Archive of Our Own ^beta

John's been through Sherlock's possessions before.  

He has an abundance of clothes, even though he only seems to wear the same three suits over and over again. He obviously doesn't make use of the denim jeans thrown in the back corner of the wardrobe; at least not that John’s aware of. 

And more odd items can be found strewn about. Latex and false facial hair — which the only explanation John can think of is for undercover work — hide in a box on top of the bookshelf.  

His room is much more neat and orderly than he initially thought. The rest of the flat is organized chaos while Sherlock's bedroom is a place away from the skull and chemicals and body parts in the kitchen.  

Curious, John thinks. Sherlock puts up a front that is cold and detached, like the sitting room with the skull on the mantelpiece and the science experiments in the kitchen. Yet, if one puts enough time and effort to pull back the façade, they would find a mind that is sensitive and worth appreciating. Like his bedroom with the framed periodic table and many apiology books and objects that John constantly finds in there. A child with an affinity for bees lives somewhere in Sherlock’s Mind Palace. 

John closes the drawer to the nightstand, not finding anything worth confiscating.  

Going to the bookshelf, he takes out books and looks for any place where Sherlock could hide any form of recreational drugs. Maybe there's a false book with a hollow space. He puts them carefully back in the way he found them, cursing that there's a dust line to leave his traces. 

Danger nights. They're getting harder to pinpoint. John isn't taking any chances today.  

They had just finished a case and Sherlock, for whatever reason, wasn't experiencing his after-case high. He usually talks at his fast pace about the deductions he made, and laughing, and just being happy for about an hour after the case closes.  

Even before he took on the case he seemed mildly depressed. He would hide himself away in his room, door locked. Only occasionally would he come out into the sitting area, possibly trying to create the appearance that nothing was wrong. 

Mrs. Hudson would come up from her flat for minutes at a time, seemingly knowing that something was wrong. She pulled John over and told him, "Make sure he's okay, John. Talk to him, get him to eat something. Today's not a good day for him," with the most sincere expression on her face.  

"Why, what's wrong? Why's he like this?" he asked, looking back over at his friend. Sherlock stood by the window playing a melancholy song on his violin and occasionally stopped and stared at whatever had caught his attention on the street.  

"We have a client," he suddenly said. He swung the bow through the air, eliciting a satisfying swish , and set it on the music stand.  

"Just makes sure he doesn't hurt himself," Mrs. Hudson whispered, and left, leaving John confused.  

The woman who had come up the stairs had looked distraught and worried. She said her name was Lillie Grey and her nephew, whom she was the guardian of ever since her sister and her sister's husband died, had gone missing. The police wouldn't help her so soon after his disappearance, saying he’s with a family member and would come back within a day.  

"Oliver you said his name was?" Sherlock asked.  

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. Oliver Herman."  

Of course, Sherlock had found poor Oliver by mid-afternoon. Ms. Grey had run toward her nephew and embraced him, placing frantic kisses to his temple.  

John noticed Sherlock staring, his face set is a forlorn way. He pulled his coat around himself and walked away without a word to his client. 

As soon as they arrived back home, John immediately sent Sherlock to Tesco's. He needed to do a mini drugs bust.  

"What, why?" Sherlock asked, confused. 

"Because I always get the milk and I think that you need to help a bit with that."  

"But why ?" Sherlock pouted.  

"Because reasons, that's why," John affirmed.  

Reluctantly, Sherlock agreed, not wanting to argue.

Sherlock left and John waited until he heard the front door close before moving to Sherlock's bedroom. 

Sherlock's lack of a fight worried him even more. 

Now, John initiates his rudimentary search. He needs to do this quickly, before Sherlock returns home. 

He moves toward the wardrobe and rummages through the clothes. Sticking his hand in the pockets and shoes,making sure to leave the 'sock index' exactly how he found it.

John reaches up toward the top shelf, his fingers just barely making it over the edge. He continues to run his fingers along the shelf, dust falling into his eyes. He coughs and blinks it away. 

His fingers run over something thin and flat; he almost misses it. Thinking its a plastic bag that could hold powdered cocaine, he investigates.  

He brings a chair in from the kitchen and stands on it.

What he finds is not what he was expecting.  

---

Wrestling with multiple grocery bags, Sherlock digs around in his pocket for his keys. Oh , for God’s sake . He lets out a defeated sigh when they don't turn up. He pushes the buzzer on the right side of the door labeled ‘A,’ planning on avoiding John so he won't have to talk.  

The door opens and a surprised Mrs. Hudson looks through the small crack in the door, oven mitts on her hands. "Oh! Sherlock!" She opens the door wider, letting him in. Sherlock steps up into the hallway and attempts to escape the woman's questions. "I wasn't sure who it was, no one ever calls for me."  

Sherlock gives her a wary smile, hoping she'll let him go up to his flat.  

Mrs. Hudson notices the bags in his hands and on his arms. "You did the shopping?" she asks, mildly taken aback. "I didn't hear you leave." 

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, John asked and I went. Now, if you'll excuse me — " he steps up onto the first stair.  

"Are you doing alright?" Mrs. Hudson asks in a hushed whisper. She's looking up at him, concern evident on her features. Her oven mitt-clad hand outstretched as if she wanted to comfort the man she thinks of as a son.  

Sherlock stops and stares at her over his shoulder. So she does remember. Of course she would, it's Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock looks down briefly and back up. He puts on his best smile he knows she likes and says, "Splendid." 

--- 

When Sherlock makes it up the stairs, he sees John sitting in his chair, half-heartedly reading a novel. He turns around when he hears Sherlock in the doorway.

“You okay? You were gone awhile.”

Sherlock looks exhausted. The edges of his mouth are turned down, like they had been the duration of the day. His shoulders are hunched, possibly from the grocery bags, more likely from whatever weight he's been carrying with him all day. His coat seems to hang on his frame as if he were just a hanger to hold it.  

John can't find any signs that he had used recently, but that didn't mean he hadn't bought some for later.  

The detective sets the bags down on the table and grumbles something inaudible. 

"Sorry, didn't catch that," John says.

"I said, I didn't go to a dealer!" Sherlock bursts out, turning towards his friend, his eyes wild. John moves backward as if Sherlock had physically hit him. "You're obviously thinking it's a danger night but I'm sorry to say that you are wrong. You're thinking I went to buy drugs just now because I shouldn't have been gone as long as I have but I was for a completely different reason," he quips.  

After the initial shock of being yelled at ebbs, John says, "Then why were you gone for so long?" He pushes himself out of his chair and stands next to it, facing Sherlock.  

Sherlock pauses, not really wanting John to know. It isn't anything that would warrant a stern "talking to", yet still, Sherlock finds it too private to share. With how emotionally riddled he has been, he meandered about before he even went to do the shopping.  

He went to Regent's Park and sat on the bench where he used to watch the ducks in the pond. He never particularly liked ducks, before, and he never knew how he was persuaded to.  

There was the tree he used to climb in, trying to avoid the notice of park officials while doing so. He would sometimes eat lunch there, nestled between the branches and listen to the birdsong in his ears. From that vantage point it was simple to deduce strangers and teach how to observe, instead of simply seeing.  

After reminiscing in his memories for a while, he eventually made way to the store.

"I'm banned from the closest Tesco's, I had to go to the other one," Sherlock quickly supplies.

John blinks. "Seriously?" 

"Yes, now leave me be." Sherlock looks down and hastily starts to put away the groceries, slightly flushed.  

Silence rolls by, an unasked question hanging in the air. The only noise the rustle of the bags and fabric against fabric.  

John's tongue flicks out to moisten his lips. He takes a breath and Sherlock visibly stiffens.  

"I...found something in your wardrobe. While you were gone." 

Of course he would've searched my room , Sherlock thinks. There isn't anything of interest that Sherlock can think of that would bring the attention of —  

Oh.  

Oh.  

Why hadn't he put the damn thing away? He knows he should have taken more time to clean up, and now John has pried just a hair's width too far.  

"John." Sherlock's voice is laced with poison. A warning.  

John stops speaking.  

Sherlock's staring straight ahead at the wooden cabinet in front of him.

Both of his hands clutch the counter-top, the groceries forgotten. His fingers grip the smooth surface, finding what little purchase there is, causing his fingertips to turn a sickly shade of white. His back is straight and his shoulders hold tension.  

"Sherlock — " 

"No. Don't." He's calm. Emotionless. John is treading on dangerous territory and Sherlock needs him out before he sets off the landmines. "Whatever you found is none of your concern."  

"Is she — " 

"I'll leave you to your deductions."  

Sherlock swiftly moves through the kitchen and into his bedroom. He closes the door softly then leans his forehead on the wood, letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding. 

He should have known John would find out. With the way he's been acting, of course John would know something was off.  

Thoughts run around his head, fast and dumbed down at the same time.  

He knows.  

He shouldn't.

I was too careless.  

It's too warm. He takes off his coat and scarf, hanging them on the inside door of the wardrobe. 

He reaches toward the top shelf and moves objects out of the way to get to a mahogany jewelry box. He takes it down and sets it on his lap.  

It's a decent size, slightly larger than the width of two hands. The slanted top has a hinge that easily opens into a hollow space with a few photos and various innocuous items. He lifts the lid.  

Sherlock pushes aside a yellow hair bow and gingerly grabs a photograph. There's a new crease in the corner that wasn't there before. It angers Sherlock, and he knows this is what John had found earlier.  

The photo is slightly blurred, featuring a girl, around the age of five, with unruly dark hair and hazel eyes.

She’s the only one in the photo with a background of rich green grass behind her. It looks that the photographer was trying to get a headshot of the girl, but she is too far to the left and she is looking at something out of frame.  

That doesn't matter. Her smile is enough to make Sherlock's lips curl up into his own smile; although it's more of a grimace. 

Whatever the girl is looking at makes her eyes sparkle with adoration. As if her world revolves around it.

Sherlock remembers his mother lightly slapping him on the arm for making the girl run out of the shot upon seeing him. He remembers the small push that he felt when she ran into his legs, wrapping her arms around them.  

" Where've you been?" she says gleefully. "We've been looking for you."  

Sherlock swoops down and lifts her into his arms. "I saw a bee hive and got distracted," he says smoothly.  

The little girl scrunches up her nose. "Bees hurt!"  

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak but his mother interrupts him with a light thwack on the arm. "Now, don't go talking about bees, you'll never shut up."  

Sherlock frowns and the girl giggles.  

"Come on, let’s get a move on," his mother says.  

Sherlock sets the girl back down on the ground. She runs ahead on the path and turns the corner . 

Sherlock gazes at the photograph. He already knows every detail of it but that doesn't keep him from inspecting every inch of the girl's face for the umpteenth time.  

He places the photo back down in the box, then sets the box beside him on the bed. He rests his elbows on his knees with his head in his hands, letting out another sigh.  

He wishes he could just delete her. But he can't. He won't. She has had too much of an impact on his life to forget even the smallest detail about her.  

Her hair, her eyes, her laugh, her humour, her voice.  

Sherlock doesn’t even remember what her voice sounded like.  

And it drives him mad.  

Sherlock never felt the need for the high cocaine gave him when she was around. He was clean for five years until it happened. Afterwards he had a relapse. It was the only thing that could take the pain away at the time.  

That was how Lestrade found him. High and wandering onto a crime scene. Promising to get clean to be allowed access to future crime scenes, he went to rehab a second time, hoping that when he got out the whole emotional ordeal will have blown over. 

No one knows about her. Sherlock never told anyone. Only his closest family members and Mrs. Hudson know.   

And now John has found out.  

Sherlock should have gotten rid of everything connected to her. Stupid sentiment. Ugly, unneeded, worthless, painful sentiment.  

Sherlock tucks his legs underneath himself and turns toward the box. He picks up a drawing and runs his thumb over it. 

It shows one tall stick figure and one shorter stick figure. Both have black swirls as hair and they are holding hands represented by two lines and a circle where they meet. 

'Me' is written above the shorter figure and 'Daddy' is written above the taller one. 

" Daddy, look what I drew!" She runs up to him with the piece of paper held high.  

Sherlock looks down at the minimalist drawing, mug of tea in his hand. He thinks that she could've been a little more biologically correct and detailed — considering she's his daughter — but she's only four years old so he lets the matter slide.  

"Wonderful drawing. Did you do that all by yourself?" Of course she did, but he knows that it would please her to engage in conversation.  

"Yes! You should know!" She lets the paper down slightly and looks at Sherlock like she's disappointed that he asked something with such an obvious answer.  

Sherlock smiles and sits down on the couch. The child climbs up next to him.  

A soft knock at the door pulls him from his memories.  

"Sherlock? Can I come in?"  

"No."  

"I'd like to talk."  

"No, go away."  

"Please?" 

"What do you want?" 

Sherlock hears John take a breath. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, just... I wish you would trust me enough to tell me. I can guess who she is but I don't know if I'm right or wrong."  

Sherlock has his head turned towards the door. He stares at it for a moment, visualizing John on the other side.  

John probably has his hand already on the knob, feet shuffling nervously. Sherlock can picture his exact countenance. A worried expression that baffles him. Why anyone would wear it in concern for him , he can't fathom.  

"Say it."  

"What?" 

"Who do you think she is?" Sherlock mentally kicks himself for using present tense. 

Silence. John's doubting himself. He wants to confirm his suspicions but is afraid of sounding like an idiot if he's wrong. "Er..."  

"Go on." Sherlock's voice is closer, John notices. He's standing directly behind the door. 

John can practically feel Sherlock's gaze through the wooden barrier. "Don't...don't laugh if I'm wrong, 'cause I know I could be, but..." 

Sherlock's tempted to open the door and tell him to spill it, but he decides against it. He continues to watch the door.  

He hears John clear his throat and his weight shift from foot to foot. "Daughter."  

Sherlock doesn't speak. 

On the other side, John is picturing Sherlock holding in suppressed laughter, You think I would have a child? You've got to be joking! Or has an expression of complete disappointment. Really, John? All the information is right there, even Anderson could have gotten it correct.  

"Look, I know I'm probably wrong — " 

"You're right." 

"...What?" 

Sherlock opens the door a crack so he can see John's face. "Do please keep up, you know how I hate repetition. You keep saying 'what' and that's so very annoying. I said you're right."  

John stares at him with wide eyes and an open mouth. "Oh, um, okay. Would you mind if I..?" He gestures to inside Sherlock's room.  

"Yes, I would mind." Sherlock stares, his eyes staring into John’s. 

Sherlock glances down and starts to close the door. John sticks his foot between the door and the frame, keeping it open. 

Sherlock glares at John once more. 

"Please, Sherlock," John asks. He looks up.  

"John..."  

John remains silent.  

"John, I don't..." Sherlock looks at the floor, his grip on the knob loosening.  

John nudges the door open, the slightest of movements. Sherlock doesn't move to stop him. 

The door swings open, creaking. Sherlock puts up the walls he had slowly been destroying over the day. John shouldn't know, John doesn't need to know. John doesn't want to know.  

Of course John would want to know.  

I don't want him to.  

You can't change that.  

Says who?  

Sherlock argues with himself, momentarily dismissing that John is in the room with him. He is brought back by a small cough. 

"Sherlock." John is baffled. He just found out his best mate has a daughter, a daughter , and he can't process this information. He thought Sherlock had practically no sexual encounters whatsoever... Apparently not. 

"Now you know. What else do you want?" Sherlock snaps.  

John sits down on the bed, knowing Sherlock is becoming defensive. He notes the box next to him, recognizing it as the box he found earlier, and putting it on a mental list to ask about later. "I just want to know that you're okay." 

"Okay? I'm perfectly fine, I'm more than fine." He crosses his arms and leans against the wall as if he's protecting himself.  

"No, you're not. I've seen you all day and I know that you're not," John says softly. "You've been playing sad music. Your gaze is lost, you're not focused. You're not complaining — about anything. I'm not blind, Sherlock. And I saw you staring at your client and her nephew earlier. I've never seen you look like that. With...," John thinks and looks up at Sherlock, "longing." 

Sherlock is caught between a state of brushing the incident off — pretending it never happened — and completely breaking down and telling John everything. He feels like crying and screaming and he desperately needs a smoke. 

"Today's her anniversary," Sherlock murmurs. His fringe falling over his eyes. 

"Hm?" 

"The day she died." Sherlock looks up, eyes unfocused.  

John doesn't know how to respond. Sherlock glances at the clock. It reads 19:24.  

"One hour and forty-two minutes ago." He continues to stare at the digital numbers. The last number changes. "One hour and forty-three minutes ago." He tilts his head to one side, a contemplating gesture. John doesn't know what for.  

Sherlock uncrosses his arms and walks across to the bed and sits down. His face is stoic, not giving away emotion. Which in and of itself gives away everything.  

"I'm sorry," John says, not knowing what else to say. He remembers when he lost Mary and their unborn child. He felt so lost. He didn't know what to do with his life anymore. The only thing he could compare it to is the time Sherlock was playing dead. But practically no one was there then, but this time round, Sherlock was there to help. John, of course, moved back in with Sherlock, sold the house and the car. He remembers how he felt and applies those feelings to Sherlock. What he must be experiencing right at this moment.  

"Don't be, it's not your fault. I don't understand why people say they're sorry for something that has nothing to do with them." Sherlock leans his forearms against his legs.  

"It's...a way of empathizing." 

Suddenly, Sherlock remembers that John was in a similar situation not long ago. Feeling guilty for possibly bringing up past pain, he says, "I'm sorry, I didn't — " 

"It's alright," John sighs. "At least this is one more thing we have in common." John gives Sherlock a sad smile.   

Sherlock coughs out a laugh. "Yes, I guess so." 

"What was her name?" John asks, still smiling.  

Sherlock slows. John can see his mental barriers, slowly but surely, deteriorate. Sherlock doesn't know how much time goes by before he answers. "Olivia. Her name was Olivia."  

--- 

"We would go to the park every week. She loved it there, I never did understand why. She would always insist on bringing food for the ducks, she loved them. Sometimes they'd even come up to her, let her stroke their feathers." 

John notices a small, nostalgic smile appearing on his friend's face. It seems like he has little to no verbal filter at the moment. John wonders when the last time was when Sherlock allowed himself to break down his own defenses.  

They're both laying down on the bed, side by side. Usually John would feel uncomfortable with another man on the same bed as him; even if they were both clothed, on top the duvet, and at least a foot apart. But with Sherlock it doesn't seem odd in the slightest.  

"She was very adventurous. She would climb nearly every tree she saw and seemed to never slow down. I'd always have to chase her around so we could actually leave. 

"That's where I went today — the park. Before I got the shopping." 

A silence the span of a few heartbeats tick by. Itching to know, John says, "Who's the mother?"  

"Hm?" Sherlock looks confused.  

"You know... Olivia's mother. Where is she?" 

Suddenly, Sherlock says "Oh!" and claps his hands together. "You're thinking I had sex. Mm, no, sorry. Donated sperm. For drug money. I was desperate." He adds the last few sentences as an afterthought. 

"Oh." John turns his head back toward the ceiling and lays his hands across his stomach. “Right"  

"Couldn't donate plasma due to the drugs in my system. So that was the next best thing." 

"But how did you come to be her guardian? That's not how donation works." 

Sherlock sighs. He puts his hands out beside him, his right arm falling over the edge of the bed. "My primary contact on the form I filled out was my parents'. My mobile was recently stolen — I was…in a bad place at the time — and there would be no way I'd put down Mycroft's. So when Olivia's adoptive parents, a lesbian couple, died in a car crash, they phoned and my mother answered." Sherlock places his left hand over his eyes, massaging his temples. "She flat out refused me to not raise my own child. She convinced me to go to rehab and she and my father helped me take care of her for the first year I had her." 

"Why didn't you donate anonymously, then? Or put down a fake number?" 

"I wanted to take some credit if the child turned out to be a genius." 

John turns his head towards Sherlock and says after a brief pause, "Seriously? That's why?" 

Sherlock shrugs, "Well, yes." 

"I'm going to ignore that answer," John replies, turning his gaze back toward the ceiling. "But why didn't the couple's family take Olivia in?" 

"Both of their families were homophobic and disowned them. I don't think they even knew the two had a child until the clinic called. Obviously, they didn't accept the offer." 

"That's just not right." 

"I wouldn't have either if my mother hadn't pressured me into it," Sherlock says, looking back at John across the duvet.  

"Well, with you I understand that decision. You don't really like children in the first place." 

"Incorrect." 

"Sorry?" 

"I like children. They ask questions that adults don't because they are genuinely curious. They don't accept vague answers, they want explanations." 

John continues to stare at Sherlock in slight bewilderment.  

"I just didn't enjoy the idea of taking care of one from birth where they are completely dependent. Especially concerning the state I was at that time." 

Recovering from the proclamation, John asks,"Did you like it? Raising a child?" 

"It was...surprisingly satisfying. I never thought I'd enjoy it, but it was pleasing to teach her about deductions.”

"Hm," John smiles. He wishes he had had that opportunity. Ever since he was a kid, he thought about being a father; but the opportunity was taken from him. "What was it like?"  

Sherlock takes his hand away from his eyes. "John, you can't live an imaginary life with with your unborn child through the knowledge of my time with Olivia. You," he pauses and shakes his head. "You lost an entire future . A future that can't be recreated or imagined. Don't hurt yourself over it." 

John sighs. "You're right, but don’t try to change the subject."  

"I'm not trying to — " 

"Yes, you are." John looks over to see Sherlock with a sour expression. Something he sees there makes John pause for a moment. A giggle starts to form on his lips which he tries to suppress.  

This in turn grabs Sherlock's attention and makes him even more irritable. His eyebrows draw together and his lips purse, adding to the sourness. "What?" 

"Just — " John giggles again. "I don't know," he gestures toward them both with a flip of the wrist. "Look at us both. Two Englishmen talking about our feelings . That never happens."  

Sherlock opens and closes his mouth with the likeness of a fish out of water. Looking around, he sees the mahogany box sitting on the floor, then turns his head back towards his friend, who is still laughing.  

Why is he laughing? Is he not taking his distress seriously? Sherlock’s cold mask slides back into place over his features. He was stupid to trust John with this information, stupid to even remotely express his emotions on this particular day. 

He looks back down at the floor toward the box, an arm falling off the edge of the bed to lift open the top.  

The bed stills with John's subsiding laughter. "Sherlock?"  

The hinge on the jewelry box squeaks in response. 

"You alright?" John reaches across to place his hand on Sherlock's arm, hoping it to be a reassuring gesture. Sherlock pulls away.  

Feeling regretful and wishing to relieve the tension that suddenly fills the air, he inquires, "Is that — Do you keep her things in there?"  

Still with his head turned, Sherlock gives a slight nod.  

John clears his throat and says, "May I see?" not knowing what else to follow up with.  

The squeaking hinge stops and Sherlock tenses. 

John is now aware of just how close together they have gotten. He moves to the left, giving Sherlock the room he thinks Sherlock wants.  

When Sherlock doesn't respond, John stays quiet and still. John clears his throat. "The hinge on that box squeaks. That only happens when it hasn't been moved in awhile. That means that you haven't looked in that particular jewelry box in a long time; you've only just recently started to open it. I've known you for a while now and don't recall seeing this box on my previous...sweep-throughs of your room. Or noticing you react to this particular day in the past. What changed?" 

After a short silence, Sherlock whispered, "Good deduction, there." 

"Don't change the subject." 

Sherlock doesn't answer. 

"Please, Sherlock. I want to help." 

John waits until Sherlock responds, small and raw, "That time when I was away...it hurt." His voice wavers at the end of the sentence.  

John knows now what Sherlock was doing during those two years. Taking down Moriarty's network took time. What he doesn't know is the extent that Sherlock took to protect his friends; what exactly he went through. The torture, the starvation, the becoming just a hair too close to giving up.    

Sherlock continues, "I was by myself the entire time; Mycroft only ever contacted me by phone. Extracting me from my last mission was the only time I ever saw him while I was away." He takes another breath. "I had become accustomed to other people's company. I didn't realise — It was such a shock when I became isolated from everyone again." He wraps his arms around his torso, keeping his eyes anywhere except at John.  

"Again?"  

If Sherlock heard him, he didn't show it. He keeps talking, "It was so...it was so lonely , John." 

The mere thought of his best friend in any kind of distress immediately makes John compelled to hurt those who caused it. No one should be able to hurt Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock is strong and steady. The Sherlock laying beside him is neither of these things. And John knows that this is the shriveled up man outside of his broken shell, unprotected and vulnerable.  

John sits up on the bed, his teeth clenched to prevent from flinging out harsh words to people who aren't there.  

"John?" He quickly wipes away the tears that had accumulated in his eyes.  

John fully registers this fact, which only fuels the flames. He angles himself toward Sherlock, giving him his full attention. 

"John, what's wrong?"  

"What did they do," John demands.  

"...John?" 

" What did they do to you? " 

His voice barely conceals the rage there. It nearly frightens Sherlock, the intensity of which John feels angry on his behalf.  

Clearing his throat, he goes with the truth. "They tried to kill me." He looks up at John. His expression hasn't changed. "Which really isn't any different from my work here."  

"Tell me."  

"I — John, I really don't think — " 

"Please."  

The softening of his voice causes Sherlock to look at him. He chances a glance at his eyes, which have become hurt and soft and worried.  

Sherlock's heart seems to clench in his chest. "They tortured me."  

John just simply crumples. 

His eyes close and he slumps forward, barely holding himself up. His fists clench into the duvet, his knuckles turning white.  

Sherlock's upright now, at attention. He wants to comfort John, but he doesn't know how. "John — " 

"How long...," John sighs, eyes still glued shut. Sherlock doesn't answer.  

John just places his head in his hands, resigned. Completely and utterly done with the situation. 

"I came as soon as the last part of my plan fell into place." 

"But were you injured when you were playing waiter?" His voice is tight. He's still not looking at Sherlock. 

"Oh…," Sherlock realises where this is going. "You're worried that you injured me further that night."  

"...Did I?"  

"No," he lies. "But I still had bandages in place then."  

John drops back onto the bed. "Why didn't you tell me."  

"I didn't want you to worry." 

"Worry,” John scoffs. “Sherlock, I'm always worrying about you. That's not something I can just turn on and off. It's a twenty-four seven job; worrying about you. I should get paid for how well a job I do."

Sherlock’s next words are soft and hesitant: “...Thank you.”

John doesn’t resist the urge to reach out a hand and squeeze Sherlock’s wrist.

“Can I ask something else?”

“Mm.”

“...How did she die?”

Sherlock takes a shaky breath. “She had a weak immune system. She was always getting sick. I didn’t want to restrain her sense of adventure, but I was always terrified of her falling ill.” He pauses, and John gives his wrist another squeeze in support. “One day, at the park, we were playing hide and seek. I would pretend I couldn’t find her, sometimes, and would call ‘I give up’ and she’d run up to me. But one day, she didn’t. I was frantic, I nearly called the police, until I found her struggling in the lake. She had hid behind a bush too close to the bank and fell in. She developed pneumonia shortly afterwards and never recovered.”

“I am so sorry, Sherlock.” 

Just imagining such a horrible thing happening to a child fills John with a deep sorrow, but such a thing happening to Sherlock’s child... John can’t put a name to what he feels at the thought.

“I’m sorry that happened to her, and that you had to go through that.”

Silence meets him for a long moment. He lets it cover them both, not intent on filling it.

He basks in the warmth of Sherlock’s skin under his hand. He’s not quite surprised that Sherlock let him, he needs comfort, and John’s glad Sherlock’s letting himself receive it. 

John realises something with a start. "So that’s why you took the case today.”

"Sorry?" 

"Olivia Holmes. Oliver Herman. They're names and situations were similar enough. You didn't want what happened to you happen to someone else."  

"Problem?" 

"No, just...I don’t think I’ve seen you express this much sentiment."  

"Just because I don't show it doesn't mean I am not capable of caring. Doesn’t mean I have to enjoy how weak it makes me feel.”

"But it can also gives you strength. Motivation. It can make you stronger and — "  

"How?"  

"Hm?"  

"See, even you don't know."  

John sighs again. "Sherlock. Showing emotions is not a weakness. It's perfectly normal thing to express. Without them, we'd just be machines." John notices his error as soon as the words leave his mouth.  

Before he could amend, Sherlock intervenes. "You called me a machine, once." Even though Sherlock knows that what caused John to say the insult was solely his doing — being purposefully indifferent to the charade of Mrs. Hudson's being shot — the fact that John would even consider, let alone actually say it, hurt Sherlock more than he originally perceived it would.  

"Yes. I did. And I kept reliving that moment, thinking that that is what set you over the edge — " He stopped speaking; the words he unconsciously chose striking a chord. He let out a shaky breath. "Quite literally." 

"John, you know that — " 

"Yeah, yeah, I know." He makes a point to not remove his hand. "Just...I still don't like thinking about it. I'm still not quite over it." He doesn't mention that when he was first processing the information that Sherlock was alive, he'd wake up in the middle of the night, confused out of his mind, and wake up Mary asking if his friend was dead or alive. Which then led to keeping a piece of cardstock on his nightstand saying Sherlock is alive .  

"I’m sorry.” Sherlock’s voice is small. 

“I know. And I’ve forgiven you, I understand why you had to do it. But that had a real emotional impact on me, and I wasn’t done grieving when you came back. It really messed me up.”

“...You wish I hadn’t come back?” And Sherlock’s voice is infinitely soft and watery, breaking on the last word.

“No!” John whips his head and entire body towards Sherlock at the startling words. “No, no, that’s not what I meant at all!” 

John’s heart seizes at the sight of tears welling up in Sherlock’s eyes. 

“I am infinitely grateful for you coming back to me. If you hadn’t I...I genuinely don’t know how much longer I could have lasted without you. I was living a half-life without you. I missed you so much I felt like I couldn’t breathe.”

He doesn’t have any embarrassment to put aside when he scooches as close as possible and hugs Sherlock for all he’s worth. 

He says his next words into Sherlock’s shoulder. “You’re the best thing that could’ve possibly happened to me.”

-- 

They stay like that for a while. John offering his physical comfort and affection and Sherlock accepting it in full. 

John’s surprised to find that this feels natural, and good. It feels nice to be able to touch Sherlock like this, to communicate his feelings without verbalizing them. 

Sherlock’s arms eventually came up and wrapped themselves around John, squeezing back just as hard as he was given.

John doesn’t acknowledge the snuffles Sherlock makes into his shoulder. Just rests a hand on his curls and strokes.

After a reasonably long while, their muscles loosen and relax, simply resting against each other. They don’t move, enjoying the intimacy. 

It’s only when their stomachs start to grumble do they reluctantly part, their faces flushed from their shared body heat.

They cook dinner together, moving around each other in the kitchen like a dance, perfected after years of practice. They eat, quiet and comfortable, speaking softly to each other in the evening light. 

When John comes back downstairs from changing into his pajamas, he doesn’t need to voice his request. His wide and soft eyes speak for him, and Sherlock can never deny him. 

They make themselves comfortable under the covers of Sherlock’s bed, meeting in the middle and entwining themselves like vines.

It’s warm, and pleasant, and familiar.

“I love you, you know,” John says into the dark. And he doesn’t know exactly what kind of love he means, but he knows it’s true all the time.

Sherlock doesn’t know either, but he doesn’t particularly mind.

“I love you, too.”