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Sherlock tried to open his eyes and closed them quickly, hurt by the daylight. He grunted. The blood pulsing in his temples felt like a bunch of smiths hitting the metal in the anvils, and the tremendous headache menaced with split his brain up in thousands of pieces.
The detective tried to swallow, but his throat was dried and aching, with a bile taste.
What did the hell happen?
He rose his hand to cover his eyes and felt a sting in the back of it. Probing with his other hand, he recognized the familiar shape of the IV line. He sighed. He was at the hospital. Again. Shit.
"Glad to see you awake."
Lestrade's voice hit like a jackhammer in his head. Sherlock hissed in pain. Lestrade chuckled.
"Yeah, I know. Don't worry. It's only a cosmic hangover".
"Only?" spat the detective in a hoarse voice. He finally managed to slowly move his head towards the DI and look at him.
"How are you able to stand?" he whined.
Lestrade chuckled again.
"If you came with us more often to have some pints, you wouldn't be so ruined now."
"A bit late advice, don't you think?"
The DI got earnest.
"You were bordering the alcoholic poisoning."
Sherlock shook his head, cautiously.
"For what I remember, I wasn't in the position to choose. What happened?"
"We were captured while chasing the murder suspect. You, me, and two more officers. Can you remember that?"
"Yeah, more or less. Foggy memories".
"They pushed us in a van and took us to a basement. They were planning to kill us, making it look like a car accident. So they forced us to drink a lot of alcohol and got us into a car. John and Donovan found us when they were about to let the car fall through the gorge."
"You can remember all of that?"
"Since you were on the driver's seat, it seems they wanted you to appear as responsible for the accident, so they made you drink more than the rest of us. But no. I don't remember everything. John and Donovan told me the last part this morning. After that, I came to see if Sleeping Beauty had already awoken".
"You didn't dare to kiss me, did you?"
"Of course not. It must be a true love kiss, remember? So, I asked Donovan to do it".
Sherlock grimaced and looked at Lestrade, puzzled. The DI laughed out loud.
"Your face," he managed to say between laughs. "You should have seen your face."
"Very funny," grunted the detective.
He tried to get up but froze when the room started spinning around him.
"How do you bear it?"
"What?"
"The weekly hangover."
"With practice," John answered, amused, entering the room.
Greg was happy to see him there. He wasn't quite sure the doctor would show up. Relations between Sherlock and John remained strained since Sherlock returned from the Fall. They softened a bit after the bomb in the tube but were far from how they were before Moriarty turned their lives upside down.
The doctor took Sherlock's wrist to check his pulse.
"Still rapid," he muttered in a professional tone. "Maybe you should stay a bit more."
"I want to go home" protested Sherlock "in my room. In my dark, silent, still room. I want to sleep a bit."
"You have been sleeping for more than twelve hours, which is not bad due to your usual lack of sleep," said John.
This time Sherlock managed to roll his eyes without getting sick.
John looked at Lestrade.
"He needs resting. And EATING!" he raised his tone purposely, making Sherlock wince and hide his head under the pillow.
"I'll ride you home."
"We'll take a cab," retorted Sherlock quickly "the idea of switching on the siren only to annoy me it's too tempting to you."
Lestrade looked like a kid caught with his hand in the cookies' jar. John shook his head.
"You both are worse than kids."
Sherlock got into the loo. John turned to look at Lestrade.
"You don't remember anything more about the kidnapping?"
"No, but Donovan told me the jerks recorded everything with a video camera. I think the image is encrypted o anything like that, my head is not very clear now, so, as soon as the computer crime department decrypts it, we could watch it. If you want, you can come too".
"What are you planning to do? Sell tickets?"
Sherlock came out of the loo and leaned against the wall. The floor under his feet was still not stable. John came over and grabbed his arm, helping him to reach the bed again.
"I want to go home," groaned the detective.
"No, Sherlock, you'll have to stay a little longer for observation." John held him out a glass, which the detective rejected with a gesture "it's an isotonic drink. Drink it; you'll feel better. You need to get back the minerals you've lost to the alcohol."
Sherlock twisted the face, looking at the glass as if it contained some deadly potion.
"Come on, just drink," ordered John, a bit exasperated by Sherlock's reluctance.
After contemplating the glass for a few moments, Sherlock took a drink. He didn't want to upset John. A nod of approval followed the gesture of disapproval, and he emptied the glass at once, almost without breathing.
Sherlock finished, crumpled up the paper cup and threw it in the wastebasket, which was less than a meter from him. He frowned, bewildered, as he saw the paper cup landing on the ground, away from the wastebasket.
"Don't worry. As soon as your body metabolizes the alcohol, you could play basketball with paper cups as much as you want," Greg scoffed.
The detective rubbed his face and laid back on the bed.
"Turns per minute?" John asked, referring to the speed at which the room was spinning around the detective.
Sherlock concentrated on counting them, but he felt nauseous.
"A little less than before."
"If it keeps spinning too much, put one foot on the ground. It will stop immediately."
The detective looked as if he were about to send him to hell, but finally decided to follow John's advice and put his foot down.
Immediately, his face relaxed.
"Thank heaven."
"Try to eat something."
The detective shook his head.
"Stubborn as always. We have to go to New Scotland Yard now for the paperwork. When we're done there, I'll come and get you, and I'll take you to Baker Street. I don't want to come here and find the bed empty, okay?"
Sherlock sighed and nodded. He felt too sick to argue.
John and Greg left for the DI's office.
When they arrived, they looked at each other, surprised. All the desks were empty. Greg started to worry when he heard Donovan's cheerful voice calling them.
"Greg, John, we're here."
Here was the meeting room they used when operatives included many officers. They had arranged chairs like in a movie theatre. Sitting on them, officers agents chatted and laughed loudly, like spectators waiting for the film to begin.
"What is this?" asked John, "another one of your team-building activities?"
Lestrade groaned, and John giggled. Lately, the top management organized activities of the kind John had referred to, such as paint-ball, laughter therapy, confidence building, to help to improve the team spirit, but all of them turned out to be a fiasco.
The only exception was the paint-ball. His team achieved unparalleled cohesion when they joined together to shoot Sherlock since the detective had to join the game on his own because John had to stay at home due to a sprained ankle he got pursuing a suspect the day before.
But once the battle began, Sherlock, besides being incredibly elusive, fast and agile, could also deduce and foresee their every move and had no problem chasing and shooting them one by one, which only increased the department's animosity towards him.
"I don't know, maybe. Anyway, as I haven't been informed about it, I don't have to attend. Let's go to my office".
After they both sat, Lestrade opened a drawer, took out an electric kettle, two mugs, and made tea for them.
They heard some officers whistling, getting impatient for the movie to start, and then they became silent.
Lestrade smiled, listening to his team clapping and whistling loudly at whatever was on the screen. A minute later, they heard them kicking the floor with their feet, booing and shouting different nicknames, not easy to identify due to the mix of voices.
The booing was replaced by rhythmic shouts, like hey, hey, hey, hey, accompanied by blows on the chairs or kicks on the floor. They reminded John of those given in the pub when someone drank a whole pint without breathing.
Everyone burst into laughter, and insults ran down the corridor to Lestrade's office.
Greg frowned.
"I'm going to tell them to keep it down, or I'll get a call from upstairs."
They both got up. When they were about to enter the meeting room, both froze.
Sherlock appeared on the screen, with visible signs of drunkenness. If he weren't tied to a chair, his body would have slipped off it. His head was low, his chin resting on his chest.
One of the three men that surrounded him grabbed his hair, pulling his head back, forcing him to stretch his neck painfully, while another held a bottle of vodka to his lips.
The detective mumbled a weak no and tilted his head, clumsily trying to pull it away from the bottle and then back to the other side until another man held his head with both hands, immobilizing him, while a third one pressed his nose to keep him from breathing.
When the detective opened his mouth to breathe, they put the neck of the bottle inside it, quickly emptying its contents into his mouth.
Sherlock coughed violently between agonizing rales for air, spitting out the vodka, his neck tendons bulging from the effort to release his head. He struggled in the chair when he couldn't breathe. His face reddened, while the chair creaked by his efforts of untying himself. But none of the three men let him go. Amidst loud anguish coughs, gagging, and loud, desperate rales for air, they emptied the bottle content into the detective's throat, while the Yarders chanted every time Sherlock swallowed.
"Stop that!" shouted John, startling the Yarders who, until now, were laughing out loud. "I said, STOP THAT!"
The doctor, livid with rage, approached the computer connected to the projector and paused the video.
"What the hell are you doing?' asked Lestrade, looking at his team in disbelief.
"Come on, sir,' sneered one of the officers, 'we're just having a little fun."
"Having a little fun?' John almost spat out the words in anger, 'Having a little fun? He's a human being, for God's sake! They're practically torturing him, and you're… enjoying it!".
"A human being? The freak?"
"Well, that's enough," cut Lestrade.
"Lestrade, if anything had happened to the Freak, we wouldn't be here, but since he's already at the hospital..." explained Donovan, not understanding what all the fuss was about
John ripped the computer out of the officer's hands, who shrugged off and walked away. The doctor concentrated on the screen, pressed some keys, and put the laptop back on the table.
"Greg, go away," he ordered.
The DI shook his head, guessing what John had in mind.
"No, I'd stay."
John nodded. A new image appeared on the screen.
It was the same room where Sherlock had been forced to drink, but now the one tied to the chair was Lestrade. The Yarders stirred in their chairs, uncomfortable, and some of them stood up intending to leave the room, but Lestrade urged him to sit down with a movement of his head.
Like Sherlock, Greg tried to get out of the bottle. The man who held Sherlock's head was now holding the DI's, and the same man who had pressed the detective's nose did the same with Greg. When Lestrade opened his mouth, the bottle was forced in and, as in Sherlock's case, the DI started coughing violently; as he was forced to swallow, he gagged and, in desperation, tried to get some air between drinks, which led him back into the coughing circle and the desperate search for air. Like Sherlock's, his face turned red when, from time to time, he found it impossible to breathe.
The Yarders lowered their heads, squeezing their eyes every time they hear one of the DI's agonizing rales for air, as distressing as the detective's; some of the officers, unable to bear it, covered their ears and closed their eyes.
John, his lips pursed in a gesture of anger and contempt, stopped the recording and moved it forward until, once again, the image of the detective coughing and trying to catch his breath appeared, Before he could fully recover, he was back held down to make him drink the next bottle.
"No, no, no, no, no, please," slurred the detective. The alcohol broke his usual inexpressive mask, and the detective's face showed clearly the panic and anguish he was feeling, increased when they again held his head. The exhaustion and the amount of alcohol ingested prevented Sherlock to fight back.
John stopped the video. The image jumped Lestrade, the panic of drowning also reflected in his face as they prepared the new bottle. The DI, unable to stand it more, left the room. Fortunately, the drunkness erased those awful memories.
Twenty minutes later, Lestrade raised his head when John, so angry he was about to cry, entered his office.
"I'm sorry, John."
"It's not your fault," he conceded, in a deep sad tone, his whole body shaking with rage. "Could you take Sherlock to Baker Street?"
"I thought it was you..."
"I… have to go with Mary to finish the wedding preparatives…".
"Go home, John, then. I'll take Sherlock to the flat".
"Thanks, Greg."
The DI remained with his eyes closed for a while. He sighed and smiled briefly. He liked to see John defending Sherlock like before. Then he turned on his heels and stomped in the room, where still were the Yards, not sure about what to do.
"If I could, I'd suspend you all from employment and pay right now. Go back to work. Now!
*****
Sherlock was clumsily buttoning his shirt when the hospital door room opened, and Lestrade entered.
The detective felt disappointed. He had been waiting for John to come and take him to Baker Street. He expected both sharing a cab as they used to do, to sit in their armchairs and...
He shook his head, obliging himself to stop his thread of thinking. Damn alcohol!
After returning from Serbia, while he was dressing up as a waiter to surprise John, to announce him he was alive and just came back to London, he was also preparing his… speech? Love Confession? He shivered at the name. But after finding he was dating Mary and, mainly, after the doctor's reaction, he decided to hide his feelings for John in John's room inside his Mind Palace.
John hated him.
He had a lot of time to think in the dark and silent cell in Serbia. While they tortured him, he hid inside his saferoom in his Mind Palace, dissociating himself entirely from his transport, minimizing the pain and the agony. When they weren't torturing him, in the loneliness on his cell, he decided to face his feelings towards John.
It was safe to let them out, there, alone, without consequences. After all, they were going to kill him once they didn't get for him any information.
It was somehow painfully ironic. All the sacrifice, all the two years effort for saving John, lost in the last stronghold of Moriarty's network.
He arrived in Serbia too exhausted to think clearly. He knew he should have waited a few days to rebuild himself and work out the strategy correctly. But he didn't. As to why he didn't, the same answer kept coming back to him: he needed to see John, he needed to be with him again, to share his life with John, but being only his flatmate was no longer enough for him.
Alone and knowing nobody would know about his thoughts, he relived his life with John, letting his hidden feelings flow freely. Sentiment. He snorted. No, no sentiment. Love. An unconditional and unrequited love, he was too coward to confess to his friend. Because he knew that the moment he did it, John would disappear from his life.
When his torturers hit him as hard as possible with the pipe, he brought John's images to his mind: giggling John at a crime scene, mad John at the eyeballs in the microwave, caring John when he was wounded or sulking… no matter the imagen Sherlock chose, pain and fear vanished.
Sometimes, the memory was so vivid he involuntarily smirked, which provoked his torturer to hit him even harder so hard he could no longer block the pain. It those moments, when he screamed in pain, the image of a devastated John in front of his grave came back to his mind.
That day, Sherlock mustered all his self-control to not come out of hiding while he was observing John near his grave. John seemed so broken, mourning Sherlock so much… This surprised the detective. He was sure John would get over his death soon. He couldn't stand watching him crying. Sherlock was dying to hug him, comfort him, and tell him he was okay. But he knew it would have been John's death sentence.
Those memories about John pushed him further into life. In the darkness of his cell, among the nauseating smell, the coldness of the stones, the terror that paralyzed him, the almost unbearable pain of the strikes..., in the midst of it all, ironically, something small, tiny and fragile but, at the same time, tremendously powerful born inside him: hope. A little, strong hope that helped him to hold on until Mycroft came to his rescue.
Sherlock knew he would. However, much hatred they felt towards each other, Mycroft would never abandon him.
And when Sherlock saw Mycroft sitting there, disguised as one of his captors, his hope grew, entangling his heart like a vine.
But, after John's header at the restaurant, he decided there was no point in encouraging those feelings any further. He had to drown out hope and pray that, one day, the doctor would be able to forgive him. He managed to hide his feelings perfectly. He had been doing it since he met John. In fact, he spent his whole life doing it.
But last night, alcohol flooded his brain, turning everything upside down inside his Mind Palace, scattering all the feelings all over it. And the bloody hope awoke again, forcing him to examine them again before burying them where they wouldn't do any harm. But bloody hope kept screaming, kicking and knocking as a result of the hangover.
In the end, on second thought, it was better than John hadn't come through that door. Maybe Sherlock wouldn't have been able to stop himself from telling John how he felt. And he couldn't risk losing John again.
"John couldn't make it in the end. He had to go and see Mary, to finalize the wedding details."
Mary. The wedding. Hope forgot that John chose her. And he had to admit that Mary, even being a liar, had many qualities that made her perfect for John, starting with being a woman and ending with her loving him.
When Sherlock heard that name, hope faded, and an infinite sadness flooded inside him.
He cleared his throat, regaining his composure in front of Lestrade. That was just a hangover. And he would always have... No, Sherlock, reproached himself. In the darkness of the cell, he promised that if he ever saw John again, he'd forget about the seven percent solution forever.
They left the hospital and settled down in the co-driver's seat in Lestrade's car.
"Dizzy?" Greg asked, worried. He didn't want to talk much longer. The DI didn't want the detective to realize how ashamed and guilty he felt. Luckily, Sherlock's deductive abilities seemed to be still swimming in a mild alcoholic stupor, so he merely rested his head on the headrest and sighed.
The next few days were a crazy time of preparation for the wedding. With the alcohol out of the way, Sherlock regained control of himself. Well, maybe except when, without realizing it, he folded more than twenty-five serviettes in Sydney Opera House shapes, while John and Mary clearly whispered about him.
Fortunately, John dragged him out of the apartment, and he could focus his mind on anything else. For a while, he dreamed about things being like it used to do before the Fall, only him and John. But it wasn't the same. Because John hated him and, with Mary, he was happier than he had ever been with Sherlock.
He sighed, regretting once again that first night when he told John at Angelo's, he was married to his job after the doctor shamelessly tried to hit on him. Every time he remembered, he wanted to smash his own face in. For being such a stupid. For being a coward. For falling in love at first sight with his future flatmate and not knowing what to do with that feeling. For freaking out when John showed some interest in him.
*****
On the morning wedding, after practically pushing Mrs. Hudson out of the flat, Sherlock closed his eyes. He wished it so badly, it almost hurt. God, he became one of those idiots who expected what they whished would materialize before them by magic. Though all his rationality was screaming at him to stop being such an idiot, he couldn't help hoping that, from one moment to the next, John would run up the seventeen steps of Baker Street, hug him, tell him that he loved him and not Mary, that to hell with not being gay, that John didn't care whether he was gay or not, but he wanted to spend the rest of his life with him.
But when Sherlock opened his eyes, he was still alone in the flat. John hasn't materialized. Nor will he ever. Fucking hope...
Sherlock turned around, sighing. He looked towards John's chair, remembering the stag night, remembering when John's hand touched his knee. He, who always hated physical contact, couldn't stand a touch, caught himself wishing the doctor would never take his hand away, leaving it there forever, transforming that accidental caress into a voluntary one.
He would be lying if he pretended it was the first time he wished the doctor's hands to run over his body. At first, when the desire appeared, Sherlock refused it. It was so foreign to him to long to be touched..., at first not even sexually, just a touch, a hand that remained in place a little longer than it should..., but little by little his transport took over, and the desire for a caress turned into the desire to travel through John's body with his hands and his mouth, to taste it, to feel it, to smell it, to listen to the sounds that he emitted when he touched him..., to end in an uncontrollable desire to be fucked by him that led him to have to masturbate almost every night, the image of John's body so vivid on his that he felt he already knew him and..,
He shook his head. It was John's wedding day, which meant that it would never happen. Fucking hope.
He took off his dressing-gown, walked through his bedroom, towards a morning suit hanging from the door of his wardrobe.
"Into battle," he whispered.
And he meant it. Because it would be an actual battle, a bloody struggle for not letting any feeling go, for drowning out the cries of his heart. But damned hope kept repeating there was still time, that he could stop all that and be honest with John.
But he couldn't. John wasn't gay, for God's sake. And if he ever had any feelings for Sherlock, those feelings died the day he jumped off the roof.
Hours later, when he saw John in the church, in his morning suit, he almost got his breath cut off. John was gorgeous. And hope kicked in within Sherlock. But John was glowing with happiness. Frantic, but happy. Nervousness probably brought on by the last-minute change of vicar, a younger one who clumsily stroked the horses of the ignominious horse-drawn carriage in which Mary intended them to leave the church. The one who rehearsed the ceremony with them has fallen ill, and a new one will officiate. And John didn't like last-minute changes.
The wedding was torture. Listening to John saying I do was the worst. So many times he had dreamt of John saying it to him... ...but when had he become a romantic? Irene Adler would die laughing if she knew it.
And the worst was that John kept glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, forcing him to try to smile, or at least not look like he would start crying any minute.
When they moved to the reception, the detective shuddered, thinking about the best man's speech. Why did he write all that shit? What was he thinking about? God, anyone a bit cleverer than Anderson would read easily between the lines. He stupidly turned the best man's speech into a pathetic love letter, a desperate attempt to communicate to John those feelings he was never able to verbalize; a last-ditch effort to keep the hope that stubbornly knotted up in his Mind Palace from drying up forever.
He sighed as he glanced at his notes. Fortunately, no one would read between the lines. Because no one would expect him to make a... declaration of love... he covered his eyes. God, how pathetic he was.
Fortunately, Mycroft politely declined John's invitation (rather coldly, but the fact he sent a minion with the refusal to John could be considered an act of courtesy in someone like Mycroft). He would notice, and Sherlock's humiliation would be even higher. Mycroft warned him: Don't get involved . And no, he wouldn't. He owed John.
He almost threw up when he had to read the telegrams. Besides, he hated the utter malicious fun that glowed in Mrs. Hudson's face. She knew, for him, to read all that... kitsch was insufferable. But what made it excruciating was to see the word love, love, love, love, love, love... repeated over and over, as if the whole universe were screaming at his lungs what he already knew but would never say. That word stirred up his mental palace where feelings didn't stop making a fuss, encouraged by the hope that put them all on the warpath.
Finally, his speech ended, and Sherlock collapsed in the chair. Never, in all his years of a high functional sociopath, was so hard for him to speak without emotions, to tell without saying, to confess without telling the truth.
The orchestra prepared to play the waltz. Sherlock wondered when that torture would end. The sound of tuning instruments reminded him the day he taught John to dance the waltz in Baker Street, behind closed curtains so that no one could see them. John tried to follow him clumsily, their hands clasped... if at that moment a bomb had fallen on Baker Street Sherlock would have died the happiest man on the planet.
Sherlock gulped, fighting back the tears. He, who never needed anyone, who believed himself invulnerable to love, lived drowned in it.
Before the orchestra started to play, Mary approached one of the members and whispered something in his ear. The man looked at her, surprised, but nodded.
"I would like to share with you the last wedding gift I received," said Mary, all eyes focus on her. John looked at her in surprise and then at Sherlock, who was as bewildered as the doctor. Well, not so much. Of course, he saw the glances Mary sent him while she was talking in the middle of the room. Something was not right
Sherlock went over everything he said during the speech. It was true that at some point, it seemed he meant the opposite of what he was trying to say, and it could even have been interpreted as offensive by narrow minds, but Sherlock knows Mary. And Mary was the opposite of a narrow mind.
Mary snapped her fingers, and the lights went out. A projector started, and soon Greg and John appeared on the screen, entering Greg's office in New Scotland Yard.
John and Greg, in the reception room, looked at each other blankly. John turned to Mary, mouthing "what the hell are you doing" and when he didn't get an answer, he turned to Sherlock
"Do you have anything to do with this?" he hissed, upset.
"John" scowled Mary, and the doctor pressed his lips in a gesture of bewilderment and something else Sherlock didn't recognize.
Everyone focused on the screen. The image jumped to an outraged John in a room where Scotland Yard officers have gathered. Even in the blue light, the doctor's face was red with rage, so angry that tears almost ran down his face, his fists so tight his knuckles were white, his jaw so contracted that if he clenched his teeth a little more, he would break them. For a few moments, he found it difficult to speak, or at least try to articulate, until after he relaxed enough to do so.
"Why is it that when they do it to Sherlock, you think it's so funny and when they do it to Lestrade you can't stand it?' snarled the doctor in the image. "Can you explain to me what's so funny about a man about to die of choking? Because neither Lestrade nor I can see it".
"Holmes is a freak. I doubt he is truly panicking," sneered Anderson.
Everyone held their breath. If going against John Watson was never a good strategy, taking it to a John Watson about to explode with rage was, at the very least, suicidal.
The doctor opened and closed his left hand several times. John was restraining himself in his desire to pounce on the forensic and break his nose.
"Anderson, I want to think that you're not such an idiot as to believe that, and you're just still angry because Sherlock shoot you at paint-ball,"
"Just because Sherlock doesn't show emotions doesn't mean is not able to feel" continued the doctor in the image, while Sherlock, in the reception, gaped. "The fact he doesn't cry for the victim doesn't make him a serial killer. If he did it, he would be distracted from hunting the killer".
John, on the screen, stopped to take a breath, and his angered tone softened. He smiled fondly as if lost in some kind of daydreaming.
"Sherlock is passionate, honest, and helps the other for nothing. He struggled and overcame many things to be who and where he is now. And if he does not show any emotion, it's because, throughout his whole life, he had to face idiots like you. If you hadn't behaved as you did, you would have discovered the Sherlock I know. Of course, he can try your patience; sometimes, I would like to slap him, so he stops behaving like a spoiled child. But I don't do it, because I know he is an attentive, caring, loving, and sweet man. Strong and brave, but so sensitive he has to hide under the mask of a sociopath to avoid people like you hurt or destroy him".
John, at the reception, seemed about to have a stroke. He swallowed, nervous. His eyes on the screen, feeling all the guests' glances fixed on him, All except's Sherlock's who didn't dare look at him. They were next to each other, millimeters but miles apart at the same time. The detective was blank, stiff as a board, and…awestrucked. He thought John hated him, loathed him, but he said all those things in a way that seemed…
"John, why did you marry me?" asked Mary. Her tone was soft. She was sad, but not mad with the doctor.
John, his face as blank as Sherlock's, looked at the ground, wishing a hole would open up so he could disappear into it. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, a gesture that went unnoticed by everyone, but not by Sherlock. John was so distressed his leg hurt again.
Mary, once she realized John was not going to respond, kept talking.
"That night, at the restaurant, when Sherlock appeared..." John closed his eyes "Your reaction wasn't a friend's reaction."
John lowered his head, glancing briefly at the detective who had a fawn-like air looking for a way out.
"I know I shouldn't hit him, I..."
"No, no, you do not understand me. I'm not talking about if it was bad or good. I meant… Lestrade's was a friend's reaction. Insulting him, hugging him… but yours… you behaved like someone who suffered so much for losing his love that, he only can hit him due to all the pain he had been through".
John got his speech back.
"What the hell...? Mary, don't talk nonsense. I was angry with Sherlock because he let me grieving him for two years, two years!"
"That night, when you got into the cab, waiting for me, I thought I was wrong. When you proposed to me, I forgot about it. But yesterday, after watching this, I realized I was, effectively, wrong. I've been wrong this whole time".
John was about to speak. Mary stopped him.
"Because none of you are speaking about each other, like friends. Sherlock, in his best man speech and you at the Yards. You both talk about each other like lovers do," she turned to the guests, "or does anyone of you speak this way about a friend?"
"Not me," Molly hurriedly replied by raising her hand like at school.
"Neither friends do, dear," replied Mrs. Hudson, "Right, Sherlock?"
They all turned to him. John looked at him with his eyes wide open. Sherlock was in shock. He, who did not believe in sentimentality, who thought love was a chemical defect, just confessed he was in love with his best friend on his wedding day in front of everyone they knew. Perfect, Sherlock, perfect. Brilliant, he sneered to himself.
He wanted to run, but he was glued to the ground, so he wished that the bomb that didn't fall when he was waltzing with John would fall over him at that moment.
It was Mary who first broke the silence.
"Knowing all this, why did I marry you? You could ask. Because I needed the last piece of the puzzle, the one Sherlock so graciously just gave us in his best man speech".
John shook his head in disbelief. Sherlock lied to him. He faked his death for two years. He assured them they were about to die on the tube only to make John forgive him. Why should he believe him now?
And then, some lines of the best man speech jumped into his mind, revolutionizing the hope he felt inside, the hope that, for a moment, rose when he saw Sherlock alive next to him, the same hope he obliged himself to strangle when he thought Sherlock didn't care about him. Even if he did, it was too late.
"The two people who love you most in all this world."
"How invaluable John is to me."
"He saved my life so many times in so many ways."
"It's always you, John Watson; you keep me right."
"Well, John Watson, the time has come for you to decide what you want. Not what you think you should want, not the duty you have to perform. Not what I, your sister, your parents, or even Sherlock wants. Look inside yourself and decide, for once in your life, what. do. you. want".
Sherlock glanced sideways at John. He couldn't look at him straight. But, within him, hope rose, expectant. Maybe there were miracles after all, and perhaps he...
John looked at him hesitantly. Then at Mary and back at the detective. The doctor's face betrayed great anguish, agony even. After looking at Sherlock one last time, he came over to Mary and took her hands, ignoring the strangled gasp that came out from both Mrs. Hudson and Molly.
Sherlock closed his eyes, turned around, and left the room. John chose her. Again. No one noticed his leaving. Sherlock knew very well how to slip away without being seen. And at that moment, all eyes on Mary and John, it was easier than ever.
He walked a few steps, but his legs didn't respond to himself. He dropped on the floor. He couldn't breathe, his heart so broken it barely beat. And he wondered why. Because he already knew. John didn't love him. Who would want to love him? Fucking hope.
Sherlock forced himself to hold back tears. It was pathetic enough to sit on the floor, the anguish eating away at him, as if to burst into tears. But, no matter how hard he tried, tears ran down his cheeks. He cried in silence, sobs violently shaking his whole body. He covered his mouth with his hands, breathing heavily through his nose, to muffle the cry of pain that screamed inside him. An agony much worse than any he felt in Serbia.
*****
"What do you want, John?" Mary repeated, holding John's hands.
John bit his lower lip. He couldn't tell her he was still as much in love with Sherlock as the day he met him at the lab, so much in love with him that it hurt. That, he proposed to Mary, because he believed he loved her until Sherlock reappeared.
But he couldn't stop hearing his father's hateful voice inside his head: John, once you committed, you had to abide by it no matter what. John, you are tied to the commitment to life. You couldn't back out. John, you have to be a man of your word. A man, above all. Not a faggot, like your sister. A woman with another woman? Disgusting. Women and men, men and women. The rest is against nature. So John, don't you dare set your eyes on another guy, or I'll break your neck.
He couldn't tell Mary that, when he was with her, in their daily life, he missed chasing criminals around London with Sherlock, or he wished he could snuggle up to him after a difficult case.
He couldn't tell Mary he loved Sherlock, even if the detective didn't give a damn about him. Because, if he cared, Sherlock would have found the way to let him know somehow he was alive. He was Sherlock Holmes, for God's sake. Or his obnoxious big brother. Couldn't Mycroft have kidnapped him and told him in the privacy of one of your cars? No, of course not.
Because nobody cared about what John felt. People just looked for kind old John, always ready to make others feel good, to help them, to take care of them, always caring John, dutiful John, bloody dumb John, in short.
And, of course, he could never, ever, tell her that, when he masturbated, he did it dreaming about making love to a certain detective, of caressing his body, kissing his mouth and fucking him in so many ways that compared to them, the Kamasutra would be a children's book.
"I want to know what your heart yearns for, John. I need to know".
John looked at her, distressed, not knowing what to say. He knew what his heart longed for, but it was difficult for him to allow himself to go for it.
But, for Mary, it was enough to see John glancing at where Sherlock disappeared to realize all she has ever thought (and feared) was true.
Mary knew John. She knew him so well that, for a moment, she thought of giving him the final push to make him stay by her side. She could do it, due to the doctor's sense of loyalty and commitment, his self-imposed obligation of doing what he was supposed to do, for responding to that higher duty imposed from God knows where. She wouldn't mind staying married to him. John was a kind, intelligent, and loving man who would make any woman happy, and he was great in bed.
Mary, unlike John, knew what she wanted. Better said, she found it the day Sherlock re-entered their lives. That day, she decided she wanted someone who looked at her like John looked at Sherlock when the doctor thought she couldn't see him, or like Sherlock looked at John when he thought no-one else noticed: adoration, devotion...love, a huge, deep, perfect love.
So it was time to cut out the silences, the silent desires, the fear of rejection. And if those two geeks who have been in love with each other since they meet without realizing they were reciprocated were incapable of doing it, she was.
"What are you waiting for? Go to him".
"But... I... you..."
"For God's sake, John! Be brave for once in your life!"
John dealt with the blow. In a way, it was ironic he, who combatted in Afghanistan, who was wounded there, was told to be brave. But he understood what Mary meant. Because it required a lot of courage breaking out of the cage in which fear locked him up for so many years. It took a lot of bravery to close his eyes, grit his teeth, and let his world crack, shake, and sink all because he decided to be true to himself. It took real nerve to refute all the shit that his homophobic, abusive father threw at him since the day he was born, all the beliefs he made his own just because it was what good children, good men, do. It needed to have guts to fuck up what was expected from him.
He squeezed Mary's hands, grateful, and went after the detective.
"Sherlock!" John's voice ran down the hall to the detective, bringing him out of his trance. John couldn't see him like that. Sherlock should seem happy about John.
"Sherlock?" the voice was even closer. And Sherlock did the only thing he could do at that moment. Running away at full speed.
John arrived in the hallway in time to see the detective disappearing behind the door.
"Sherlock, wait!" shouted the doctor, and he ran after the detective. John raced as fast as he could, trying to catch him up, but he knew it was a losing battle. Not in vain had John ran all over London with him.
"John!" he heard Mrs. Hudson shout in a compelling tone, "Over here!"
The doctor smirked and turned towards the landlady. She was pointing to the other side of the window, clearly happy about the course of events. John could see the detective running across the lawn like lightning.
The doctor rushed between the tables, between the surprised guests' gasps and happy chirping, opened the door of the window, and came out at full speed behind Sherlock.
"Stop the best man!" he heard Lestrade shouting behind him.
John snorted between guest's laughs. It was comical to see the detective in his morning suit effortless and gracefully dodging the five security members who tried to tackle him. Sherlock ran in a zigzag, changing the direction of the race with the same agility as a cheetah chasing a gazelle, the only difference being that the prey was him.
"He's heading for the outer courtyard," panted Lestrade. They both speeded up, getting closer to the detective, with whom they cut corners while Sherlock dodged the tackles.
Sherlock arrived in the courtyard. No cars, no bikes, no means of getting out of there. He was tired, distressed, and wanted to hide in the deepest hole he could find. But first, he had to get rid of John's awkward explanation of why he chose Mary, even knowing that Sherlock loved him. He needed time to pull himself together. After watching the video, Sherlock's heart was open, fully exposed, vulnerable, and broken as it never was.
The sound of John's and Lestrade's footsteps approached. He looked left and right, looking for a way out.
He just needed time to pull himself together, repeated himself. Then, he could congratulate John, smile at him even if his heart was breaking, stand by the happy couple even if he were dying of jealousy every time Mary's hand touched John's or they kissed.
The detective would remain impassive every time John marked himself from Baker Street to go home to Mary..., he could do it. That's what he had always done. He would seem unaffected though his heart kicked and screamed in pain. He was very good at it. He had been doing it all his life.
Sherlock looked around and mumbled. But there was no other way out.
John and Lestrade arrived in the inner courtyard and stopped, panting.
"Holy shit!" cursed Lestrade.
Sherlock unhitched one of the horses from the carriage, got into it, and galloped at full speed towards the wall surrounding the enclosure and jumped up and down on it, the hoofs of the horse raising grass and mud on the adjoining field as they landed on the ground during the race.
"I will kill him. I swear to god I will kill him," groaned John, running to the horse-drawn carriage. He unhooked another horse and put his foot in the harness around the horse's body. He may not be as tall and agile as Sherlock, but his legs' strength was enough to pull him up to the horse.
Spurring him on with his heels, he sped off after Sherlock. He clung tightly to the horse's chest harness while jumping the wall jump, and when the horse galloped, he bent over its neck to offer less resistance to the air. He hadn't had any riding lessons in a posh school like Sherlock, but he rode in the army and knew how to charge on horseback.
The animal, connecting with the haste of its rider, stretched, galloping even faster. Soon the figure of Sherlock was visible in front of him, crossing a park at top speed. Fortunately, it was late, and not many people were there, but more than one had to run to get away from the fast-running horse, jumping nimbly through hedges when they got in his way.
"Sherlock, stop!" shouted John. He cursed. What the hell was thinking Sherlock about? But this time, no matter how fast and far Sherlock ran, he would catch him.
The moron didn't heed him. He didn't even look back at John. In turn, he spurred the horse on with his heels, who bounced around a bit but kept going into the trees.
John's horse speeded up, and soon he was almost on the same level as Sherlock. He knew the detective well enough to know he would not stop, so, standing on the horse's harnesses, jumped over Sherlock. Both of them flew into the ground and rolled around in it. Panting, Sherlock struggled to get rid of John, until the managed to straddle Sherlock, holding the detective's hands against the ground at his wrists, while the detective nailed his feet to the ground, trying to get away from him. But, as much as it bothered the detective to admit it, John was stronger than him.
"Why?" asked the doctor.
Sherlock looked at him, puzzled. Why what? Why did he run away? Sherlock confessed his love to him, and he chose Mary. He squirmed, trying to escape, about to burst into tears. Everything went so wrong… Sherlock dreamt many times of being under John, but with a less angry doctor on top of him.
"Why what?" he finally managed to ask.
"Why didn't you tell me you were alive? Why didn't you say a bloody word? A bloody word! In two years! Didn't you care about me?"
Sherlock scowled, baffled that John would ask him something he explained to him so many times. And it wasn't until that moment he realized the conversation has only been in his head. It was in Baker Street's solitude, inside his Mental Palace, where he explained to John what happened. He didn't explain it in real life because of John's deep anger when he came back. Silly of him, Sherlock expected something else. Maybe a little annoyance or bewilderment at first, but not all that… loath. Even though John forgave him on the subway, about to explode into pieces, he knew there was a part of him that was still angry with Sherlock.
And only then he realized what John wanted to say: One damn word and I would have waited for you. Suddenly he understood John's reaction at the restaurant.
"Moriarty would have killed you."
"Moriarty died the day you jumped!"
Sherlock explained the criminal consultant had three snipers ready to kill him, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, the moment it was known that Sherlock was alive.
"If I'd told you, they would have killed you. I couldn't bear your death on my conscience. I couldn't have lived with it."
"Still, you could have told me something. Your brother, your fucking homeless network..."
"Tell me the truth. If you'd known I was alive, would you have stayed the same, your gestures, expressions, routine, everything?"
John moved his head as if he was about to nod but finally shook it. If he was true to himself, he had to admit Sherlock was right. He couldn't have done it. At some point, a careful observer would have noticed the change in the doctor's mood. And a not-so-attentive observer, because John would have got back to… live.
Sherlock explained everything to him, except for Serbia. He would tell him, but later, when it doesn't hurt anymore
John told him all about his suffering and despair during those two years, all except the couple of times he went up to Barts' roof to repeat Sherlock's jump. He would tell him, but later, when it doesn't hurt anymore.
But Sherlock deduced it, his eyes filled with pain and guilt. His lower lip started trembling.
"I…" he looked at the sky, fighting the tears, and wiped them away furiously "I…. missed it. I… I thought, after a while, you'd get over it... I never thought that..."
John frowned.
"You never thought I wouldn't stop grieving for you?
Sherlock shook his head, blind with tears, unable to stand John's suffering during those years, a pain that he had unwittingly caused. Wanting to protect him, he almost killed John, almost pushed him to...
"I'm sorry, John, I'm so sorry, please… forgive me", begged the detective between sobs and hiccups.
John got off Sherlock and helped him to sit down. The doctor hugged him, rocking him slightly, letting Sherlock cry, squeezing him from time to time to let him know he did not hold a grudge, that he understood why he did it. John knew Sherlock hadn't told him everything that happened during those two years, but he saw dark shadows in his eyes while he spoke. And there, embracing the detective, all he could feel was love, understanding, and compassion.
"Shhhhhhhhh" shushed the doctor, kissing him in the cheek, softly, his lips caressing that impossible cheekbone while stroking Sherlock's head to calm the detective "You don't have to apologize for anything. It's me who has to ask you to forgive me. You saved my life. You sacrificed yourself for me" tears started rolling down his cheeks "I'm sorry for being such an asshole since you came back. I shouldn't treat you like I did. I'm sorry I hit you at the restaurant, I...".
Sherlock shook his head.
"I deserved it. I was an absolute jerk that night".
"Anyway, I shouldn't hit you. Even though you made me shave my mustache." he joked between tears, making Sherlock smile while sobbing.
"You can never thank me enough for it. You're much better looking without that.. monstrosity."
"Jerk," retorted John, and both chuckled.
Both remained silent, embraced, till they calmed down, enjoying being together, each one's head on the other's shoulder, happy and relieved to have finally been able to communicate from their hearts.
Calmer, John wiped away Sherlock's tears, gently caressing his face. The detective closed his eyes, melting at the touch of John's calloused hands that he had longed for and finally come true. It was strange. He had never felt more vulnerable, but in John's arms, he felt more protected than ever.
"Why didn't you ever tell me you love me?" the doctor whispered.
"Because..." Sherlock started. How could he explain to the love of his life that when he got to know Sherlock, the real Sherlock, John would leave him? That no one ever wanted to be by his side? After the first moments of love blindness, he was sure that John would discover how little he was worth, how much trouble he was?
"Because I'm not worth it," he whispered, holding the doctor tightly, hiding his face in the doctor's shoulder.
For a moment, John thought Sherlock was looking for compliments. But no. Sherlock was telling the truth, or, better said, his truth. Repeating his life's soundtrack: You are stupid, you are not worth it, you're not enough, no one will ever put up with you, no one will ever love you, who would love someone like you, you're a freak, weird, defective, different … Because Sherlock believed there was nothing that made him lovable.
"Because you deserve better. Because, when you got to know me, the real me, you'll leave me."
Those words broke John's heart. He knew about Sherlock's self-esteem issues. He knew it was why he melted away at the praises. Not out of pride, not out of vanity, but he felt valued and valuable because of them.
Alone protects me , said Sherlock once. John understood now what he meant. It protected him from being hurt. In Sherlock's eyes, John saw years of rejection, of mockery, of bullying, of attacks that not even he or Lestrade, tried to prevent, thinking Sherlock was not harmed by them when, in fact, they were another scar on the detective's damaged soul.
The anger bubbled inside John, wondering who decided everyone's fate, everyone's parents, everyone's lives. Who decided who would have a happy childhood and who would be broken as a child. Who would face the world trusting in himself and who would have to, every day, overcome the belief of being worthless, of not doing anything right, of not being enough. The belief there was something wrong within them. Because whoever threw those cards was a real bastard.
Well, it was time to kick the bastard's ass.
"Someone better than you?"
Sherlock nodded.
"How can you be so smart and so dumb at the same time? Didn't you listen to the damn video?" John inhaled to calm down.
He stopped hugging the detective and move backward to make sure Sherlock listened carefully to what he was to say.
"When I got back from Afghanistan, you know what everyone saw in me? A poor cripple worthy of pity. No one saw beyond my limp, my wound, and my PTSD. And there came a time when I accepted that. I turned into a fucking worthless cripple with no future.
Until one day, I met an arrogant madman who took me to see a flat. I had to climb up seventeen steps to get to it, and he didn't even try to help me; when he was about to leave for a crime scene, he didn't ask me if I could walk or run, or if I had PTSD. He asked me if I was a doctor, a good one, and dragged me to the fourth, fifth floor of a building to see a corpse in pink... And he made me run after a suspect. That arrogant fool was the only one who saw the real me, forgetting everything else. And I fell in love with him."
John stopped for a moment to take a breath and looked at Sherlock's shocked face. Perfect. System overload.
John moved off Sherlock and laid down in the grass beside him. What a pair of idiots. One with trust issues, the other with his self-esteem in tatters, neither daring to believe that what he felt for the other was reciprocated. Not even Sherlock, who was a genius, buts as clumsy with emotions as Anderson was at a crime scene.
John would have confessed to him. Sooner or later, he would have told Sherlock what he felt if the jerk hadn't, that night at Angelo's…
He smiled.
"You don't have a girlfriend, then?"
The question seemed to bring Sherlock out of his stupor. He stared at John as if he'd lost his mind. Finally, he understood and bit his upper lip to hid a smirk.
"Girlfriend? No, not really my area".
"Oh, right. Do you have a boyfriend?"
"I hope so. But I'm not sure. He is not gay," Sherlock mocked.
"I'm not gay. I never was. I'm bi. I'm whatever. I don't care. Fuck off labels. All I know is, of the seven billion human beings in the world, I fell in love with the craziest, most reckless, arrogant, wonderful, perfect, and gorgeous of all of them, who happens to be a man".
"People will talk," teased the detective.
"People do little else. Let them talk. Let them criticize. Let them gossip, shout at us," Sherlock raised an eyebrow, surprised, "fuck them."
John smiled naughtily.
"Not married to your work anymore?"
"Do you mind a threesome?"
John laughed, feeling freer than ever before. He knew Sherlock was kidding. He was everything for the detective, and if John asked him to quit the job, Serhlock probably would do it. Though John would never ask it.
John leaned and kissed Sherlock. Tentatively at first. It's shocking when dreams come true. Sherlock kissed him back in the same way, and John couldn't help smiling in the kiss. Clearly, it was the first time Sherlock kissed anybody, and he didn't have any idea of what he was doing, so he decided to mimic John. And the doctor didn't have any problem with teaching him.
They parted their lips, panting, looking intently at each other's eyes. John ran the tip of his tongue over Sherlock's lips, cupids bow in the upper lip, the plump lower lip..., nibbled it, as Sherlock, simply let himself go, ashamed of the little sounds that occasionally escaped from his mouth.
Finally, they kiss with passion and stare at each other, so close that they both almost squint as if they were afraid the other would vanish into thin air at any moment.
"We have to go back," whispered John.
The two remain silent for a few seconds. They forgot everything: the wedding, the guests, Mary..., John felt a twinge of guilt at the thought of her, and Sherlock feared John would change his mind when he saw Mary again.
"No, sweetheart, you're not gonna get rid of me that easily" mocked the doctor. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the pet name and decided he liked it. He had been called many worst things
But John was right. They have to come back.
Both padded to the horses, which were grazing a few yards away. They got on John's, the doctor in front and Sherlock behind, holding the other horse's harness.
"Don't get too used to the position," John joked, and Sherlock blushed to the root of his hair, at the joke implications. Chuckling, John spurred on the horse, which trotted back to the reception.
To their surprise, none of the guests moved from their seats, even though it had been almost three hours since the detective stampeded out. On the contrary, they moved to the window when they saw them coming back, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Greg smiling widely, the rest a little puzzled and Mary…
John swallowed hard when he saw her. Mary had taken off his wedding veil and her dress overskirt, and she was at a separate table, talking to Janine, both with their hands clasped. John stopped the horse and took a deep breath.
"I have to talk to her," he says sadly. Sherlock nodded.
John felt terrible for hurting Mary. He was not a person who hurt. He made people feel good. Or at least he tried to. But his heart wrinkled when he saw Mary's eyes, red and swollen from crying. Even though she took the decision, it wasn't easy for her.
But, not for one brief moment, did John question his choice. His heart belonged to Sherlock. That first time at Barts, with his phone, he also gave him his heart.
Janine got up when she saw John arriving. Mary looked at him. In her eyes, there was sadness, but also... understanding and tranquility. John sighed with relief. She smiled sadly and looked out into the yard where Sherlock, not quite sure about what to do, got off his horse and stroked the heads of both animals.
"Tell Sherlock to come here," she asked Mary, and Greg went out to warn him. Soon they both enter the reception hall, Sherlock with his head down, blushing.
He didn't expect to come back, especially when everyone knew how he felt about John. Not because he was ashamed. He didn't give a shit what they think, but... he was not used to being... exposed. His ever-present arrogant gesture and his coat helped him to hide well. And now he was... vulnerable, emotionally naked. And if life taught him anything, it was not to show his vulnerability. Whenever he did it, he got hurt.
He looked sideways at Mary, not quite knowing what to say. So, hands behind his back, he stood, rocking slightly on his feet back and forth.
John spoke. Better get straight to the point.
"We'll have to sign the divorce."
"No."
Mary's refusal was firm. John frowned, and Sherlock cursed silently. It was all going too well...
She turned to the vicar, who watched her silently.
"I'm not signing the divorce," Mary stressed, and the guests looked at each other, whispering in shock. John turned to Sherlock, and the detective grimaced, thinking he would have to ask Mycroft for a favor. Again.
"Because there's no divorce to sign. When I got the... gift , I realized celebrating the wedding was silly. But I knew if I called it off, you would feel guilty and would not make the right choice," she looked at Sherlock, who bowed his head briefly, "and I knew Sherlock would never object to avoid making you feel bad, so... I spoke to the vicar and explained to him the situation. He "she pointed to the pretended vicar "is a novice, so the wedding is not valid."
"Are you saying the whole wedding was a sham?" asked John astonished.
She shrugged, unable to avoid a naughty pout.
"So they are not married?" asked Greg, amazed and delighted.
"No, and I've done so well that not even the world's only consulting detective noticed."
Sherlock pursed his lips and looked down. Exposed, ashamed…, if it weren't for him and John finally getting together, he would have gone to sulk on the couch.
"But in your discharge, I will say you were more concerned about a certain doctor than the vicar, so..." she hugged John tightly and kissed him on the cheek.
"Thank you for what you've done, Mary. Without you..."
"Don't thank me. For a moment, I almost became a witch and spoiled the happy ending, but... I love you too much to do that, John Watson."
"I love you too," John replied, and they both chuckled as they heard the detective's throat clearing.
"Take good care of him. After you, he's my favorite."
"Now I'm the jealous one," smiled the doctor.
Mary hugged him again, approached Sherlock, and hugged him too.
"Take care of him."
"I will," Sherlock promised. He smiled briefly, "Thaks, Mary. What you did was...".
She smiled, knowing everything the detective wanted to tell her and was unable to verbalize. As a response, she opened his hand and left an envelope in it.
"And this?"
"It came with John's speech recording USB memory ."
Sherlock would recognize the envelope with his eyes closed. He blinked in disbelief.
"Aren't you going to open it?" John asked.
The detective handed it to him. The doctor tore the envelope and read the sheet of handwritten paper in a letter very similar to Sherlock's.
" Apologies, little brother. Even though I advised you not to get involved, I couldn't help doing it myself. My fault, although I hope this time you'll overlook it".
John smiled. Bloody Mycroft.
He turned the paper over. "Don't worry about your things, Doctor. Watson, they're back at Baker Street, at home. "
Sherlock chuckled. John shook his head and grabbed Sherlock's hand.
"Let's go back home, love," he turned to their landlady. "By the way, Mrs. Hudson, we won't be needing two bedrooms anymore".