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One of the few visible changes: these days, John watches the reality television upstairs with Molly instead.
"Because Sherlock never did like them, you know. Always turns up his nose at anything like that. Unless it’s for a case, and then he spends sixteen hours researching and next day knows more than people who’ve been at it for years."
"Lucky for you that one of us likes them too, isn't it?" Molly says. She’s been to the kitchen to fetch a huge tea tray of treats, her stockinged feet padding noiselessly on the floor; John eyes the sight of her well-endowed figure with a deep affection and shifts over to let her snuggle alongside him on the sofa. It’s made of some soft, easy-to-clean leather; whereas 221B is still furnished after Mrs Hudson’s timeless tastes, with Sherlock’s own little emendations accentuating it further, 221C has done up in a more modern style. A couple of the bookcases are from Ikea, the coffee table is a glass affair with tubular plastic legs screwed in. That’s the sort of thing their roommate still cheerfully belittles.
Because Sherlock is, still, his roommate; he’s kept his own bedroom, just as Molly has maintained her own flat. John, who’d never especially loved his own room for all the other positives of Baker Street, finds himself bouncing between their beds on a nightly basis. Occasionally, on glorious days when all their busy schedules can be made to mesh and nobody’s too tired, there’s space for all three of them upstairs. He and Sherlock have both teased Molly about the king-sized mattress up there; she always puts on a superior air and points out that there’s no reason she shouldn’t have an oversized bed if she likes, and anyway hasn't it come in useful?
"Are you paying any attention? It’s starting." She waves the prawn cocktail crisps under his nose; John takes a handful, feeling slightly guilty for drifting off into his own thoughts.
"Sorry. Woolgathering."
"Don’t worry about it." The music starts. Molly squeals; she always enjoys this part.
They sit there, munching happily as they look at the reassuringly bright pastels and listen to Sue Perkins' soothing voice. Tonight there’s a debate on flaky pastry versus rough puff; he plumps for the more straightforward rough, while Molly laughingly says she’d take either but will plump on the other just for luck. He declines; whenever they try to bet on the telly it’s somehow him who always loses.
"I think the thing is, John, Sherlock’s never had to work in his life. He doesn’t understand what the point is, really, wanting something brainless on to decompress. We both have proper jobs, we’re busy, it’s relaxing having something simple on at nights."
John stiffens, exaggerating the gesture to indicate displeasure. “It’s not utterly brainless. Think of how many recipe ideas we’ve had out of it.”
"Okay, yes, but then it’s an hour of television versus five minutes of internet searching. To say nothing of the irrelevancy of all the soap opera dramatics. I mean, like that chap who didn’t even know how to boil an egg, it’s amusing but does it tell us anything about how to cook? No. It’s not an efficient use of time."
"Then why are we watching it, if you have such a low opinion of the show?"
"It’s soothing. And as I said, just because it’s not as intellectual as some people would like doesn’t make it wrong."
"There’s a point there." He frowns, trying to tease out a stray thought that this is inspiring about Sherlock; somewhere in here is a similar point that’s been perturbing him for a while but is hard to put into words. "He’s an awkward man to live with, sometimes."
Molly has opened a packet of Jammie Dodgers. “With the skull, and the body parts, and the occasional drug raids…oh, I can’t imagine what gave you that idea.” She stuffs two in her mouth and chews enthusiastically.
“‘s not that. It’s more that…erm…” he hesitates. It seems unfair to say that in some ways Sherlock has become even more difficult since their relationship took a turn for the sensual, but that’s how it feels in some ways.
Somebody says “phlegem!” with a completely unnecessary level of enthusiasm. John chokes on a spoonful of custard and puts the bowl aside for the moment with deep misgivings.
"Because he’s not much different now, you know? We’re still there, we’re still watching his periodic explosions and mood swings and insistence on being a sociopath to avoid even basic social interactions with people the same as always, only now sometimes we fuck him senseless into the bargain. Which admittedly we enjoy, but that’s all there is to it, apparently."
"It’s how he likes it. You didn’t honestly think that he’d give up living the way he does on our account, do you?"
"I might have done."
"Face it. You’d fallen prey to the classic fallacy of thinking you can rescue your romantic partner. Doesn’t work that way."
"That was you too."
"When I thought it was a monetary problem at work, yes, but we’ve seen his country house now." She grins, almost despite herself, and John does as well; they’d had the run of the place for a full fortnight last Christmas and the amount of food they’d worked through on that occasion was astonishing. Then her tone sobers. "They used to say that people work out their own salvation. You can’t save him from his demons."
"But I should be able to," John says, chewing on an finger of shortbread that seems stale in his mouth. They’re on to the ending now, which he doesn’t much like, the bit of it where the judges start talking gravely about who goes and who stays.
Some part of his mind is always unduly discomfited by this, the same part that when he was a child was deeply worried about what happened to people who vanished from television without warning. As if it made them cease to exist in a more permanent way then death, when they wouldn’t be remembered any more. Caused him no end of upset as a very small child, when that Sarah Jane woman had vanished off “Doctor Who” and his parents hadn’t been able to say what happened to her next. That episode a few years back, where she’d come back and turned out to be a successful journalist and everything, had been soppy but he’d adored it anyway.
The actress had died only a few months ago, hadn’t she? He vaguely remembered the BBC covering it with all the palaver of a state funeral.
Damn this. He’s John Watson, this is reality and he belongs with Sherlock, belongs with the detective in a deep-rooted, instinctive fashion that admits of no logical explanation and doesn’t require it. “What’s the point of loving someone if you can’t help them? Shouldn’t we be doing something more?”
Underneath that is another thought, the one he wouldn’t dare articulate to anyone; it’s arduous being Sherlock’s lover, and for all the romance and the joy, the heart-stopping adrenaline of chases and arrests and the passion afterwards, he’s been though a great deal of pain for it both physical and mental. Soft, comforting Molly understands him. She can follow his line of thought when he’d discussing medicine, without needing the terms simplified. She doesn’t mind admitting when she’s wrong, she’s easily pleased, and cooks brilliantly into the bargain. In all ways she is a cheerier partner than Sherlock.
And it’s moments of domesticity like these, when it’s just the two of them alone up here, that he dares to wonder whether that is in fact all he needs. If Sherlock had had it right the first time, and John and Molly are enough of a couple by themselves. They could have a long and happy life together.
Or an eventful, probably far shorter one, much more important one. What’s worth it, in the long run?
The music’s stopped. It’s fairly obvious who the judges are going to throw out, but John winces anyway as it happens. Molly pats him on the knee and tucks a sausage roll into his mouth; he can’t help a brief giggle at that.
One of the mobiles rings; it’s Lestrade. He picks up, wondering what could be so urgent; usually police calls go straight to Sherlock.
"John? John, are you sitting down?"
"Comfortably. Why?"
"Sherlock. He…he’s just jumped off a roof. Said he was calling me to leave a note…" Lestrade’s voice is shaking, understandably; surely nothing but this kind of emotional shock could produce that effect on the hard-boiled officer.
Molly freezes; she’s heard, John knows without asking. “Why? Did he have anything to say to me? To Molly?”
"There were snipers threatening to shoot both of you, he said, unless he agreed to jump. We’re sending out the firearms units right now regardless. Stay put, for god’s sake don’t get killed. I’m coming along as fast as I can, but it’ll be a few minutes."
"Wait. Where the hell are you?"
"St Bart’s Hospital…"
Molly’s already in action, having switched off the telly mid-sentence and raced downstairs. He detours to his room to fetch the service revolver; by the time he’s joined them she and Mrs Hudson are barricading the doors, closing the bulletproof shutters that Molly had insisted on having installed at some point. Sherlock had thought it was a pointlessly expensive precaution, at the time. John huffs out an explanation to their landlady, his mind racing to comprehend what could have happened - why Lestrade, even? Why not them?
"He’s not dead," Molly says determinedly, as they lock down the kitchen; no one’s going to be able to get in here by the time they’re through. "It isn’t true. For whatever reason, he’s faking his death."
"Lestrade says it’s official."
"We haven’t seen the body. You know what? Because if he was about to die, he would have called one of us. He only called Lestrade because he could trust himself talking to an officer. He knew he couldn’t fool both of us, together." She wraps a warm, heavy arm around him. "It has to be a fake."
And she sticks to that line of logic. Through the official inquiry, through the paperwork and the tears and the funeral, Molly keeps insisting that Sherlock can’t be dead. Eventually she even comes up with a motive.
"He’s not stupid, he could see how our relationship was progressing. He wanted to let us have a few years to decide. See if we could get on with our lives without him or not. If we didn’t need him, he wouldn’t need to return."
"You’re saying that if we’re very, very good, and very lucky, one of these days Sherlock might just stroll back into our lives."
"Exactly."
The absolute worst of it is that he has no idea whether he would welcome such a reappearance, or repudiate it.
The day an inopportune waiter taps him on the shoulder while he’s proposing to Molly in a delightful restaurant, John has a chance to find out.