Work Text:
John knew that Sherlock Holmes was strange from the beginning. That’s what made John interested after all. Sherlock was strange, he was interesting, he was different. He wasn’t a cardboard cutout like everybody else.
He was arrogant and rude and sarcastic and childish. But he didn’t make himself seem flawless, nor did he care if anybody thought he was any of those things. John liked that about him from day one.
Of course, all of the difficult things came after. The body parts in the fridge, contaminating the food. The arguments about going to Tesco for milk. The knife stabbed into the mantel and the bullet holes in the wall. The chemistry equipment taking up the table in the kitchen. John had no idea the kind of world he was putting himself into (he only knew Sherlock for a day before moving in). And yet, John didn’t feel too upset about it. It was just Sherlock, and that meant it was ok.
It took several months for John to really notice some of the truly strange parts of Sherlock’s personality. The seemingly inhuman things. The way he can know more about somebody than could be explained, the way he knew practically everything about every subject (he told John that he deleted things but Sherlock still knew more than anybody probably should). The fact that he could go days without eating or drinking anything, or the reality that John never witnessed Sherlock sleep. There were so many mysteries about Sherlock: childhood, family, anything about his past really. All John knew was that Sherlock had a problem with substance abuse, he suddenly showed up out of the blue one day, and there wasn’t anything more that John knew. Anything about his past, his life before John, was a complete mystery. And to say that John wasn’t curious would be a lie.
It was as if Sherlock just showed up one day, out of nowhere. No family, no friends, nobody. He had millions of pounds, a flat in central London, and enough cocaine to last the most avid addict a lifetime. No records of any kind, according to Lestrade, who did attempt a check-up before giving him the job of Consulting Detective. Lestrade did inform John that he still couldn’t say for sure why he’d allowed some random nobody to create his own job.
There was one conversation that John had with Lestrade where he tried to explain a strange memory he had of meeting somebody in Sherlock’s family. He couldn’t remember anything about the person in question, anything about the conversation, nothing. There was just this vague thought in Lestrade’s head that he met somebody who was something to Sherlock. Could’ve been anything from his father to a good friend of his, but nobody could say for sure.
John eventually grew enough of a spine to ask Sherlock. He simply asked about a father figure. They’d been in the middle of searching for a client’s father (the client was only twelve). It seemed the best time to address John’s curiosity. So as they walked through alleyways, to wherever they were going (John had no idea), he asked about Sherlock’s dad. It was just a simple, easy “You know, I don’t know that much about you. What’s YOUR dad like?” Sherlock didn’t seem at all surprised by the sudden conversation starter.
“I have no idea,” he answered with a shrug. “I have never had the pleasure of meeting him.”
John was overly surprised by the answer. For some reason, John expected that Sherlock had both a mum and dad, both just as amazingly intelligent as Sherlock, and taught him everything they knew and more. “What about your mum?”
Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m sure you’ll find certain areas of a family in my case severely lacking.”
“No parents?” John clarified in disbelief. Sherlock nodded, adding an assisted ‘no parents’ for good measure. “Any brothers or sisters?”
“There was no lack of those, to be sure,” Sherlock answered with a tired groan as if the mention of such things physically exhausted him. Another surprise for John. Sherlock’s personality was so close to that of an only child. An only child who was pampered by parents. And apparently, he didn’t even have any.
“So you were the youngest?” with the idea that Sherlock never once met his parents, it seemed an easy leap to make. Sherlock turned to look at John with something similar to praise at the deduction. Though, maybe it wasn’t, considering his answer.
“Not at all,” Sherlock grumbled. “I was in the middle somewhere.” When John showed a confused gaze, Sherlock clarified. “My father and mother are there, John. The five eldest are the only ones allowed to speak with them.”
That didn’t seem to clear anything up for John really. It was very wrong, in his opinion at least, the idea that parents wouldn’t allow their children to speak with them. Of course, he chose to keep that in his mind, because Sherlock wasn’t beaten up about it. John decided to drop the conversation completely after that. Why? Sherlock was being open and willing to share. There was so much to ask. But John didn’t feel like he had the right kind of relationship with Sherlock to know these things. Even though Sherlock knew every single thing about John, from his family to his mental issues. There seemed to be something about Sherlock, the way nobody knew anything, that meant he thought his past much more important. John felt dirty trying to take that away from him.
That was until Sherlock faked his death, came back again, and they suddenly became something much more than friends. John didn’t think twice when he started angrily kissing Sherlock the moment he walked into Baker Street after three years. After that day, kissing and date nights and almost everything was on the table. Except that Sherlock still wasn’t opening himself up to John emotionally.
For almost a year, the fact that John knew nothing about Sherlock ate at him. Even though he knew more about Sherlock than anybody in the world (at least John believed so) physically. John kept these pent up feelings on the inside.
Until the day he didn’t. When Sherlock said something about John’s dad. John’s dad was an alcoholic for several years and died of liver failure, both things that Sherlock had already called out years prior to this day. So John wasn’t surprised when Sherlock said that John needed to refrain from all of the drinking he’d been doing (which he admittedly was getting a little out of control) unless John wanted to end up like his dad.
“Why do you get to do that?!” John burst out loudly, angrily. Sherlock surprisingly didn’t flinch but knitted his eyebrows in confusion. “Why are you allowed to know everything about me?! And I know nothing about you! God, it’s so unfair!”
Sherlock’s eyebrows lifted back to normal, quickly understanding. “I’ve never said that any information about myself has been off-limits to you, John.” That didn’t mend the anger now brewing forth from John. No, it definitely made it worse.
“You’re blaming me,” John scoffed. “The man who literally doesn’t have any records from before 9 or 10 years ago. Is blaming me. For not ASKING!” John began a pacing pattern around the room, too angry to look at Sherlock’s calm stance in front of the mantel. He wasn’t a bit worried or alarmed by this sudden problem that John brought to light, and that made John even more infuriated.
“What would you like to know?” Sherlock asked calmly, practically void of any emotion. These were the moments that John thought back to that last day with Moriarty when Sherlock was framed for buying an actor to play Moriarty. John didn’t believe it for a minute back then. But when Sherlock goes completely empty, voice so calm that it doesn’t even sound real, that’s when John wonders for just a second. It’s a horrible thought, and each time it happens, John feels horrible for it. But it’s impossible to stop.
“No,” John shook his head. “Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“I don’t want you to tell me anything because I get mad!” John yelled, recognizing the irony of it. He hears a long exhale from behind him, probably exasperated from this stupid conversation. “I just want you to talk to me! I want to feel like you trust me!”
“I do,” Sherlock answers simply. Not desperate, not concerned, just a simple and direct two words. There was not a question, not a second thought. It was said and it was meant.
“With everything?”
“Ask me a question and I’ll answer it, John,” Sherlock sighed. “What do you want to know?”
“Where were you before you started working here?” John felt anger begin to disintegrate into the usual curiosity.
“All over the place,” Sherlock answered calmly. “I traveled everywhere, never stayed in one place for too long.” John contemplated whether that was a decent enough answer, then sighed and decided that it was.
“Why didn’t you have any information, documents, anything?”
“Any and all records of my existence were destroyed long ago,” Sherlock shrugged. “Burned up in a big fire. I never had to replace them because I never really had any need for anything.”
“Family…” John prompted, unsure of an exact question, but thought the one word would work. It did.
“Well, you already know about that,” Sherlock sighed. “I never met my parents. I assume my mum died long ago, though a new mum took her place. I have only one brother and one sister from the same mum. My dad has been remarried countless times and had at least three children with each woman he’s been with.
“Mycroft, my brother, has come to visit every so often. Lestrade met him once and they hit it off pretty quick. Of course, Mycroft doesn’t have any interest in relationships and ran away as soon as he realized that there was a blush on his face.”
“So, how many half-siblings do you have exactly?” John asked and Sherlock shook his head with a laugh.
“I don’t know,” Sherlock answered. “Way too many.”
The conversation kept going for a long time. Well, conversation meaning John asked a question and Sherlock answered. John felt satisfied, yet he still had this nagging suspicion that Sherlock was keeping something to himself. Something huge.
John didn’t know what that huge something was for two more years. They were running through an alleyway, going after a criminal with a gun. John can’t recall what kind of criminal he was, what he’d done. It didn’t seem all that important in the aftermath of what happened.
Sherlock was a few long strides ahead of John when he turned the corner. They both knew that the perpetrator hit a dead end by accident, and yet they didn’t slow down when they turned that corner. John remembers the sound of a gunshot and his own screaming. The bullet clanked on the ground behind Sherlock, blood pouring with it. Whatever kind of gun the man used, it was strong enough to grow straight through the skin, bone and brain of a genius.
But Sherlock didn’t even move. He didn’t fall forward or back. He stood straight up, muscles tight, fists shaking with how hard they were clutching onto nothing. It was as if he’d gotten a bad wound and was keeping from crying out, instead of getting a wound that literally should’ve killed him.
Sherlock’s voice was strained as he whispered, “You really shouldn’t have done that,” barely audible to John’s ears. He wondered if the perpetrator actually heard it. But the way his eyes were wide and horrified, even if he didn’t hear it, he understood the dire situation he was in. He took another shot to Sherlock’s chest, once again going straight through to the other side. John watched with mixed feelings of sickness, horror, and relief.
Sherlock walked slowly, each step obviously an effort, towards the man in question. The man continued shooting at Sherlock, but nothing was working. He aimed for Sherlock’s leg, arm, hand, face (again). Until finally the gun was empty and Sherlock was right in front of him. John couldn’t see his face but could imagine just how menacing the man probably looked at the moment, even with the blood pouring from both his front and backside.
There was a sudden glowing light that John had no idea where it came from. It was so bright he had to turn away from it. There wasn’t any noise that came from anybody until the light dimmed and John heard the thud of a body. And then another. John turned to see the perpetrator lying limp on the ground, while Sherlock knelt beside him, blood pooling around him now.
John ran to him. “Keep your distance,” Sherlock gritted out, obviously in a great deal of pain. John decided to do as told, standing a meter away at most. He listened to Sherlock’s desperate panting.
John barely blinked when there was suddenly another man in front of Sherlock, feet only inches away from the perpetrator’s head. He had a round face, a three-piece suit, and an umbrella. And his eyebrows curved into a pained look.
“Dear me, brother mine,” the man whispered, looking from Sherlock to the presumed dead criminal on the floor to John himself. “You’ve definitely made a mess of things.”
“I didn’t ask you to come here,” Sherlock grunted, voice filled with a bite that could be considered pain or it could be resentment. “I assume that Micheal is mad?”
“That is an understatement,” the man sighed, rubbing at his eyes. “It’s against the rules to kill humans unless ordered to.”
“Last time I checked, we were allowed to kill humans if we or our assigned human were being threatened with death,” Sherlock responded.
“Well, it’s debatable whether that was indeed a threat,” the man shook his head. “Your assigned human,” he nodded towards John, “was in no real danger. And regular human bullets are of no consequence to us.”
“I don’t see the future, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped. John’s eyes widened as he recognized the name. Sherlock’s brother. He didn’t claim to understand anything going on in the conversation (what with ‘assigned human’ and using the term human as if they weren’t and ‘human bullets’) but at least he could recognize the reality that this man was indeed Sherlock’s only full brother. “My assigned human could’ve potentially gotten shot at any given time. I was not going to let him be killed before his time.”
There was a look that Mycroft gave Sherlock. It looked like understanding and sympathy. As if Sherlock had done a horrible thing, but that it wasn’t his fault and now he had to suffer the consequences.
“Micheal has decided you shall no longer be the guardian for this human,” Mycroft sighed, looking completely regretful. John heard Sherlock genuinely whimper. “We’ve turned a blind eye to the relationship you’ve created with this human, but now it’s become dangerous. We. can’t. get. involved.”
“What if I refuse?” Sherlock whispered.
“Then you will become mortal as of now,” Mycroft sighed, his voice low in what felt like reverence. “And the wounds that you’ve just received will immediately kill you.”
“So no matter the choice, John isn’t going to survive much longer,” Sherlock whispered as if a sudden and unbearable realization. To say that John was completely lost was an understatement.
“That seems to be the case,” Mycroft nodded. “However, if you do come back and choose to meddle without Micheal’s permission…” he took a deep breath, “I can promise my silence.”
Sherlock inhaled shakily. “Let me at least say goodbye then.” The word ‘goodbye’ seemed to repeat uncontrollably in John’s head, making his stomach knot and his head go fuzzy. Mycroft sighed and just as suddenly as he appeared, disappeared.
John stood in complete shock and amazement for several long minutes. It wasn’t until he heard Sherlock whisper in the softest, broken voice, saying his name, that he was ripped from his paralysis.
“What was that?” John finally managed to say after swallowing a lump in his throat that was caused by the way Sherlock said his name. Of course, John heard Sherlock say his name in all sorts of different contexts. Some better than others, to be certain. But John never once heard Sherlock sound so genuinely upset, so absolutely destroyed.
“You can come closer now, if you want,” Sherlock’s voice was too soft and small for John’s comfort. He sounded like a puppy that just got hit by a car and was on the verge of dying. Which, considering he got shot five times, twice of which were in the face, it shouldn’t be so surprising that he sounds about ready to die.
John moved around Sherlock so that he could face him. Sherlock had a small hole right in the middle of his forehead and his left cheek (just below his eye). His face was coated in way too much blood, his pale skin now stained crimson. John felt sick to his stomach. John was also surprised to see Sherlock’s eyes filled with so much emotion that John felt the wind knocked out of him. Sherlock never looked so open, so filled with feelings. Not even when they had sex, he had boundaries behind his eyes. But now his eyes showed that he was sad, so strongly and hatefully upset and that there was no way to fix it.
“I’m going to have to leave again,” Sherlock sighed, sounding so regretful that it hurt John. “I’m not going to make a spectacle this time. But I’m also not coming back this time.”
“Wh-where are you going?” John asked, voice breaking without permission. Sherlock blinked and when his eyes were open again, they were watery for the first time John had ever seen them.
“I have to go home,” Sherlock answered. “But don’t worry too much. It’ll be like I never existed in the first place.”
“What are you saying?” John shook his head. “You can’t just… you can’t just disappear and expect everybody to forget.”
“I don’t expect you to understand but just trust me,” Sherlock sighed. His hand, the one not covered in blood and a gunshot wound, moved to caress John’s cheek. John leaned his head into the touch, feeling a warmth he never felt before. His eyes closed in order to enjoy the feeling. “Everybody will think of me as some strange bad dream that they had.”
“No,” John shook his head while Sherlock’s hand still held it. “No, not a bad dream. You’d be… the best dream I ever had.”
Sherlock laughed humorlessly. It sounded like he was crying. It sounded like he was doing something horrible and he hated it. “I’ll never forget you, John Watson.” There were warm, soft lips against John’s. It was slow and sad and desperate. John’s heart ached. He felt sick. Sherlock put his bloody forehead against John’s. John didn’t want to open his eyes, so he didn’t. Sherlock whispered, “I love you.”
And that was it.
John opened his eyes and he was sitting alone in an alleyway. He looked around in confusion. How did he get here? Why was he here? He stood up slowly and headed out. That was strange.
He never told anybody about that strange night when he suddenly woke up alone in an alleyway. He’d sound completely mad.
From then on, he spent his time finding himself a girlfriend, and maybe someday a wife. He had millions of pounds, a good flat in central London, and nothing better to do with his time. He worked with the Yard on certain cases, but he wasn’t particularly helpful. He couldn’t remember why he started to do that to begin with and after a while, he stopped. He still hung out with Lestrade every so often though. They shared the strange dreams they seemed to share about some strange genius man with black curly hair and light greyish eyes. Lestrade would always say that they were horrid bad dreams. But John felt at ease, maybe even happy, when he thought of them.
Eventually, John finally found his match, a beautiful blond-haired woman by the name of Mary. They had a lovely little girl together and, even after Mary died of cancer, John’s life was good and worth living.
John died of old age at 90. John thought it was luck that kept him from dying countless times throughout his lifetime. He never had any reason to believe otherwise.