Work Text:
After so many small glimpses and mistaken identities, John isn’t expecting the dark curls to be anything more than a small stab of days long past. What he really doesn’t expect is for those dark curls to move directly to his tucked-away table in the small cafe. When the long legs covered in a navy blue suit stand in front of him, shifting from side to side, John looks up and meets the pale blue eyes he thought he would never see again.
He freezes, jaw clenched. A hesitant smile slides onto the should-be-dead man’s face, almost a look of hope. John can’t make heads or tails of what he is seeing. As John remains still, barely even breathing, the smile begins to slip away, replaced by worry, fear.
“John,” the dead man says in the deep resonance John swears he forgot.
The silence draws on.
Finally, the world unpauses, and John is able to take in a deep breath. He drops his head and closes his eyes, controlling the sobs threatening to rack through his body. This can't be real. The scrape of wood against tile reaches his ears. Looking back up, John finds Sherlock seated, hands folded on the small circular tabletop.
“John,” Sherlock starts again, hands twitching against each other.
John interrupts, putting up a hand. “No. No, Sherlock.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, hoping to keep the tears at bay. Before he even knows what he is going to say, words tumble out of his mouth. “I thought you trusted me.”
When John realizes that encompasses the whole of his current feelings—anger, hurt, betrayal—he repeats the phrase again, quieter, almost to himself. “I thought you trusted me.”
Raising his eyes to look once again at Sherlock, the man that should be six feet under right at this very moment, John finds a hint of sadness in the edges of his eyes.
“I do, John. I always have.” An obvious swallow makes Sherlock pause. An earnest look of flashes across his face before he continues. “You have to believe me, John. There was no other way. I had to protect you. You, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. I couldn’t…” his eyes close for a brief moment, brows furrowing together, “I couldn’t allow anything to happen to you. I wouldn’t have survived.” A few more words are mumbled under his breath that John chooses to ignore for now.
“Two years, Sherlock. Two bloody years.” John clenches his fists. “Where were you?”
Sending a calculating glance in John’s direction, he responds, “Most recently, Serbia. But to answer the question you are really asking, dismantling Moriarty’s network. I had to make sure that there was no one left to threaten your life. I…” When Sherlock leans back in his chair, he bolts straight up again, face contorting in pain.
“Sherlock, what the bloody hell?” John starts to ask as he takes in Sherlock’s pale face, the sweat forming on his forehead, the tense posture, and the askew angle to his shoulders as he favors one side. “You’re hurt. We need to get you looked at. Let’s get you to Bart’s.” John stands to help Sherlock up, and Sherlock waves him away.
“No, no. I’m fine. I’ve already been looked at. I promise.” Another wince takes over his features. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d much prefer to continue this conversation at Baker Street. I’ll be much more comfortable there.”
John can’t help but roll his eyes. The stupid man would never stay in hospitals as long as he needed to. “Alright. Fine. Let me help though. Where does it hurt?”
When Sherlock flashes a look of incredulity, John realizes the answer is everywhere. “Oh, Sherlock." He pauses in consideration. "Fine. Where does it hurt the least? Where can I help support you?”
Resting a hand on his hip, Sherlock says, “Here.”
Together, arms slung around each other, holding each other up and each other close, they get Sherlock standing and head outside to find a cab, silence filling the space between them.
When they arrive at Baker Street, John helps Sherlock out of the cab and up the familiar stairs. He feels the tension in Sherlock’s body release as they enter into the flat, knowing he must have missed it desperately while he was away. It makes John’s heart clench at the thought, even as the anger and hurt still fester.
With every step further into the flat, Sherlock leans more heavily on John, the exhaustion starting to take its toll. Placing him into one of the kitchen chairs, John steps back and scans Sherlock’s face, his body, as he begins to slump over the table with stiff, slow movements.
“Let me at least see how bad it is. Maybe I can help,” John says, already moving to grab the first-aid kit in the hall cupboard.
With a sigh, Sherlock says, “If you must.” He pushes himself back up to sitting, the strain of the movement clear on his face, and unbuttons his jacket and shirt. The usually deft fingers shake slightly with the movements. When John returns, he sees the clothes hanging open over mottled skin, bruises in all stages of healing. The sight catches the breath in his throat. Realizing that Sherlock hasn’t moved to take off the clothing, John places the first-aid kit on the table and stands in front of him.
“Do you need help?” John asks, waiting for permission before he begins to move.
Sherlock swallows, trying to clear the lump in his throat. “I’d appreciate that, yes.”
With careful fingers and gentle hands, John helps slips off the jacket and shirt, stage by stage to prevent any additional harm to Sherlock. When he finally has the clothing removed, he walks around to Sherlock’s back and takes in the sight.
Bandages criss-cross over his back, covering lines of stitches and healing wounds. Tape is supporting some of Sherlock’s ribs. Any spot not covered has the sickly colors of bruises following along the edges.
John’s face falls.
It’s clear that fists and rods and whips had been used, and he knows that Sherlock must be aching and in pain, the muscles stiff from the treatment they received. Noticing some dried blood in places, John sets to replacing each dressing with a clean one. Even with John’s gentle touches, Sherlock hisses with the slight tugging of the tape on skin, his nerves raw and frayed with the constant input of pain.
As John works, he asks, hoping to find out more without scaring Sherlock into silence, “You said Serbia. Was that where this happened?”
Around a few focused breathes, Sherlock responds, “Mostly, yes. But each time I took down another sect of Moriarity’s, they added their own scars. But...it was worth it.” The last words are said quieter than the rest.
Without taking a chance to think, John says, the frustration slipping through his tone, “Finally, won the game, then? Beat Moriarty, proved yourself the smartest, and now you can come home?” Even as the words leave his mouth, he regrets them, but Sherlock responds before he can apologize.
“It stopped being a game when he threatened your life. It’s hasn’t been a game for a long time now.” Sherlock’s voice comes out barely above a whisper as if he were trying to make himself smaller, hide from John’s wrath.
The words hit John. Threatened your life. “You said he threatened Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, too.”
The rigid tension fills back into Sherlock’s shoulders before he says, “The pool, John. It was only you at the pool. That’s when it ceased being a game.”
John freezes for the second time that day, the weight of Sherlock’s words drowning him in colliding emotions—pride, confusion, love, betrayal. As he processes that revelation, John continues to work, determining how he wants to respond. The flat falls silent, only the sounds of their breathing to break the pattern.
Finally, John says, “Do you know why I grieved for you for two years, Sherlock?” When there is no response, he continues, “People don’t do that for their best friend. They just don’t.”
Feeling the air shift between them, John waits for Sherlock to think through his statements. When he has, Sherlock asks, “I’m...I’m your best friend?”
John’s eyes slide shut for a moment at the hesitation and confusion in Sherlock’s voice. That should never have been a question. Finishing up the last bandage, John grabs another chair and sits in front of Sherlock, looking into those beautiful, pale eyes.
“No, Sherlock. I guess you’re not my best friend.” John watches Sherlock’s face fall, the blank mask trying to fight its way back onto his expression to cover the pain. Before Sherlock can respond, John continues, “You are so much more than that, Sherlock. You are the most important person in my life. And, you aren’t allowed to ever do something like that again.”
Sherlock blinks, shock replacing the sadness. John can see he is still processing the whole of the statement, even as Sherlock says, “I won’t. I don’t think I’d be able to endure something like that again without you. That is, unless you don’t want to see…”
The words are cut off as John leans forward to place his lips against Sherlock’s, wanting to banish even the thought from Sherlock’s mind. For a brief moment, Sherlock doesn’t kiss back, and John starts to pull away, knowing he shouldn’t have done that.
Strong hands grab his face and stop him from moving. Sherlock’s mouth presses back against his, the full lips now wet and salty against his own. John kisses back, letting his hands find purchase in Sherlock’s curls, before using them to pull Sherlock back to look at his face.
“You’re crying, Sherlock.” John lets go and tries to move away again, but Sherlock won’t let him go. “I don’t…I didn’t... I can't...Sherlock, please…”
Soft eyes and a small smile form on Sherlock’s face as he interrupts John’s stuttering. “John. Stop it. I never thought I’d get the chance to do that, ever. Please…” he bites his lower lip before looking directly into John’s eyes, “Please, kiss me again.”
Relief floods John as he wordlessly nods and cups the back of Sherlock’s head in his hand, guiding them back, after so many years apart, closer now than they had been before. Ready to start again, but this time, the right way. Together.