Archive of Our Own

Emotional Context

Here dwell together still two men of note

Who never lived and so can never die:

How very near they seem, yet how remote

That age before the world went all awry.

But still the game’s afoot for those with ears

Attuned to catch the distant view-halloo:

England is England yet, for all our fears–

Only those things the heart believes are true.

 

A yellow fog swirls past the window-pane

As night descends upon this fabled street:

A lonely hansom splashes through the rain,

The ghostly gas lamps fail at twenty feet.

Here, though the world explode, these two survive,

And it is always eighteen ninety-five.

 

- 221B, By Vincent Starrett.

Sherlock woke up to the sound of the shower running. As he opened his eyes he could see the light from the bathroom illuminating his bedroom through the frosted glass door that connected them. He glanced at his alarm clock next to his bed, it was Tuesday December 15th 7:30, and John was getting ready to go to work. It had been just over 3 years since Mary died, and John and Rosie had moved into 221b. They had come up with a schedule for Rosie, John didn't feel it was fair to leave Rosie in Sherlock’s care every day but he also could not afford full time daycare. So Sherlock looked after Rosie every Monday and Friday unless he had an important case that required him to leave the flat in which case Rosie would go to daycare. It was Tuesday, so she would be leaving with John, he would drop her off on his way to work. Sherlock usually got up on these days to help get the young Watson fed and dressed while her dad got himself ready for work. Not today though. Today was different.    

Sherlock briefly worried what John would think about him not getting up, and leaving John to both get himself and Rosie ready to leave, but the thought of getting up and interacting with John and Rosie right now was unbearable. He cared deeply about both of them but in his current state he doesn’t think he would be able to handle it. He definitely did not want John to pick up that something was wrong, that would make the situation so much worse. Sherlock decided he would not get out of bed until they had left, and maybe not even then. He was interrupted from his thoughts by voices in the kitchen.

“Good morning!” exclaimed Mrs Hudson “Where is Sherlock? Has he not got up yet? Bit strange that...”

“Well we did have a late night” said John yawning “probably just sleeping in.”

John was correct, they did have a late night. After Rosie was put to sleep in her bed in John’s room, they had stayed up replaying the facts of a particularly troublesome apparent suicide in which Sherlock found Johns ideas to be immensely helpful. They had been so engrossed in their work, that they had both completely forgotten to eat dinner. It was already midnight when Sherlock realized that in fact, both of them were starving. John fixed them some food and they sat down to eat and watch some telly as a way to relax after thinking about that stressful case for so long. Well as it turned out neither of them were tired after having that rush of adrenaline brought on by a difficult case so they ended up watching the entirety of the next James Bond film on the list. By the time they retreated back to their own bedrooms it was well past 3am. However it was not fatigue that kept Sherlock in bed, and he relaxed a little knowing that John didn't suspect anything, and more importantly that he didn't appear to be angry with him. 

“Well if he comes out let him know I made him a cuppa” said Mrs Hudson as she placed the cup of tea on the kitchen table and then proceeded to give Rosie who was sitting at her high chair a little kiss on the cheek before heading back towards the stairs.

“Yes I will, Thank you” said John as he took a sip of his own tea that Mrs Hudson had brought him. 

Sherlock laid in bed for the next half hour listing to the sounds of John desperately trying to get Rosie ready. He could tell they were running late, and he knew he should get up and help but he couldn't, his emotions had got the better of him. He heard the door to the flat close as John and Rosie left for the day.

If Mycroft knew the exact details of what happened precisely 3 years ago today he would have called it one of Sherlock’s danger days. He would have told all of Sherlock's friends and they would have dropped everything to come and sit by his bedside to make sure he doesn't do anything rash. Sherlock was infinitely glad that Mycroft did not know, and he could lie around the flat alone. 

After another half hour or so of lying on his bed trying to repress his emotions Sherlock had a thought: If Mycroft had known and contacted his friends would any other them even bother showing up? He knows they had before, but this time it's different, they might not be on his side. Graham? probably too busy at the yard. Mrs Hudson? Maybe but today was her shopping day. Molly? Definitely not. Things had been awkward with Molly ever since what Eurus put them though. She wouldn't be on his side anyway, after all she was the one that gave him the note. Oh god the note. Sherlock couldn't let himself think about it, think about those words that had caused him so much pain, those words that had inevitably in the end pushed him into using again... Sherlock desperately tried to change his train of thought, he couldn't go there, not today. What about John? The thought caused a shiver through Sherlock's body. No, he thought, John would definitely not come to his aid if Mycroft texted him. After all it was John's actions 3 years ago today that are causing all this pain. He was lying in his bed at 9:00 on a Tuesday with no intention of getting up because of what John did to him that day. 

That day in the hospital. 

That day in the morgue. 

That day exactly 3 years ago when John… beat him. 

Images of his best friend kicking him repeatedly while he laid drugged up and helpless on the floor of the morgue in that hospital flooded Sherlock’s head and he began to cry. 

Long minutes passed until Sherlock was able to pull himself out of it, wiping away his tears from his face. If he continued down this road John and Rosie would come back to… no, I need to distract myself. He reached over and grabbed his phone from his bedside table and decided to call Lestrade. He stopped himself, Gillies Is the only person who knows exactly what went on that day besides Sherlock and John. He wasn't there so he doesn't know all the details but he took the police report from John. What if he remembers the date unlike John? What if he can tell something is wrong and connects the dots? No he probably won't, Sherlock reassured himself, he is not that clever, and you need something to do. So he summoned his courage and pressed call. 

“Hey Sherlock, whats up?” said the voice on the other end of the line.

“Bored. Do you have any interesting cases for me?” said Sherlock with his normal cold tone.

“It hasn't even been 10 hours since you solved that one last night! You are bored already?” questioned Lestrade.

“Yes.”

“Well I think you should take a well deserved break. Sit back and take the day off. Don't you have that little munchkin to take care of?”

“Today is Tuesday, she goes to daycare on Tuesdays, you know this.” said Sherlock getting frustrated. “So I take it you don't have any cases that are the least bit interesting then?”

“No, I don't, sorry. Been busy wrapping up the case you solved last night, haven't gotten anything new yet.”

“Good god, George you could have just said that from the beginning and not wasted both of our time with endless chatter!” 

“I will ring you as soon as I get something alright?” said Greg, ignoring Sherlock's outburst.

“Fine.” Sherlock said, Hanging up. 

He still needed to find something to do. He pushed himself out of bed and put on his dressing gown as he walked into the kitchen. He stared at the cup of tea that Mrs Hudson had made him sitting on the edge of the table, cold and lonely. He briefly wondered whether he should put it in the microwave to heat it up, but decided that was too much effort. He would drink it cold. Depressing cold tea matched his mood better anyway. He took a sip and walked into the living room putting down the tea and picking up his violin. He looked out the window and began to play the song he had composed, what felt like ages ago, when he was dealing with The Women.

John had always assumed that he wrote this song for Irene and that it was meant to express his feeling towards her, but he couldn't be more wrong. As he played, Sherlock thought about writing this song, about how he felt while composing it. It was about his feelings, but not about feelings towards The Woman, he had never had any of those, not for any women. He wrote it as an expression of both his inner love and sadness. It had come to be the piece he had written that felt most like him. It was him. It was an expression of the all love Sherlock felt and knew he would never be able to say out loud. That's why when Eurus had asked Sherlock to play Him it was the only thing that came to mind. After the events of three years ago this had never rung so true, because now more than ever Sherlock knew he would never be able to tell John his feelings, not after what happened in the hospital. Well I failed at distracting myself thought Sherlock. As once again he allowed the tears to pour over his face.   

When the song was finished Sherlock returned his violin to its case and took another sip of cold tea. He moved to his chair to try and think about what to do next. His eyes flicked around the room, looking at the collection of his, John’s, and Rosie's stuff that littered the flat. His eyes eventually came to rest on the drawer next to the other window. The drawer that was full of things he kept to remind himself not to get involved, to divorce himself from all emotion. Inside contained not just Irene's camera phone but the note. The note that Molly had given to him when he had come by Johns flat after Mary had died. The note that John had written such hurtful things inside. The note that caused Sherlock to turn to drugs. No, he had to stop thinking about that. 

Mary, let's think about Mary he thought, At least that is slightly less painful. Although John might not have remembered the date of that day in the hospital he sure did remember the date of his wife's death. A couple months ago on the three year anniversary, John had taken the day off work and Mrs Hudson had volunteered to look after Rosie. Although John and Sherlock dealt with grief in different ways they enjoyed each other's company that day, each one comforting the other. That had been a good day, very sad, but good. Unlike today. Today he was alone. 

Sherlock needed something else to occupy his thoughts but he doesn't have a case. He began to think of all the times in the past when he was bored or full of emotions and what he did to get rid of it... a sudden craving for his old addictions struck him. It had been so long since Sherlock had any desire to use again and he began to try and recall if he had anything in the flat. Sherlock was surprised at the amount of effort this took, almost as if he had tried to forget this information in the past. However despite his past attempts to delete this knowledge he did eventually remember. He had some nicotine patches in a box next to his sock index, some cigarettes in the shoe next to the fireplace, and there was a bottle of wine and half a bottle of whisky in the kitchen cupboard. However Sherlock had never cared much for alcohol, and usually only drank it with company. That was it. Not exactly what he was looking for. He could call Wiggins or maybe one of his homeless networks to get him something stronger… No he didn't want John and Rosie to come home and find him in a state. He could leave the flat… no, no he wasn't going to do that, he would have to settle for something else. 

As he walked into his bedroom to get a nicotine patch Sherlock recalled how he didn't think it was safe to keep drugs in the same house as a small child so he got rid of it all when Rosie had moved in. He pulled out the small box from the back of the drawer, careful not to mess up his sock index and slapped 2 patches into his arm, and returned to the living room. He went over to the fireplace and pulled a cigarette from the slipper, got a lighter from under a pile of papers on the table and opened a window so that John would not be able to smell it when he got home. He relaxed on the sofa. After he finished smoking he realized that a combination of all these emotions and lack of sleep had made him quite tired. He looked at the time, it was noon, enough time for a nap before John and Rosie got back. He slowly drifted into sleep. 

...

The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs to 221b and the distinctive shriek of a toddler returning home woke Sherlock from his deep sleep. The relaxing effect of the nicotine had worn off and Sherlock was tired, angry and even more sad then he had been pre-nap. He quickly glanced around it was 4:00 and he had not got rid of the evidence of his smoking. He didn't have more then 3 seconds before John and Rosie appeared in the doorway. 

“Sherlock!” called Rosie as she ran over to him and launched herself on top of Sherlock on the sofa. Sherlock gave her a smile and pulled her into a hug.

“How was your day Watson?” Sherlock asked her. His voice came out horse and dry.

“Good!” she happily squealed, snuggling herself into Sherlock’s embrace. John came over to stand in front of the sofa after taking off his jacket, watching Rosie squirm on top of the detective. 

“Did we wake you?” John asked, with a hint of humor in his voice.

“It does appear that I might have dozed off” said Sherlock, trying to cover up the sudden twinge of pain and sadness he felt when John addressed him. Sherlock watched as John's eyes wandered over the scene in front of him, the open window, the butt in the ashtray, his arm. Sherlock looked down at his arm to see that while hugging Rosie on his chest the sleeve of this dressing gown had bunched up at his elbow revealing the two patches. Sherlock could not bear to look at John's reaction so instead buried his face into Rosie's hair. 

“Sherlock…” John sighed with both sadness, concern and something Sherlock was pretty sure was disappointment.  

Sherlock didn't respond. He couldn't respond without bursting into tears. He nudged his head into Rosie's hair even deeper, breathing in deep. 

“Sherlock…” John repeated “we are going to have to talk about this” he took a deep breath “after Rosie's bedtime.” Sherlock could detect some anger creeping into these last words. With that John turned around and went into the kitchen to start preparing dinner.

When John moved back in they had started eating at around five so that Rosie would be asleep by seven. However sometimes Sherlock and John would eat dinner later because it is not always pleasant to eat every meal with a toddler. John had insisted that whenever they ate with Rosie, Sherlock would eat as well because she did not want her to think it was okay to skip dinner. Which Sherlock grudgingly agreed to. Although Sherlock still wasn't convinced that it all wasn't a ruse to get him to eat consistently. He didn't regret it now as he realized he had not eaten all day and using so much extra energy with emotions, he was actually hungry. 

Rosie was getting bored and uncomfortable lying on top of Sherlock but he didn't want her to leave, she made Sherlock feel safe and he was able to hide his face with her on top of him. Rosie was quite an emotionally intelligent kid, which part of Sherlock envied, and she could tell that something was wrong. Sherlock watched as she squirmed forward to whisper in his ear.

“Want to build puzzle when daddy make dinner?”

“I would love to.” Sherlock responded.

Sherlock watched as Rosie pushed herself off of the sofa and waddled over to where they kept some of her toys. She shuffled around boxes until she found the puzzle she was looking for, grabbed it and sat on the empty floor in front of the sofa.

“Come” she commanded as she opened the box revealing large black and yellow pieces.  

Sherlock slid off the sofa to join her on the floor glad for something to do. He looked down at the puzzle she had chosen, it was the shape of a big bee with large toddler size pieces. This was not her favorite puzzle, but she knew Sherlock loved bees which made him smile. A few months ago during dinner she had demanded to know his favorite animal, and John was quite surprised when Sherlock without difficulty replied with bees. That was the first and only time he told anyone about his love for the animal and he smiled again at the memory. Later after Rosie had gone to bed John asked him about it and Sherlock told him all about how he had always dreamed of becoming a beekeeper and how one day when he retires he plans to move to a small cottage and take up beekeeping. John was quite shocked to learn that Sherlock had any plans for his future and he never would have guessed that Sherlock would want to live in a cottage with bees. After that conversation Sherlock often found himself wondering how John would fit into his beekeeping retirement life. 

Sherlock and Rosie were busy at work on the puzzle and they had just put the last piece into place when John called out for dinner. Hearing John yell sent a lightning bolt down Sherlock's spine, he was scared. Scared of his best friend. Scared of John. And this made him very, very sad. He got up and walked with Rosie to the kitchen table. He was dreading this dinner, and wishing the day would end already. To his surprise the table was set for four. 

“Hope you don't mind, I invited Mrs Hudson to eat with us” said John.

“No, that's great” he replied as a wave of relief washed over Sherlock, he was glad he would not have to sit eating what was destined to be a painful meal with just the three of them. On cue Mrs Hudson appeared in the flat.

“You who!” she called as she came into the kitchen “I brought us an apple pie for dessert!”

“Yay!!!” called Rosie as she gave Mrs Hudson a big hug before Sherlock picked her up and put her in the highchair. “What's for dinner daddy?” Rosie asked John.

“Spaghetti and meatballs!” replied John as he started scooping into the bowls. He looked over at Sherlock, Although Sherlock had agreed to the daily dinners, John didn't want to make him uncomfortable, or waste food. While Sherlock had to eat something John understood that he might not be feeling up to a full portion, and he also didn't want Rosie to think not finishing your food on a regular basis was okay. So they had established a system for Sherlock to express and John to understand his hunger level. 

“Eight” Sherlock said.

 John nodded and returned to the bowls. Sherlock sat next to Rosie and Mrs Hudson took the seat across from him as John put the plates on the table. Sherlock needed something else, but what? His eyes drifted up to the cupboard where the alcohol was. That would work.

“Wine?” Sherlock said standing up. It was unusual for them to drink, especially on a Tuesday but he didn't care. 

“Ummm… sure…” John responded hesitantly, shooting Sherlock a questing and disappointed look. 

“I have a nice bottle downstairs” Mrs Hudson chimed in.

“That won't be necessary” said Sherlock as he pulled the bottle down from the cupboard and grabbed three glasses and the corkscrew. He poured the glasses and sat back down leaving the bottle on the table taking a large sip from his own. 

“Well this is quite nice isn't it!” said Mrs Hudson “thank you for inviting me boys”

“It was our pleasure” John responded “Rosie why don't you tell us what you did today?” 

“Okay! I went to daycare! I played house with my friends Charlotte and Jeremy, Then I took a nap, then I drew a picture of a bunny, then I ate melon for snack, and then daddy came and got me, then we came home!” exclaimed Rosie “what ‘bout you daddy?”

“well, after I dropped you off I was a little late for work and I already had a patient waiting for me. After that the day was pretty much normal. I had a salad for lunch, then had some more patients and I left to get you” John answered

“What ‘bout Mrs Hudson?” Rosie asked.

Sherlock’s stomach did a little flip with the realization that this conversation was going to make its way to him, and he took another sip of wine.

“Well I got up and made tea, and then went out to go grocery shopping. On my way back home I ran into Mrs Turner and we had a little chat, and went to the caffe to catch up over tea and biscuits. After that I came home and put my groceries away then I saw the message from John about dinner and came up here” said Mrs Hudson. 

“What ‘bout you Sherlock?” asked Rosie, turning all her attention to him.

Sherlock took a deep breath, and another sip of wine before launching into his story.

“Well Daddy and I were up quite late last night so I slept in this morning” Sherlock said, looking at Rosie, trying to remove all emotions from his voice. “Then I called Lestrade to see if he had any cases for me, which he didn't. So I got up and played violin and had some tea. Then I sat on my chair for a while and went to my mind palace. I decided to have a nap on the sofa because I was still tired from the previous night, and I must have slept a little bit too long because I didn't wake up until you and daddy came home” finished Sherlock as he let go of a breath he didn't know he was holding. He took another bite of pasta followed by the rest of the wine in his glass. 

The rest of dinner was uneventful. John and Mrs Hudson talked about boring nonsense with with occasional interruption from Rosie. Sherlock remained mostly quiet only speaking up if the conversation was directed at him. Once they had all finished Sherlock cleared the table putting all the dishes next to the sink because John didn't trust him to wash them and Mrs Hudson cut the pie. Sherlock had already finished his fourth large glass of wine by the time they were done desert and he was starting to feel its effects. 

“It's time for you to go to bed my sweet girl” John told Rosie as he picked her up from the highchair.

“Sherlock read stories tonight?” Rosie asked. Although it was mostly John who put her to bed Sherlock did do it on occasion. 

“Sherlock?”John said as he turned to look at the detective still with Rosie in his arms.

“Sure” Sherlock responded, standing up. It would be a good way to avoid the conversation John wanted to have. Maybe he could just sneak into his room after and avoid John entirely. He leaned over and took Rosie from John's arms, their hands touching briefly. The touch gave Sherlock goosebumps for so many different reasons. Just this small contact had caused numerous emotions to swirl though Sherlock, the pain Sherlock felt on that day 3 years ago, the fear that it could happen again, The pain and anger Sherlock felt at himself for thinking that was possible, the friendship and compassion that the two men had shared over the years, and the love. The love he felt for John and the pain in knowing that those feelings would never be reciprocated. Even though John put him through all that pain 3 years ago and wrote all that terrible stuff in that note Sherlock still loved him, and deep down he knew John cared for him, even if it's just as a friend. 

The alcohol had caused Sherlock to process all of this a second longer than it normally would and he was left standing there next to the table holding Rosie for just long enough that John was able to pick up that something was wrong. Sherlock quickly realized this and moved towards the stairs that lead to John and Rosie's joint bedroom. Sherlock really didn't drink very often especially these days, the most he has ever drunk in one sitting was probably the stag night and that was years ago. Not only did Sherlock not enjoy drinking that much, but he also found that he could not hold his liquor too well. As Sherlock climbed the staircase Rosie in his arms he found himself stumbling. 

Sherlock put Rosie down on her small bed that was located in the corner of the room. He sat on the floor next to her and mindlessly read the book that Rosie had picked out. Once it was over he tucked her in, planted a kiss on her head, turned off the lights and closed the door. Sherlock stood at the top of the stairs and took a deep breath trying to compose himself. He had a plan: he was going to walk downstairs and quickly so as not to be seen turn into the hallway leading towards his room where he would retreat for the rest of the night. 

He crept down the stairs stepping a little bit more heavily than he intended. They had finished cleaning up after dinner and Sherlock could hear John and Mrs Hudson talking in the living room where they had started a fire in the fireplace. He got to the bottom of the stairs and just as he was turning into the hallway he heard John's voice call out to him. 

“Hey, Sherlock could you come here and chat for a minute please?” John asked.

Sherlock let out a long sigh and contemplated if he should just keep walking, but before he could make his decision Mrs Hudson appeared next to him.

“Come along, Sherlock,” she said sweetly, gently nudging him towards the living room. 

He told her. Anger slowly rising in him. Why did he have to bring Mrs Hudson into this? Oh god this was going to be a terrible conversation that Sherlock did not want to have. But he didn't have a choice as Mrs Hudson was successfully getting him further and further away from his room. He walked over to his chair and took a seat. John was sitting in the small wooden chair that was positioned in between the two larger ones, where the clients normally sat, leaving his chair open for Mrs Hudson. An awkward silence fell across the room; the only sound from the crackling fire. 

“Well you obviously have something to say” said Sherlock, breaking the silence. He decided that he was going to turn on his uncaring, emotionless persona, because that might make this conversation easier. 

“Sherlock…”  John stammered, anger and disappointment in his voice “How could you? You were doing so well... what happened? I need to know what is going on! You could have called me, you could have gone to Mrs Hudson! Are you using again?”

“Calm down john! I was bored. It was just a cigarette.”

“And nicotine patches, and alcohol.” John shouted “anything else I don't know about?”

“No John I am fine! It was a one time occurrence I assure you. You are making far too big a deal of this.”

“You can't sit here and tell me everything's fine! It's obviously not fine! You quit! It's been over two years since you last smoked, Christ Sherlock, if you are using again… I don't think I can… I cant… I cant raise Rosie in that environment.”

John was angry, he was really angry. Sherlock hasn't seen him this angry since… well since exactly 3 years ago. John was threatening to leave. Was he going to lose John? He can't lose John. All of Sherlock's emotions started running through him full force. His hand started to shake ever so slightly. He looked over at John, he was staring at Sherlock, giving him that look… that same look he gave Sherlock all those years ago at the morgue, in the hospital, and it broke him. He was scared, scared at what John can do with that look, scared of what he has done, scared of what he might do… he couldn't let John see his emotions. He couldn't let John know how scared he is. 

“I. AM. FINE.” screamed Sherlock, in the most unemotional tone of voice he could muster. 

Before Sherlock could say anything else or make an effort to walk away Mrs Hudson let out a huge sneeze. John immediately reacted, he stood up and quickly, moving faster than he had in a very long time reached for the box of tissue that rested on the shelf that lay directly behind Sherlock's head. 

Sherlock flinched.

He hadn't meant to, but with all of the emotions that had been crossing through his body all day and with John's anger… Sherlock thought that John's sudden movements were to hit him. He couldn't help but flinch. Everyone saw it, there was no avoiding it. The jig was up. Sherlock felt tears coming to his eyes but he held them back. As John passed the box to Mrs Hudson Sherlock stood up and started to move towards his room. He needed to get out of there, out of that room, before he started crying or said something he would regret. 

“Oh Sherlock…” said Mrs Hudson, sadness and empathy in her voice. She gently took hold of Sherlock's hand as he passed her causing him to stop next to her chair. Sherlock looked at her and they could both see the sadness in each other's eyes. He stood there trying ever so desperately not to cry as he allowed Mrs Hudson to see what he was feeling. There was a long pause. 

John who had returned to sitting in the small chair cleared his throat, breaking the silence “Sherlock, I... I... I am sorry I didn't…” he stuttered, anger still present in his voice but this time confusion, and sadness lurked there as well. “What's wrong?” he asked gently “you know you can talk to me about anything right?”

Sherlock whipped around and gave him a piercing stare. That was the wrong thing to say. All his emotions momentarily redirected themselves into anger, anger at John, anger for what John just said, how naive he could be. He could not control himself any longer. 

“What do you mean I can talk to you about anything ?!” Sherlock screamed You can't possibly believe that! And What's wrong? How do you not know what's wrong!? You out of all people should know exactly what's wrong!”

“What?” John started but Sherlock interrupted him.

“Oh please don't give me that look, you pretend to care, but when it really comes down to it you don't. If you actually cared you would know exactly what's wrong!” 

“Sherlock how could I possibly… I can't read you mind!” John exclaimed.

“This is not even about my mind! This is about you! You don't even remember your own actions and you have failed to try and help or limit others reactions to them.”

“I am sorry but I really don't know what you are talking about Sherlock. How about we stop raising our voices and talk about this in a civilized manner?”

“A civilized manner??! Stop trying to control me John, you lost the privilege 3 years ago. Dear god do I really have to spell it out for you? You are even more of an idiot then I thought!” Sherlock took a breath. “Do you remember what happened exactly three years ago today John, at that hospital?” 

A sudden rush of realization washed over John's face “oh god. Sherlock I…” 

“Oh please, don't start.” Sherlock interrupted. “We both know you simply don't care. You might act like it sometimes, but you don't care”

“Sherlock, That's not true! You know that's not true!” John practically screamed.

“Oh drop the act already” Sherlock knew his words were hurting John, which made him hurt even more, which made him more upset and angry, he was locked in a vicious circle. “Anyone with any ounce of human decency would have tried to console me, or fix the damn situation” he looked over to where the note rested in the drawer and even more pain and anger washed over his body. “You could have talked about it at least!” he said, changing the subject mid-sentence “But no you just went back to normal without even mentioning it again!”

“What are you talking about!?” John stammered “I know I should have remembered about today. I am sorry, but we have talked about it. It took a long time for us both to recover after that, but we did, and we most certainly talked about it. Remember it is what it is? I am very sorry for not being here and remembering, but frankly I thought we had gotten over that!”

“For god's sake I am talking about the letter John! Do you remember that? The note you had Molly give to me which you have not so much as mentioned once despite all these years!”

“The letter… oh no. I am so sorry Sherlock” Sherlock could tell John was trying not to cry “I thought you said this was about the hospital?”

“It is... Well it's about everything… it's all connected…” Sherlock could feel himself losing it, he had to get back under control. He took a long breath before he continued. “That letter, that letter really hurt me john…” he moved over to the drawers by the window and pulled out the letter. “Do you even remember what you wrote??” he said, waving the note through the air. “Did you even think about how this might affect ME? Of course you didn't, because as I have already stated you don't actually care!” He walked back over and stood in between John and Mrs Hudson starring John directly in the eyes. He wanted John to feel the pain that he had put Sherlock through. “I can see right through you. I am not sure you have ever cared. I am just a cheap flat and occasionally a way to get off on your addiction to dangerous situations. Nothing more. You are a terrible person John. You don't even care about your own daughter!” 

“Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson scolded from behind him “That's enough!” 

He ignored her, instead focusing his entire gaze onto John who was looking at the ground. He found that when he directed his anger at John he was able to release some of his emotions while still remaining in control. 

“You would have never moved in here again, if you actually cared for her! You are right, this is no place to raise a child. You know exactly just how reckless and unstable I am and yet you choose to put her in danger by living here. You don't actually care about anyone's safety or feelings ! This note is just proof of that.” he looked down at the note in his hands, unfolded it and began to read its contents out loud “Dear Sherlock, Fuck off. I know that we have shared some nice memories together, but frankly I think that Sally was right, I should have stayed away from you. You have put me through so much pain and frankly I don't think it was worth it. You have killed my wife and…” before Sherlock could get any further Mrs Hudson stood up and said one word in a clear, stern voice. One word that changed everything...

“Norbury. ”

Sherlock froze. 

He could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He slowly turned around until he was facing Mrs Hudson and the look on her face undid him. He suddenly felt the full weight of everything he had just said and all the complicated little emotions he was trying to repress upon his shoulders. The weight of it all was so heavy that Sherlock found he could no longer stand, his knees gave out from underneath him and he sank to the floor. Silent Tears running down his face. He could hear the voice of his sister echoing through his head:

 “Emotional context Sherlock, it destroys you every time.” 

Here he was, the person who had once stated: “ sentiment is a defect found on the losing side” on his knees in his living room so completely filled with emotions. Guess I have lost he thought to himself and with that he began bawling still with the note clutched in his hand. He let it all come pouring out of him not caring what he looked or sounded like to the other people in the room. 

The room stayed still, the only sound coming from his crying and the faint crack of wood from the fire. Sherlock had no idea how much time had passed nor did he care. 

...

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up, it was Mrs Hudson. She planted a comforting little kiss on the top of Sherlock's forehead. She leaned forward as far as her sore hip would allow and whispered into Sherlock's ear.

“It's okay, dear. It's all okay. Let it out'' Sherlock found her proximity comforting and leaned into her a little bit, still crying. After a few minutes she took a step back, unable to hold that position any longer. She looked up to John who was watching from his seat. 

“Well, boys I think I am going to head down now. I will be just downstairs if you need anything. Is that alright?” 

“Yes, thank you.” said John, his voice horse, he must have been crying too, Sherlock released. 

“Sherlock?” she asked.

He was still sobbing and could not manage words. As much as he appreciated Mrs Hudson's presence he knew she could not stay there all night and she must be tired. He nodded. She put a reassuring hand on his shoulder as she passed. 

As much as he tried Sherlock could not stop crying. The tears just kept coming. He thought that maybe he should get up and go to his bedroom or chair or something but he couldn't move. All he could do was cry, as he let out all of his pent up emotions. He closed his eyes and became unaware of time passing and his surroundings once again.  

...

Footsteps. Sherlock's eyes darted open tears still streaming down his face. There was John standing in front of him. He watched as John maneuvered himself until he was sitting on his knees like Sherlock, directly in front of him. So close their knees almost brushed, but not quite. A new wake of sadness and pain triggered by seeing John, rushed over Sherlock. 

“Can I touch you?” asked John quietly. 

Sherlock could see that John was desperate to comfort him but didn't want to over step. Although he would never admit it he did often feel touch starved, and right now more than ever Sherlock needed a hug. Anyway he always wanted John to touch him. 

Sherlock nodded. John gently wrapped his arm around the detectives back, pulling him into a hug. His head came to rest on Sherlock's right shoulder. Sherlock placed his head on top of Johns and pulled his arms round him, dropping the note on the floor next to them. 

They stayed there locked in each other's embrace, fire roaring close by, neither of them saying anything, and both of them crying for what felt like an eternity. 

Finally Sherlock mustered up enough energy to break the silence. “John...I...I...I’m sorry” he said in a shaky voice.

“I know” John responded, taking a deep breath “I am sorry, I should have…”

“It's okay,” whispered Sherlock.

“No it is not. It's not okay.”

 “Your right. It's not, not yet... But I think it will be” Sherlock said after a long pause.

They sunk back into a comfortable silence, still locked in their hug. The heat from the fire warms up their sides.

The tears began to slow and eventually came to a halt after what Sherlock guessed must have been at least 45 minutes since this last exchange of words. Sherlock slowly began to realize what a toll sitting in this position on the hard floor for such a long time was having on his body. He began to feel quite sore, uncomfortable, overheated and was soon aching to move, but not wanting to pull away from John's embrace. John must be feeling sore as well though Sherlock, especially with his shoulder, and his leg. 

“We should probably move,” Sherlock sighed.

“Yeah your right” groaned John. 

“I don't want to,” added Sherlock without thinking. He hadn't put his filter back on yet and he felt a sudden twinge of regret for his words, unsure how John would react.

“Me neither” said John, soothing Sherlock's worry. 

They slowly removed their arms from each other and Sherlock stood up. He suddenly felt very cold without John pressed up next to him and the fire on his side. He reached down and extended a hand to assist John which he took. He pulled John up and their hands remained linked, neither one of them wanting to let go first. Sherlock glanced down and saw John was holding something in his other hand. The note. He must have just picked it up from where Sherlock had dropped it. John noticed his gaze, lifted the hand with the note in the air and stared directly into Sherlock's eyes. 

They stared at each other for a long moment, their hands still locked together. Sherlock thought he felt a strange tension in the air, but didn't know if he was imagining it. 

“Do you mind if I…?” said John gesturing towards the fire still burning in the fireplace.

“Not at all” Sherlock responded.

With that John let go of Sherlock's hand and walked over to the fireplace. He bent down and tossed the note into the flames. John stood up and walked back over to Sherlock's side. Sherlock's heart skipped a beat as John rejoined their hands. Neither of them said a word as they stared at the paper as it melted into a ball of ash. Sherlock read the words one last time, knowing this time everything was going to be okay.

Dear Sherlock,

Fuck off. I know that we have shared some nice memories together, but frankly I think that Sally was right, I should have stayed away from you. You have put me through so much pain and frankly I don't think it was worth it. You have killed my wife and I will never forgive you for that. I don't want your help, and the truth is I don't ever want to see you again. I am going to try and make up for all of those years I wasted on you. I hope that you suffer for what you have done. You have taken away Rosie's mother from her, and the love of my life. You should be ashamed of yourself. Go ahead kill yourself with drugs see if I care, you freak. 

Love John

 

A single tear ran down Sherlock's face. That note had caused him so much pain. Now it's gone. 

As he watched it burn he found his mind wandering back to a familiar place: the last line. The ending had always puzzled Sherlock and yet it was the part that hurt the most. What had prompted John to end the letter like that? Was it some kind of highly effective torture? Had John known about Sherlock's feelings and decided to use them against him in one final stab? Was it intended to soften the blow but unknowingly had the opposite effect? Or was he confessing something, thinking that he would never see Sherlock again? Sherlock has spent far too many hours in his mind palace trying to figure this out but has never been able to find an answer. 

He was torn out of his thoughts as John moved to face him, his right side facing the fire, and joined their other hands as well. If John stood any closer to him their bodys would be touching. Sherlock could feel his heart rate increase. John just stood there holding both of Sherlock's hands staring into his eyes.

“You know, I was drunk when I wrote it… not that, that's an excuse or anything, I thought you might want to know. What I did was terrible, Sherlock just terrible.... I am so, so sorry. I didn't mean it, I never have. I should have brought it up, I am such a moron...” 

“You are not a moron John.” Sherlock said softly.

“If you say so. I want to make this better Sherlock… what can I do?” he paused  “Is there anything you want to ask me… about any of it? He knew Sherlock too well, He knew that what Sherlock would want most is answers to his questions.

“I… Um… well…” Sherlock stuttered “there is one thing…”

“Shoot”

Sherlock looked at John directly in the eyes unsure about how to phrase his question. “What did you mean by the last line? What were you trying to accomplish?” he finally blurted out.

John took a deep breath, “Well, I didn't actually remember what I wrote down… I was really drunk. I guess that's why I never brought it up, I had no idea how hurtful what I had written was. So I am afraid I can't say for sure what my intention was with writing… Love John.” he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, gearing himself up to say something. When he finally opened his eyes they locked onto Sherlock’s. “I think I can take a pretty good guess though.” he paused, “are you sure you want to know? I don't know how you are going to…” 

“Yes, tell me please. I can handle it.” Sherlock responded, preparing for the worst.  

“Okay… well then… umm…” John took another breath looking down at the floor. 

Sherlock had a realization, John was nervous. Why was he nervous? John very rarely got nervous like this. What could John possibly be nervous about? He had no idea, but he felt the need to reassure john. He gave John's hands a comforting squeeze. John seemed to appreciate the gesture, he looked back up at Sherlock and continued talking. 

“Well, Sherlock I...um…I think, I think that I wrote that because it's true.” There was a long pause. Sherlock had no idea how to respond. He had no idea if he was hearing John correctly.  “It is true, it always has been, and it always will be.” John continued “ I Love You, Sherlock Holmes.” 

Sherlock didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to respond. He didn't like not knowing. His body was frozen but his mind was racing. Did John really just say that? Did he actually mean it? Or was he just trying to make Sherlock feel better? Sherlock looked John up and down desperately trying to find answers to his questions. He went over the facts: John was nervous, his pupils were dilated, he was standing unnecessarily close, he was holding both of Sherlock's hands, and he just said I love you. John said I love you. John said I love you to him! Sherlock glanced down at his own chest, He was hyperventilating. This felt like the time that John had asked Sherlock to be his best man and Sherlock was unable to speak, but this time much more intense. He wanted to tell John he felt the same way, that he always had and always will as well. He wanted to reach out and give John a hug or maybe even… He was pulled back to reality as John started to speak again. 

“Sherlock? Are you okay?” John asked nervously, a hint of fear in his voice as he let go of Sherlock's hands “I...I am sorry if I made you uncomfortable… you can forget that ever happened.”

No, no, no, no, no! He couldn't let John walk away from this, he couldn't let this moment be forgotten. He had to say something, anything! “NO!” Sherlock finally blurted out, rejoining their hands “I never want to forget this” years of repressing his emotions, this particular emotion, were making it difficult for him to speak his mind. 

“Sherlock it’s okay you don't have too…”

“No.” Sherlock repeated “I want to. I...I feel the same way.” Sherlock hoped that was enough for John to see how he truly felt, and hoped John would understand that those words were representative of everything he wanted to say but couldn't get out. But he knew he needed to say more, for John and for himself, he needed to break through his walls. John could see the internal struggle Sherlock was dealing with and gave him as much time as he needed. They stared into each other's eyes for a long moment before Sherlock took a deep breath and spoke again. “I love you John.”

Sherlock could see tears brimming in John's eyes and he felt a familiar streak of warmth fall down his own cheek. He didn't think he had any tears left to shed after the day he had, but this was different. In fact this was different then any kind of tears Sherlock had ever shed in the past. He wasn't crying out of pain, or sadness, he hadn't been verbally abused, or beat, up or disappointed in himself. He wasn't even crying out of happiness. This was something he had never experienced before, something despite his vast vocabulary he didn't know how to describe. This was love . 

“Sherlock,” said John, pulling the detective's attention back to him “I have an idea.”

“What?” Sherlock had found himself with an unusual lack of words.

“How about we make this day something to celebrate when we look back on it? Something that would make the memories of december the 15th full of happiness and erase the painful feelings surrounding it.”

“How?” 

Without answering, John took another step towards Sherlock so that they were pressed together. Causing shivers to run down Sherlock's spine. He released their intertwined fingers and his hands gradually made their way up to the back of Sherlock's neck and head, then very slowly began to tilt Sherlock's head down. John gave Sherlock plenty of time to back out if he felt this was too much, but nothing in the entire world could persuade Sherlock from leaving this spot, right here, right now. John raised himself up into his toes until their lips met in the middle. 

Sherlock’s palms were sweaty, his eyes red and puffy with tears, his breathing accelerated, his knees wobbly, and his heart was racing in more ways than one. It was amazing, it was fantastic, it was wonderful, it was every variant of the word in the English language all at once. It was the two of them against the rest of the world. He had never felt this way before, for once Sherlock had found emotional context that didn't destroy him. He never wanted to end, and he wasn't going to let it. He sealed every moment into his memory, preserving it. John and Sherlock, Sherlock and John, kissing without a care in the world In front of the blazing fire in their small cluttered flat at 221 baker street with their daughter sleeping upstairs. Frozen in time. Locked in each other's embrace for the rest of eternity. The Baker Street boys. This is the way it always has been, and always will be, back in 221b.