad of notes at the cabbie, not bothering to count out the amount. He was at Lestrade’s door within an instant, banging at it with indiscretion. His mind only began to slow when he realized no one was answering. He paused, waiting, his heart thudding in his chest. He knocked again hesitantly.

“Mycroft? Lestrade?” He yelled at the shut door. No response. He whipped his phone out and dialed Mycroft, and then Lestrade, neither of whom answered. He felt his skin turn to ice as the calls went to voicemail.

Sherlock returned to blindly banging at the door until he calmed himself to realize that, like an idiot, he hadn’t even tried the handle. I’m losing my mind. The handle turned and the door opened to Lestrade’s hallway, dark and quiet. Sherlock went still. He waited to cross the threshold, glancing up and down the street, not sure what – or who – he was looking for. It seemed like a trap, but he was beginning to feel like nothing mattered at this point. He slipped inside and shut the door carefully behind him. His eyes slowly adjusted to the light and he moved down the hall to the living room. A single lamp gave off a low yellow glow in the back of the room, and a fire crackled in the hearth. Odd. The smell of a Christmas ham and apple pie wafted in from the kitchen, and faintly, from farther into the flat, he could hear a record playing. Les Miserables. So odd. Mycroft and Lestrade had certainly been here, preparing, and it seems like it could have only been moments ago that they left. Sherlock rounded the corner and stopped dead in his tracks.

John stood in the middle of the living room, his face masked of emotion, unrevealing.

Chapter Text

John was not expecting Sherlock to look so terrified. In fact, John could swear Sherlock was shaking. He would have laughed if he wasn’t trying so hard to maintain his composure. Sherlock, terrified? Of what? He didn’t have ahead of him what John was about to do.

“Sherlock...” John paused as Sherlock continued to stare at him.

“Sherlock, won’t you come here?”

Sherlock moved, rather, glided into the room, in that way always so mesmerizing to John. He stopped just a few feet from John, eyes searching, expression... painful?

This wasn’t going the way John had planned. Something was wrong.

“What’s going on, John?” Sherlock asked, his voice quiet, almost dangerous.

John looked up at him, alarmed. This really was not going according to plan.

“Nothing is wrong. What’s gotten into you?”

The dangerous glint in Sherlock’s eyes grew. ”What do you mean, me?! What’s gotten into you?!“ Sherlock was trembling and it bled through into his words. Sherlock drew an uneven breath.

“You avoid me for a week, then last night, you come to bed late, you’re gone in the morning, nobody knows where you are? And where the hell are Mycroft and Lestrade? Why aren’t they – ”

And then Sherlock’s eyes widened, and he fell silent. John could see the gears turning behind his eyes. Always ticking, always working. John cursed himself silently. Of course Sherlock would figure it out before he had the chance to say anything. No use now. John lowered his right knee to the floor, slowly, and reached in his pocket. The look in Sherlock’s eyes was indecipherable. John hesitated for a moment, questioning if he had assumed too quickly that Sherlock understood what was happening. He swallowed, and took his hand out of his pocket.

Sherlock stared at the ring John held between his thumb and index finger.

“Sherlock,” John started. He stopped and closed his eyes, clearing his throat. Don’t mess this one up. His mouth twitched in a small smile at the wayward thought.

I won’t.

“Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes,” John opened his eyes and gazed up at the man he loved, the man who had saved him before and now saved him every day. His soul felt raw, exposed. Pure. Right. “Whatever I did in this world to deserve you, it wasn’t enough.”

His voice broke. Sherlock watched him, tears in his eyes, and John felt his heart in his throat.

“Please, god, please say you will marry me.”

Sherlock was crying now, really crying. John had never seen him so emotionally vulnerable, and suddenly felt alarmed again. He stood up, uncertain, wanting to reach out to Sherlock but knowing that this next part, this was Sherlock’s decision, not his, what if... what if Sherlock didn’t know what to do? Sherlock knew how fake proposals went. He knew how to use them for manipulation. What if Sherlock didn’t know how to react? What if Sherlock didn’t want this?

But John had spent the better part of the year learning not to doubt that Sherlock wanted this. He had to learn the same for himself, as well. He reached out with his free hand and took Sherlock’s, pulling him close, firmly. Sherlock looked at him through tearstained eyes. John met his gaze, trying to convey to him, trying to convince him, I love you, I adore you. You know this. You can believe this.

Sherlock picked up John’s other hand, using a finger to trace a circle around the gold band now waiting in John’s palm. He leaned his forehead against John’s, his breath hitched. John waited, as calmly as he could bear.

“Of course,” Sherlock replied. “John, of course,“ he said again, and bent into a shuddering kiss against John’s mouth. John snaked his free hand up to Sherlock’s hair and held him there, firmly, still trying his best to convey to Sherlock, you are safe with me. It was always you. Sherlock broke the kiss and pulled himself against John, holding him tightly. John could tell Sherlock was still crying.

“Of course I will marry you.” Sherlock’s voice shook through his tears, and with the echo of an incredulous laugh. John breathed him in, sighing. He worked the ring back up between his thumb and index finger, and let go of Sherlock, bending down onto one knee once more. Sherlock followed him this time so that they both knelt across from each other on the floor. John took Sherlock’s left hand and slipped the ring onto his finger. Sherlock held his hand up to the firelight, catching the flames glancing off of the ring, sparkling and dancing.

“It was always you, Sherlock.” This time, John said it out loud. John loved him, and wanted to say so, a hundred times over, a thousand times over, until there were no other words that could mean so much. “You are everything to me. You are the man who saved me. I adore you. You’ve pulled me out of the deepest holes I’ve ever been trapped in, multiple times, and showed me I deserved life. You are all of the good in my life. All of the light.”

His words seemed to pierce Sherlock, who stared at him, unbelieving. Sherlock pressed his hand against John’s face, and nodded. “Me too,” he whispered. “You saved me too.” His eyes still glistened with tears, and John leaned up to kiss him, pulling them both back up and to the couch. Sherlock went with him easily, gladly, and curled up against John when they sat, his hand in John’s hair, kissing him still.

“This morning was... difficult,” Sherlock said when their mouths parted, his voice still low, and John could hear a trace of pain, of grief in Sherlock’s voice. He rested his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock continued. “I had no idea what was happening to you. After how you’ve been acting the last week, I, I... figured I was losing you again.”

John dropped his head. “I’m sorry. I of all people should have known you would overreact to a difference in my behavior.” John grinned sheepishly. “But you have no idea how nervous I was with that ring in my pocket. I’ve been too nervous to stash it anywhere in the house. I was sure you would find it.”

Sherlock laughed in wonder. “That’s why you were avoiding me? Did you think I would pick pocket you? You carried this thing around all week?” Sherlock held his hand up again so that they both could look at the ring. John marveled at the beauty of Sherlock wearing it.

John laughed back, once, and then again, and then they were both giggling together, hands entwined, lost in the thrill of belonging to one another. Sherlock could have sat with John for hours, doing nothing at all, just like this, but all too soon there was a knock at the door.

“What do you want?” John called loudly, and a muffled voice outside responded, “Am I allowed back in my own flat now?”

John turned and grinned at Sherlock, who was piecing together what happened. The door opened and a few moments later, Lestrade and Mycroft appeared in the living room, faces flushed and hand in hand.

“We thought you were going to make us wait outside all afternoon,” Lestrade scolded John.

Mycroft snickered, but then his face softened into a good–natured grin. “So? The verdict?”

Sherlock stood. “The verdict is that I should never trust my lying brother.”

“Oh come now,” Mycroft replied, but Sherlock was smiling. “It was all John’s idea, anyway,” Mycroft added.

Sherlock groaned. “Please tell me you didn’t have this room bugged. I swear to god, if you were watching us –”

Mycroft smirked, but shook his head. “Opportunity missed. John had some choice words for me about what I was, and was not, allowed to do.”

“Congratulations, you two,” Lestrade said. “A few of us had bets going at the Yard. You really held out on us.”

Sherlock winced, but John grinned again and took Sherlock’s hand. “All in good time,” he said softly.

Lestrade pulled Sherlock in for a hug, and clapped John on the back. “I’ve got to go check on the ham now. John, you cut us close – it’s near finished by now, I’d bet.”

John offered to help in response, and followed Lestrade into the kitchen.

Sherlock watched him go, his mind dancing through the last thirty minutes. He felt warm, like he was skirting the presence of new familiarity, of the nostalgia that this would become – and safe in a way he couldn’t pinpoint. He looked around at the room and stepped in the direction of the fireplace, warming his fingers by the flames and keeping an ever present eye on the gold ring shining on his finger, binding him to the one person he adored and admired more than anyone in the world. He heard Mycroft clear his throat, and realized his brother had not left the room.

“Sherlock...” Mycroft started. Sherlock opened his mouth to cut him off, but Mycroft gave him a warning look. “Sherlock, do forgive me if that was too much. I am sorry, really.”

Sherlock closed his mouth and shook his head. Mycroft smirked.

“Then again, you do have such a flair for the dramatic.”

“I knew something was going on, I just hadn’t figured it out yet,” Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft put his hands in the air. “Oh, I’m sure. But between you and me, I’m glad you didn’t figure it out. John wanted it this way. I hope it was lovely.”

Sherlock relaxed. “It was, Mycroft. Once I realized, it was. You do not understand, cannot understand... he means so much to me, Mycroft. I think I have lost him more times than I can count.” Sherlock turned and faced his brother, who gave him an understanding smile.

“I’m happy for you, Sherlock. You deserve this.” Mycroft beckoned him over, and Sherlock obliged, accepting Mycroft’s well wishes and his embrace. Sherlock let his arms fall to his sides, placing his head on Mycroft’s shoulder and facing away from him. Mycroft chuckled under his breath, and patted him on the back.

“There, there,” Mycroft said softly. “I believe the last time you gave me this strange hug of yours, you were wearing a pirate’s hat.”

Sherlock smiled and closed his eyes. “I haven’t believed in fairy tales for a long time, and we aren’t children anymore,” he replied, but then paused. “But sometimes... there is a magic to it all, isn’t there?”

Mycroft patted him on the back again and let his arms drop. Sherlock lifted his head and took a step back.

“You said I couldn’t understand,” Mycroft answered. Laughter trailed in from the kitchen and the two men glanced in its direction.

“I’m on the road to understanding, brother mine,” Mycroft murmured.

Sherlock squeezed his shoulder. “Let’s go see what trouble they’re causing, shall we?”

Mycroft agreed, and they left the room.

The rest of the holiday went just as a good holiday should. Punch was spilled, pie crust burned, and Lestrade complained loudly when Mycroft carved the ham unevenly. John held Sherlock’s hand every chance he got, running his thumb over the smooth gold ring, over and over. And Sherlock welcomed the intimacy; he held onto John as they sat around the table for the early dinner; as they stood in the galley kitchen with emptied pie plates; as they all lounged in the living room by the fire, in good humor and with more than a few drinks behind them. Eventually, as the talk died down, Sherlock began to nod off. John guided Sherlock’s head gently down to a couch cushion, pulling Sherlock’s legs up across his lap. Sherlock never let go of John’s hand.

“It seems he sleeps more often now, don’t you think, Dr. Watson?” Mycroft asked once they had all rested for a few minutes in the comfortable silence. “I no longer am able to reach him at all hours of the night.”

Lestrade leaned against Mycroft, a beer in tow, and John brushed his fingers over the top of Sherlock’s hand, back and forth, as Sherlock drifted deeper into sleep.

John nodded. “You’re not wrong,” he said. “He’s needed it. For years, I suspect, he’s needed it.”

“For years,” Mycroft replied, looking John in the eye. “I’d say so.”

“Probably could have fixed that sooner,” John answered with a quiet laugh, and Mycroft smiled.

“You’re welcome to stay here tonight, if you’d like, John,” Lestrade added. “We can fix you and Sherlock up with some blankets in this room.”

“On their engagement night? You really think so?” Mycroft interjected, raising an eyebrow, then at John: “Don’t you and he have anything to attend to? Anything at all?”

John laughed, louder this time, and Sherlock stirred and turned in his sleep. John squeezed his hand. “Sshh,” he said to Sherlock, brushing Sherlock’s curls from his face. He could feel Mycroft and Lestrade watching him, but he felt light headed and giddy from the alcohol and it didn’t matter now. “We have all the time in the world for that,” he responded to Mycroft, with a small grin. Lestrade, who was fading in and out, woke up enough to react with a snort to John’s comment.

John worked up the effort to be serious for a moment. “I want to get him back so that he can wake up at home. Inadvertently, I gave him a hard day.”

Mycroft nodded, knowing that might have been an understatement. ”I’ll call a cab,” he offered, and John nodded in appreciation.

Before the cab arrived, John sat Sherlock up and rubbed his arm. “Come on now, love,” he whispered to Sherlock. “Let’s go home.”

Sherlock stirred and opened his eyes just barely, adjusting to the low light in the room. “Where are we?” he asked, his voice starting to rise, but John pressed a finger to his lips and shushed him.

“We’re still at Lestrade’s,” he answered. “Listen.”

Sherlock and John turned to the sound of quiet music playing in the kitchen. Come to Me from Les Miserables wafted through the room, and into their view of the kitchen entrance Mycroft and Lestrade would occasionally pass, dancing slowly with the music. Sherlock turned to John and smiled, his face crinkled and tired, but peaceful. John felt his eyes sting.

“Happy Christmas, Sherlock.”

Sherlock leaned over and kissed him, and John held on to him for a precious, fleeting moment, before helping him to his feet and back into his coat, which had pooled around him as he slept. John caught Mycroft’s eye and waved, and Mycroft nodded back before closing his eyes and turning his head to rest against Lestrade’s once more. Sherlock held on to John as they exited the flat, pulling him closer as they braced themselves against the freezing December night. Snow had begun to fall, and the white flakes dusted the ground, falling in clumps and sticking to their coats and to their hair. John looked up to the sky, watching the snow drifting to the ground, illuminated in cascading patterns by the lamp posts lining the street. Sherlock took advantage of John’s lingering gaze up at the falling snow, leaning down to place a row of kisses across his craned neck and then bending to rest his head on John’s shoulder. They stood there, breathing in the night air, until the cab pulled around the corner and they slipped into the back, whisked away beneath the grey of the starless midnight sky.

The cab deposited them at Baker Street, and as Sherlock closed the front door behind them, he suddenly had an uneasy feeling. He turned to John, fingers on his lips, and they stepped silently up the stairs and to their flat. The door was ajar, and Sherlock opened it, deadly still, before he relaxed. He turned back to John, who was grinning.

“One more surprise tonight,” John said. Sherlock turned to enter the flat. In the middle of the living room was a small table, decorated with candles flickering and fresh roses. A plate of scones had been placed next to a note, which had Mrs. Hudson’s signature at the bottom and read: Sherlock and John; Congratulations, my dears, and Happy Christmas.

Sherlock started, and then laughed out loud. He turned to John. “So she did see you leave!” He exclaimed.

John beamed. “I don’t know what she told you, but yes, she knew. She helped me pick out the ring, you know,” he added.

Sherlock glanced instinctively down at his hand, and ran a finger along the ring. “I don’t know what to say,” he admitted. “You really did plan all of this?”

“I wanted it to be perfect, for you, Sherlock,” John replied, his voice soft.

“You really believed I would say yes, didn’t you!” Sherlock answered, his voice still filled with incredulous laughter, with unbelieving joy.

John’s eyes twinkled as he looked up at Sherlock. “This isn’t the eighteenth century. She knew she was a phone call away if things went south.” He pulled Sherlock into an embrace, and Sherlock wrapped his arms around him.

“Besides,” he said. “It’s poetic, is it not?”

Sherlock pulled back from the hug and raised an eyebrow at John.

“I mean, I said ‘yes’ to you every morning for months. It was about time I got you to say ‘yes’ to me.” John blushed and ducked his head.

Sherlock pulled him back in to the hug, never wanting to let go, and kissed John’s hair. “I’ll say yes to you any time you want. For the rest of my life.”

John nodded into Sherlock’s coat, and led Sherlock to the couch, laying him down and resting his head on Sherlock’s chest. He turned his head into Sherlock’s shirt to breath him in. Sherlock sighed.

“I really was scared I lost you,” he said. John started to protest, but Sherlock stopped him.

“I know, well, now that it was ridiculous of me. But you must understand, when you say to me that I cannot leave you, John, when you express worry about commitment, surely you see that I have the same fears as you?”

John considered Sherlock’s words, running a hand through Sherlock’s hair to comfort him.

“John, I love you. I need you more than I have ever needed someone. As I have tried to explain, all of my actions since I met you have been to keep you safe. And to make sure you are happy. When it came to pass that I actually had a part in your happiness, not just your safety, I was terrified that I wouldn’t be able to take care of you anymore. I have watched out for you for so long, and your safety remains a top priority for me. But happiness? Happiness was never really a word I would use to describe my own life, much less something I could try myself to provide for another person.”

Sherlock gazed down at John, who was watching him with adoration. ”But if you ask this of me, John, darling, I will give you everything I have.”

John’s heart ached. He rested his head back against Sherlock’s chest. “I am so in love with you,” he whispered.

“Happy Christmas, John,” Sherlock whispered back.

The wedding was quiet, peaceful, to John and Sherlock’s liking. It was small, with immediate family and a few close friends in attendance. They held the ceremony outdoors on the countryside, with flowers blooming and swaying in the cool breeze of mid–March, a year after they had stood in the rain along Baker Street and shared their first kiss. Sherlock’s mum and Mrs. Hudson wept together for the duration. When Sherlock slipped a ring matching his own onto John’s finger, he could have cried as well. But when John beamed up at him, and as they kissed for the first time as husbands, Sherlock could not have been farther from tears. The joy in his life, sealed with his marriage to John, was insurmountable, too much to take in and understand, but at the same time, insatiable. He could spend eternity with John and it would not be enough. John kissed Sherlock back deeply, his hands draping around Sherlock’s neck, prompting a wolf whistle from Lestrade as the rest of their families and friends clapped for them.

The reception was much like the ceremony. A few bottles of champagne, a scattering of their favorite liquors, and a punch that Mr. and Mrs. Holmes watched closely over lest Sherlock be tempted again to poison it. Mycroft watched them with amusement in their eyes. John caught his eye from across the room and called him over.

“Mycroft! Leave your poor parents alone.” John’s eyes twinkled, and he swirled the champagne in his flute.

“You mean your in–laws, my dear brother,” Mycroft smirked. “Time for a toast, don’t you think?”

John nodded, turning to find Sherlock, who was gazing, eyes unfocused, out towards the sun setting on the hills. The golden light of the late afternoon played through Sherlock’s hair. John sighed, feeling a chill in the breeze, but was too mesmerized by his husband to care. He called out to Sherlock, who turned towards him, the trace of a smile playing across his lips as he made his way to John’s side. John reached up and kissed him.

“I believe your brother is about to attempt a toast, darling. Bets on who’s better at this sort of thing? You or him?”

Sherlock laughed, but there was a hint of sadness in his voice when he responded. “Not a high functioning sociopath, remember, John? I think you can guess now why I wasn’t high functioning that day.”

“You saved lives that day, Sherlock,” John replied. “Don’t forget that.”

Sherlock leaned back in to place a slow, soft kiss on John’s cheek. “Doesn’t matter now,” he whispered in John’s ear. “You saved me today when you told me I do at that altar.”

John shivered in reaction. “I’ll be telling you yes, Sherlock, for the rest of our lives,” he replied, echoing his old experiment and Sherlock’s words the night John proposed.

Sherlock grinned at him from ear to ear. “Let’s hear what Mycroft has to say.”

Mycroft had been busy gathering everyone around him for the toast. He pulled John and Sherlock to the front.

“This afternoon,” he began, “I welcomed Dr. John Watson into my family. Sometimes... sometimes the vows you hear, the nonsense that gets spewed at weddings and the nothings that are flung back and forth like monkeys in the zoo flinging –” the crowd audibly gasped.

“I do believe I’m winning at the moment,” Sherlock whispered in John’s ear. John snickered.

Mycroft glanced around the crowd, then back to John and Sherlock. He tugged at his bowtie.

“Let me put it this way,” he continued. “For better and for worse. We’ve heard that one, yes? In sickness, and in health? I remind you of these words so that I may tell you, I have seen in my own experience with these two men, I tell you now you have no need to worry whether they can uphold these promises to each other. I can tell you that they have already done so for a very long time.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand.

“Dr. Watson,” Mycroft turned to face John. “I welcome you into our lives and into our family. And I will cherish your presence with us. Keep him in line please. Even when he keeps you on your toes.” The crowd laughed, and Mycroft and John exchanged a knowing smile.

“And now, Sherlock,” Mycroft turned once more. “Sherlock, dearest brother of mine...” Mycroft’s voice cracked, and the crowd murmured. ”Sherlock, I cannot tell you, in enough words, how much joy it brings me to see you experience and find your true happiness.” Mycroft’s eyes were red, but he maintained his composure. “It is neither the satisfaction of a solved case, nor the allure of a new challenge, but the happiness I see in you today that informs me I can sleep easier, knowing my brother has found the peace that has eluded him for so long.”

Mycroft wiped his eyes. Sherlock watched him, motionless. Lestrade’s cheeks were stained with tears, and he was not alone – at this point, there were few dry eyes among their family and friends.

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand again, twice now, and gave Sherlock a look. Sherlock dropped John’s hand, and turned to catch Mycroft in a quick embrace.

“Thank you,” he murmured as he released Mycroft. “No matter,” Mycroft replied.

John raised his champagne glass, and brought Sherlock back to him, his arm around Sherlock’s waist.

Mycroft raised his glass as well.

“To John and Sherlock.”

Sherlock and John honeymooned on Dartmoor, wandering through the footpaths of the national parkland, staying at the same inn as they did when they had worked the Baskerville case. They extended their stay longer than they originally intended, and the warm air and late spring rains swirled about them as they slept away the final afternoons of the trip together, staying up late into the night in the inn’s common room, drinking and laughing in each other’s arms. By the time they left, John could have sworn he had been married to Sherlock for years.

The trip back to Baker Street was quiet. Their hearts were full. The next morning, when they awoke together for the first time as husbands in their flat, they held their hands entwined in the air over their heads, catching their rings in the light of the morning. John brought Sherlock’s hand back down to kiss it, working his way up Sherlock’s wrist, then arm, shoulder and neck, to cheek, to lips, until Sherlock couldn’t stand it any longer and they were tangled back in the sheets, dizzy with the same feelings of disbelieving adoration that characterized their first nights together in the previous year. Then John held Sherlock as Sherlock drifted back to sleep for the rest of the already late morning.

After a while, John slipped away to make them brunch. He was almost finished when he heard Sherlock come downstairs and stop behind him. John turned to see Sherlock red in the face, hesitant as he stood there with a tattered brown parcel in his hands.

“What’s this?” John asked, and Sherlock offered it to him.

“May I open it?”

Sherlock nodded.

Bewildered, John tore along a crease in the packaging, revealing a flash of muted red fabric. He tugged the rest of the packaging away and shook out in front of him a beautifully woven, earthen green and red wool jumper. He stared up at Sherlock, who was still blushing.

“It was your Christmas present,” Sherlock mumbled. “I left it at the flat the day of the Christmas party. When I thought you were gone.”

John looked back down at the jumper, then back up at Sherlock. “Sherlock, it’s perfect,” he said in wonder.

Sherlock barked a laugh. “Seriously? A golden ring was your gift and I’m supposed to believe you’re impressed by a jumper?”

John dropped the packing paper and pulled the jumper over his head. It fit him better than he expected.

Sherlock’s face melted into a smile. ”You really do like it?”

“Of course I like it,” John said, his voice heavy with emotion, realizing the last time this jumper was in Sherlock’s hands, Sherlock was alone and scared. The day had been worth it, but John might have thought twice about his delivery had he anticipated its impact.

“Of course I like it, Sherlock.” He wiped his eyes. Sherlock grinned, the wrinkles under his eyes calligraphy to John. John took Sherlock’s face in his hands and kissed him on the mouth, a smile on his lips against Sherlock’s.

“Red and green, though. Out of season now, correct?” Sherlock teased.

John bit his lip. “That season is eternal to me now. These colors are memories of you,” he said. “I’d wear this every day if I wasn’t afraid to wear it out.”

Sherlock’s expression softened, and he took John in his arms.

“I love you,” was all Sherlock could manage in response.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John murmured. “I love you, too.”

They stood, locked in their embrace. After a moment, John asked, ”You sleep okay?”

Sherlock nodded, pulling John closer against him. “Always better in your arms,” he responded softly.

John pressed his cheek against Sherlock’s and closed his eyes.

“What about you, John?” Sherlock inquired.

John considered for a moment before he answered. “Yes, you know, and I don’t think about it anymore.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh?”

“The thing is, Sherlock,” John answered. “You’re still the first thought on my mind each morning, and the last each night. I’d say those are sturdy bookends for a good sleep.”

Sherlock held him tighter. “I’m glad it was you, John,” he replied, his voice low and soothing, his breath a caress against John’s skin. “From the moment we met,” Sherlock continued, introspective, so that John had the feeling Sherlock was now talking to himself. “It was always you.”

John melted into Sherlock’s embrace.

Well rested and well loved.