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The volume of the television seemed loud in the silence of Baker Street.
Annoyed, John turned it off. After all, there was nothing interesting to watch or to do: he struggled to admit it aloud, but he was bored without Sherlock.
It had been raining for three days, and it certainly didn't improve his mood.
And to think that he could be in a hotel room overlooking the gulf of Amalfi, sipping limoncello and eating delicious gnocchi alla sorrentina.
Sherlock had left to solve a case in Italy on behalf of a wealthy client. He had asked John to go with him, but in the end it didn’t happen, and John knew very well why. He had no problem asking for leave from the clinic and following him. Indeed, the idea of a fully paid stay in Amalfi was very attractive, but then Sherlock told him that, for the success of the investigation, they had to pretend to be a couple.
Sherlock’s smile was borderline timid when he spoke; his eyes were bright, almost hoping, and for a strange reason, it scared John, who reacted harshly.
"Once and for all, Sherlock, I'm not gay!"
Sherlock tightened his lips and his face suddenly darkened.
“You’ll just have to tell it on the evening news, and then every single person in the Kingdom will know,” he hissed.
“Then you know that you shouldn’t ask me something like that.”
“Like that,” Sherlock repeated slowly. He was getting angry. “And do you mind telling me why?”
“Well, because… because… it… er…” John stammered, suddenly at loss for words.
“I’m waiting.”
“Because it’s embarrassing!” He shouted in the end. It wasn’t what he really thought, just the first thing that popped up in his mind, but Sherlock didn’t like it at all.
“Embarrassing. Faking being my boyfriend would be embarrassing to you. Very well,” he said in a calm, icy voice that made John shiver, “I’m going alone.”
“No, wait, that’s not what I'm…”
But Sherlock didn’t listen to him. He went to his room and slammed the door so hard that John started.
“Shit! What have I done?” he thought.
The next day Sherlock left for Italy, and John hadn’t heard from him since.
A too cheerful Mrs. Hudson brought him breakfast.
"Good morning, dear. The flat is dull without Sherlock, isn’t it?" she pointed out. "I hope he’ll come back for Christmas."
"Of course he will. He never takes too long to solve a case."
"Well, I sent him a message, asking, but he didn't know. By the way, have you already seen Sherlock's new photos? They're just beautiful."
"What photos?" John asked after a moment: the idea of Sherlock being away from home for so long, worsened his already gloomy mood.
"These ones."
Mrs. Hudson handed him her mobile.
John goggled at it: how the hell she could afford such an expensive phone? Did she really need their rent?
He was going to ask, but then got distracted by the photos Sherlock had messaged her (and not John… he was still mad, then): a posh hotel room with a jacuzzi, the square overlooking the Duomo, the beach that appeared warm, despite it being December.
"Looks like heaven," John sighed, giving the phone back to Mrs. Hudson.
"Why didn't you go with him? Did you two have a little domestic?"
“No! Okay, maybe,” he admitted, under her scolding stare. “But it’s Sherlock’s fault, his demands are crazy!”
"What has he done this time?"
"He asked me to pretend to be his boyfriend."
"Oh dear, that's so silly of him."
“Yes, that’s what I say!”
"A real couple like you two don't need to pretend anything," she chirped, before taking the tray and leaving the flat.
John raised a hand to stop her, but then he thought better: Mrs. Hudson firmly believe that he and Sherlock were engaged.
But they weren't! They just lived together, shared the craziest adventures, fought dangerous criminals, resolved engaging puzzles. Besides that, they mended each other wounds, Sherlock played the violin everytime John was feeling down, or when a nightmare woke him up in the middle of night, and made him laugh with his terribly inappropriate jokes. John took care of Sherlock and his health when he forgot to eat or hadn't been sleeping in days, and he was miserable when he was alone after having bickered with Sherlock, and…
"Oh shit..." he murmured.
Well, apparently they WERE together.
The postman left the mail downstairs and John hurried to pick it up: last time he forgot to do it, he missed a bill and they struggled without power for three days.
He rapidly browsed through the pamphlets and envelopes, until he found a very old one, that came with a note of apology for the delay from the Royal Mail.
It was yellowish, the corners worn out, and John hadn't seen a stamp like that in... no, he had never seen a stamp like that: that letter was 50 years old at least! It was addressed to an ‘Albert Kent’ but John had never heard of him, so he went and asked Mrs. Hudson.
"Oh dear! Yes, I remember him very well. Albert was a tenant in 221C when my parents still ran the place; actually he lived here until he died in that very flat."
"Blimey, it must have been traumatizing."
Mrs. Hudson caressed the address written on the envelope and shook her head.
"No, but it was sad. For a while he split the rent with another man, Robert Montford, but then he left and Albert was alone again until his death. No one came to ask for his belongings, so we put them in a box and stored it in the attic. Now that I think about, it should still be there."
"Why did the other man leave?" John asked, suddenly curious about that old episode.
"I remember I heard them fight one evening. It was just after the 1967 Act passed; but even with that, things were different back then, and infinitely difficult. Robert wanted to be in the open, but Albert... well, it's horrible to talk ill about the dead, but he had never been a brave man."
So the two men were gay, and British parliament had just passed the Act that partially decriminalized homosexuality, provided it was behind closed doors.
"I see," John mumbled. He didn't expect a story like that.
"I bet Robert is the sender of this letter," she said, handing it back to John.
"Why are you giving it to me? I didn't know them."
"Well, there's no one else to give it to, dear."
John went back upstairs and sat down in his chair. He was torn about opening the letter: it wasn't any of his business, but Mrs. Hudson's words had struck him. Besides, all the people involved were dead, it wouldn't harm anyone.
He cut the envelope, and started reading. Mrs. Hudson was right: it was from Robert Montford.
"My dearest Albert - it read - are you surprised that I'm still calling you dearest and writing to you? Well, after three unanswered letters, I should know better, but I've always been a fool, when it comes to you.
And you're dearest to me, you will always be, even after our fight.
Long, excruciately slow months have passed, months where I tried to be angry with you, to hate you, but nothing worked, I still miss you like the first day.
Please love, I beg you to change your mind. We were happy together, don't you remember?
Once, you told me that, when you met me for the first time, it was like you had been waiting for me for all of your life.
It was the same for me, you know. That's why I got so angry that night: I can't understand how you can throw everything away, just because you're afraid of the judgement of some strangers.
They don't matter! Nothing matters but us. If they mock us, we will ignore them, if they insult us, we will face them together, if they fire us for what we are, we will find another job. I firmly believe that together we can make it through.
I'm just asking you to admit who you really are and be free.
Answer me Albert, give me a sign. Just a little sign, and I will come back to you.
Yours forever,
Robert.”
When John reached the end of the letter, he had tears in his eyes for the poor soul.
He wondered if something would have been different, if Albert had received that letter. Or maybe not: Robert said he had already sent three letters and received no answer.
Yes, being gay in the '60s was extremely hard, often deadly, and it was understandable that people were afraid, but that letter was dripping love... and suddenly John felt troubled, even if he couldn't pinpoint why.
Mrs. Hudson had said there was still a box of Kent’s belongings in the attic, so off he went in search of it.
The clothes had been donated to a charity, so all that was left were old papers, a shaving razor, a pair of sunglasses, a broken wristwatch and three books.
One of the books didn’t close quite properly and there were some edges of paper that didn’t line up with the rest. John opened it, to find drafts of a letter; some torn, some blocked out with a black marker, but the last one still ledgible. Was this a letter that had never been sent? As John read it, his question was answered.
“Robert, my only love,
I feel ridiculous writing this letter, knowing I’ll never send it. I read and re-read all of your letters, learnt them by heart, and even if there is nothing that I want more than to run to you, I can’t.
Not in this life. Not in this world.
On one account you were right: I am a coward.
I put my façade and my financial security ahead of you and everything you gave me, and not a day goes by without me regretting it.
Only now that I'm alone again in this little flat, I'm coming to realize how much you mattered to me, how much you've made me happy, how much I love and miss you in my life.
Because I love you, I always will, but I'm such a jellyfish that I can't do what you're asking of me. I can't be in the open and reveal myself for what I really am to my family and my co-workers. Just the thought of it frightens me.
I know that I don't deserve it, but I hope you can forgive me, one day, even if I hurt you so much with my silence.
You will always be in my heart.
Yours forever,
Albert
John refolded the letter with trembling hands, asked Mrs. Hudson where Albert was buried, and went there. The grave was hidden in a little corner of the cemetery, and no one had taken care of it in years, as it was covered in weeds and vines.
"That's what remains of someone who wasn’t honest with himself and thought some social shit was more important than love… nothing," John said aloud, in the desert cemetery. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry for both of you.”
Now he understood why that old story had hit him so strongly: he saw a bit of himself in Albert's cowardice, while Sherlock was more similar to Robert: he never bothered to correct people assuming they were together, he never reacted hysterically when someone suggested they were a couple, he never got offended by allusions, he didn't care about appearances and people's judgement.
Besides, John wasn't so blind as not to see that, deep down, Sherlock wished they were a couple, and had dropped many hints to him over the years.
But John didn't want to become another Albert, he didn't want to be the man who gave up the chance to be happy, only to end up miserable and alone, also making Sherlock miserable in the process.
He knew exactly what to do.
The next day he stood in the hall of a luxury hotel in Amalfi, fidgeting with his tie, waiting for the concierge to tell him where Sherlock was.
Many happy couples crossed the hall, hand in hand, kissing and looking radiant.
"Soon," John thought, "soon."
"Mr. Holmes is in the lounge bar on the terrace, right now. Do you want us to call him?"
"No, it's a surprise."
"Oh, I see," answerer the concierge, Tommaso, with a knowing smile, "I wish you a good day, sir."
"Well, thank you."
When the lift doors opened, John still had a stupid smile plastered on his face, but it fell as soon as he located Sherlock.
He was dashing as usual, with his black suit and purple shirt, his regal profile and the sun lighting up his dark curls. He was also sitting with another man, who was openly flirting with him and pretty much drooling on the table between them.
John's heart sank faster than the Titanic: he was too late, right? He had waited for so long that Sherlock had grown tired of him and started exploring new possibilities.
John thought of stepping back into the lift before Sherlock saw him, to spare himself the humiliation of meeting his new love interest, but then Sherlock casually turned his head towards the sea beyond the terrace and the other man took advantage of his inattention to slip some white powder into Sherlock's drink.
"You utter piece of shit!" John bellowed, and all heads turned toward him, including one of a very shocked Sherlock.
“J… John?”
John crossed the bar in three long strides and grabbed the other man by the lapels of his jacket, effectively lifting him from his chair.
"Wh-what do you want from me?" the man stammered, pale and terrified.
"Don't play dumb with me," the former soldier growled, "I saw you trying to drug his drink."
"It-it was just to loosen the mood and have fun later."
John, showing impressive strength, turned the man upside down and stepped toward the railing of the terrace.
"Fun, huh? Well, if that’s the case, I'm sure you have nothing against me throwing you over the balcony. Don't worry, it's just for fun."
"HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!"
John let him fall to the ground, then bent to glare at him.
"Run away and don't dare come near my Sherlock ever again, or next time I'll be serious."
The man stumbled away from John, yelling at Sherlock: "You could have warned me that your boyfriend was a psychopath!" Then he ran to the stairs, but he was discretely blocked by the hotel security. Since the immediate drama had ended, people resumed drinking their aperitif, leaving Sherlock standing, still dazed.
"And you!" John yelled, arms on his hips, "You should be more careful! What if I weren't here?"
"I noticed what he had done. Indeed, the hotel owner asked me to find the criminal who was targeting the customers of this bar, and that was what I was doing, before your grand entree."
"Oh... uhm... well, then..." John mumbled, fixing his wrinkled jacket and feeling like an idiot.
"My Sherlock?" Sherlock ventured, stepping slowly towards John. "Am I hallucinating or is it real?"
John lifted his head, sure, assertive, meeting his verdigris eyes, full of hope.
"It is real, you are my Sherlock."
John had never seen someone blushing as fast and as violently as Sherlock did; the doctor in him was almost worried. Then he took the final step, closed the distance between them, putting a hand in his soft curls, and kissed him softly on the lips.
Someone behind them whistled and clapped but John ignored it, too busy exploring the heaven that Sherlock's mouth offered: sweet, soft, plump and wonderfully responsive.
He kissed Sherlock again and again in the marine breeze, surrounded by the smell of lemons and his skin, secured in Sherlock's long arms wrapped around his back; he kissed him until his lips became insensitive and he felt dizzy for the lack of oxygen.
Sherlock rested his head on the top of John's, and he swore he could sense Sherlock's smile on his scalp.
"I'm not complaining here," Sherlock stated, "but I'd like to know what made you change your mind. I thought that this day would never come."
"You left, I was alone and... I don't wanna be Albert."
"Who?"
Sherlock's puzzled face was just endearing and John had to kiss the little wrinkle between his eyes.
"I'll explain,” he laughed. “Are you done with the case?"
"Yes."
"Let's go home, then."
"Yes, my John."
It was John’s turn to blush.
* * *
John stretched his arm on the mattress, but he couldn't grab a handful of consulting detective, the bed was sadly devoid of him.
He sighed, put on the dressing gown and shuffled to the kitchen; Sherlock was already dressed, and handed him a cup of strong coffee.
"Have a shower and dress," he instructed.
"What? I hoped we could spend the day inside. After all, it's our first Christmas as a couple," John wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, and Sherlock's low, vibrant laugh filled the air. The coffee was heavenly, though.
"Later," he promised, kissing John's neck, "but right now we have a visit to pay."
"Where?"
"It's a surprise. Well, you can consider it almost a Christmas present, even if it's a tad weird," Sherlock mumbled, and he seemed almost uncertain, so John hastened to reassure him.
"I won't expect anything different from you, love, and I'm sure I'll like it."
Sherlock took John to the cemetery where Albert Kent was buried, and now John was puzzled for real, not having any clue about the surprise.
When they reached the grave, John immediately noticed that it had been cleaned and refurbished, and that there was another grave next to it.
"This wasn't there, the last time I came."
"Take a closer look."
John knelt before it. And gaped.
It was the grave of Robert Montford.
"Robert died many years ago, too, and had no living relatives anymore, so it wasn't difficult for Mycroft to push some buttons to have him here. I thought they deserved this at least, and maybe you would like the idea of..."
John jumped up, bear hugging him, and hiding his wet eyes in Sherlock's coat.
"I do, thank you. It was so thoughtful of you."
John raised his head and kissed Sherlock, promising himself that he would never give up love.
“Merry Christmas, John,” Sherlock murmured on his lips.
“The first of many together.”