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Today was the day. John sniffed as he knelt on one knee to clip the lead to Mike’s collar. The beagle, sensing something wrong, had his tail tucked between his legs and gave gentle kisses to John’s nose and chin in an attempt to comfort him. Chuckling to keep the tears in place, John pressed his forehead against Mike’s and scratched him roughly behind the ears.
“I promise, you are gonna be so much happier with whoever adopts you than you would be with Harry. And I…” John’s words caught in his throat as he stared into the dark brown, round eyes set in the lemon-colored fur. “I’m not gonna be around to take care of you anymore. They need me in Afghanistan. To help take care of the people over there. I’m gonna be gone for a while, I don’t even know how many tours I’ll end up on, and… and I need to know you’re okay while I’m gone.” Unable to stop a hot, salty tear rolling down his cheek, John shoved his face into Mike’s neck, bundling him into his arms as he did so.
A warm tongue flicked out and searched for John’s cheek, finding an ear and then an eye instead as Mike squirmed against the hold. A chuckle escaped John’s throat even as he continued to bury his face in fur. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you all this. It’s not like you understand that I’ve joined the army. You just know that something is changing...” He stopped talking again then, knowing it would lead to more tears.
After a few moments to calm himself, John pulled away and put Mike down on his own four paws. He picked up the bag with Mike’s favorite toys, cuddle blanket, and extra food and tucked the envelope marked “To Mike’s New Owner” into his coat pocket. With a downward glance at the apprehensive dog, John put on a smile and tried for an upbeat voice, “Ready for a ride?” A short yip was the only response as Mike shook some of the tension from his body.
———
A few years later found John standing in his kitchen. Staring blankly at the kettle on the stove, waiting for it to boil, John—for the umpteenth time since he had been invalided home a few months prior—wondered how Mike was. The beige kitchen of the dreary bedsit faded away around him as the floppy, yellow ears, white face, and brown nose solidified in his mind as memories rushed back. The first day he picked out Mike—a tiny bundle of play and the cutest face—the rascal had tried to pick up a full-sized tennis ball in his mouth, but he couldn’t quite get a grip on it because his mouth had been too small. John’s heart clenched, and he felt a tremble work into his left hand.
The kettle whistled, making him leap back from the counter in surprise and cover his face with his forearms. When he realized what had made the sound, John rushed to take the kettle off the heat. His hands shook, so he almost spilled boiling water across his feet. Once the noise stopped, John slumped against the cupboards and slid down, crumpling into a heap on the floor. Breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, he attempted to bring his heart rate back down, to let the adrenaline wash out of his system.
He picked through memories of Mike, his only companion before he left, Harry more of a family burden than a friend. God, not a burden , John chided himself and tried to focus on the good—the normal—parts of his life with Mike rather than the scenes of blood and shouting and sand.
The day he had to drop Mike off at the shelter tore through him. Already riding high on emotions, tears flooded John’s eyes as he saw the sad look in those brown ones.
With a shuddering breath, he pressed fingertips against his eyelids and counted out breaths. This time he focused on the gluconeogenesis cycle instead. Something from his undergraduate days. Before the war, before Mike.
Something safe.
His breathing returned to normal, and John let his knees fall and arms drop as exhaustion ripped through him first thing in the morning. He sighed, leaned back, and closed his eyes. I can’t keep fucking doing this. Bloody hell. Sunlight lit up the back of his eyelids, making his world turn red.
He dropped his head against the cupboard. The sound echoed through the quiet, empty space. He did it again, this time, with purpose. And a third time. The movement, the sound, the physicality of it centering him more than the breathing had. He knew it wasn’t the best, but he would deal with that later when he could think properly again. Finding the world to be mostly settled around him, John opened his eyes and pulled himself up using the counter. He turned back to the stove and was thankful that the water was still warm enough for tea.
———
That afternoon found him in the park, cane in hand. Frustrated by the pain in his leg, John marched along the best he could, fighting against the overwhelming helplessness and anger attempting to consume him. Intently focused on placing one foot in front of the other, he meandered past the grass and trees, oblivious to the sights and people around him.
A blur of white and tan caught his eye right before he was toppled to the ground by a small, solid mass. His cane went skittering behind him as he threw his arms out to the sides to catch himself. Before John had a chance to react physically or emotionally, a wet tongue slobbered kisses all over his face, and a distant “Mike!” sounded in the distance.
Grabbing the excited ball of fluff underneath the front legs, John pulled the creature off of him. Dark brown eyes met his, a whimper escaped a closed mouth, and the tail whipped the whole body in an exaggerated wiggle.
“Mike,” John whispered before dissolving into giggles and clutching his friend to his chest. He managed to shift them into a seated position—Mike’s back paws in the middle of John’s crisscrossed legs, front ones balancing against John’s chest as Mike continued to lick welcome-home kisses all over John’s face.
As John roughed the fur up and down Mike’s back, a tall stranger approached, clad in a sharp suit, leather shoes, and a thick wool coat that came past his knees. When John settled Mike down, content to curl in his lap, he looked up into pale blue eyes and felt his soul laid bare. He cast his eyes back to the beagle in his lap and threaded his fingers through the soft fur around his ears and under the collar.
“I would apologize on behalf of my canine friend. But under the circumstances... Afghanistan or Iraq?”
Startled, John’s shoulders straightened but kept petting Mike to hide his reaction. When he processed the question, he looked back up into the stranger’s face.
“Pardon? I’m sorry but…how did you…” John trailed off, the rest of the question lost to the daze the man’s cheekbones cast over him.
“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Annoyance now tinged the low voice.
Swallowing hard and grounding himself in the fur beneath his hands, John answered, “Afghanistan.”
“Quite right.” The tall man shifted his stance. “You’re Mike’s previous owner, are you not?”
Lost in the haze made by both the conversation and the bloody gorgeous man in front of him, John nodded twice in a clipped fashion.
“I thought as much.” He offered a hand to John and helped him stand, dislodging Mike from his temporary bed. “I’m usually quite busy, and Mike doesn’t get nearly as many walks as he desires. If you wish, I’d be more than happy to take you on as a dog walker. I’d rather not unsettle him by having him change homes again.” Casting his gaze away, the man added, “And I do find myself quite attached at this point.” Then, the pale eyes found John’s face and darted around his features—his hair, his eyes, his lips—before settling on Mike standing between them. “I’m sure it would do you both a world of good to be together again. He’s quite missed you.”
A vice gripped around John’s heart in a brief moment of mutual loneliness before whispering, “I’ve missed him, too.” When he found the courage to look back up, John found understanding, without the expected pity, etched into the stranger’s eyes, lips pressed together in a hard line. The dark curls of the man bounced as he gave a quick nod.
“I’d be surprised if you didn’t. Mike’s a well-trained dog, thanks to you.”
A smile turned up one corner of John’s mouth. “He was already great when I got him. Just needed some polishing up honestly.” He shrugged his right shoulder, the left still too stiff to move so easily. Then, a thought occurred to him, and his brow furrowed. “You never did answer. How did you know about Afghanistan? About me and Mike?”
The man’s mouth twitched in an aborted smirk. “Ah. I didn’t know. I saw.”
Confusion crept through John’s body and settled deeply into the lines of his face, enough so for Mike to whimper at him. The sound broke the rising tension, and John reached down to pat Mike on the head to calm him just as his new owner did the same. When their fingers touched, they both drew back in surprise. Staring into the mesmerizing hue of the stranger’s eyes, John wondered how the cool skin of the man’s hand would feel on John’s inflamed, heated shoulders, the full lips slotted between his own.
Mike whimpered again, desperate for the attention he almost received; and John coughed, banishing the inappropriate thoughts from his mind. This time he did not reach down and let the other man calm his, their? , dog. As he watched the slender fingers scratch behind Mike’s floppy ear, making the dog lean against nice trousers and tongue lolling out, John remembered his question.
“What do you mean you saw? What did you see?”
The tall figure unfurled from his crouch and roamed his calculating gaze over John’s form again. “Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad but not sunbathing.” Glancing between them, he nodded at Mike’s hopeful face and wagging tail. “Add to that, Mike, a particularly loyal and well-trained dog, bolting away from me and to what, at the time, was a complete stranger, indicated that he somehow knew you. Perhaps a favorite shelter employee, more likely his previous owner.”
He paused here, searching John’s face before adding, “It was really quite the letter you wrote.”
John felt his face heat, and he rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “They...They actually gave it to you, did they? I was hoping they would, but I never thought I’d run into the person reading it.”
Quiet settled over them, John not willing to look up from the particular heart-shaped white splotch near Mike’s back leg.
“Yes,” the man’s voice came out low and soft. “They did. And I am quite fortunate to have met the writer.”
When John finally tore his gaze away from Mike, he found himself staring into pools of liquid glass, constantly shifting colors of swirling emotion. Trying to find his voice, he cleared his throat, but no sound came out, the air missing from his lungs.
The man spoke again. “I trust you are amenable to taking over some extra walks for Mike. Meet me tomorrow at 221b Baker Street. Any time. If I’m not there, the landlady will let you in.” With that, he leashed Mike, turned around with a twirl of his greatcoat, and walked away. John was left gazing after him, wondering what he had gotten himself into. Shaking his head, he pivoted on his heel and strode home, never once thinking about the cane still sprawled on the path where it fell.
The next day, John couldn’t help but keep the appointment, the allure of the strange man and the promise of time with Mike too much to stop himself. When he stepped out of the cab, his leg twinged, and he reached for his cane before realizing he didn’t have it. Well, that’s a bloody pain, John thought, worry building up in his chest about walking Mike. He shook the feeling from his limb and walked to the black door.
Raising his hand to grasp the knocker, John jolted when the door flew open before him.
“John!” came a surprised voice, and John stepped back as the man hurried down the steps. As he turned to go back inside, a question halted him.
“I know you are here for Mike, but you were an army doctor, were you not?”
John tilted his head and turned to face the impossible man behind him. With a slow nod, he answered, “Yes. I was.”
“Which means you’ve seen a lot of violence and bloodshed.”
“Enough for a lifetime,” John breathed out, now thoroughly confused at the line of questioning.
With a gesture towards the passing cab, the man said, “I’m off to assist the police at a crime scene, care to join?”
Before John could think to hesitate, to consider the situation, to consider Mike, the words tumbled out of him, “Oh god, yes.”
The stranger smirked and opened the cab door, gesturing for John to enter. As he did, the man finally gave John a name. Sherlock Holmes. The world’s only consulting detective.
———
Several years passed, and John was now alone with Mike in 221b. The gloom of the day before sat heavily over John, over Mike, over the leather chair, over the skull on the mantelpiece, over everything. The daring cases chasing criminals, the comfortable silences, the not comfortable silences, the fights, the shared looks, the ill-timed jokes. It sat over the small smiles, the lingering touches, the personal boundary-crossing, the shared breaths that never quite became more. It covered and colored it all.
The impossible man had done the impossible thing and jumped from the roof of St. Barts.
Sitting in his red, threadbare chair, Union Jack pillow stuffed by his thigh, John watched as Mike slunk over to the leather chair and sniffed around it once or twice before placing his paws on the edge and jumping onto the seat. As soon as he was on the chair, Mike collapsed into a puddle, tail tucked around himself, and stared at John across the way.
“I know, bud. I miss him, too.”
———
A year later, they were taking a walk to visit Sherlock, or what was left of him under that patch of green. Together, they trudged along, John with his returned limp and Mike dragging his paws, tail down.
Today was the anniversary of the day he lost the best man he’d ever known. John was still not quite sure what he could have done, what he could have said to stop him. Perhaps if he had known how John felt? No, John couldn’t let himself go down that path. It would do no one any good.
When they stopped in front of his grave, Mike dropped himself down in front of the marker and let out a deep sigh that turned into a whimper. Damn you, John thought to the body six feet under his feet. Damn you. Don’t you see what you did to Mike? To me? Tears trickled down John’s face and off his chin. After letting four drops run their course, he wiped away the rest.
“I won’t waste my tears on you anymore. It’s not worth it. Mike… Mike and I have to move on. You understand. You… You left us. And I won’t… I can’t... I—” His throat constricted against the thought, so instead the words, “Goodbye, Sherlock,” finally escaped his lips.
Straightening his spine, John nodded at the grave and called for Mike to follow before turning on his heel and striding away. He forced himself to ignore the pain in his leg and tremor in his hand.
———
A few months passed, and John was trying to rearrange the cupboard to fit in the dry goods he’d bought. There was something tucked in the corner blocking new boxes from fitting. When he reached in and pulled out the box, John froze.
It was Sherlock’s favorite brand.
John’s hand started to shake as Mike came over to investigate the new groceries, tail wagging. John’s vision blurred.
John hadn’t bought that brand since Sherlock had jumped. He thought he had gotten rid of all things Sherlock-related. But, apparently, he hadn’t. Here sat a remnant of old times. Like it hadn’t been years. Like it hadn’t changed John forever. Like it was just another day, waiting to become another cup of tea that would go half-drunk.
Clutching the box of tea with three bags left in it, John slid down, leaning against the cupboards for support. Mike stopped his sniffing and nudged his nose under John’s elbow, offering the only support a good dog knows how. As he curled deeper into himself, John rested his head on Mike’s, hoping to remind himself of the present. Later that day, he would finish putting away the shopping and clean out the cupboards. He would sit with Mrs. Hudson and listen to her prattle on about the current gossip. But right now, he sat. And he allowed himself to miss—what he could now finally admit was—the man he loved.
———
Another year passed, and then another. Light shone through the double windows onto the lonely chair and coffee table in the too bare sitting room. A flash of memory of what used to be played before John’s eyes: papers strewn, a leather chair, a cow skull wearing headphones. A sad chuckle escaped him as he turned to the coat pegs to grab Mike’s leash.
The scrabbling sound of his paws on the floor was quickly followed by the beagle himself, tail wagging and tongue lolling, excited for a walk. It had been a few days since their last one.
The third anniversary had passed almost unnoticed by everyone. John had managed a brave face and fake smile good enough to fool everyone, except Mrs. Hudson. She knew, and she remembered. That evening she had brought up some biscuits with the chocolate on and a cup of tea, Billy the skull carefully balanced on the tray with it all. John’s wonderful fake smile had turned watery, and he felt the ache deep in his chest as if it had never gone away. It hadn’t really. It never would. But he was able to ignore it most days now.
Mike whimpered at John’s still hand, and life restarted. John pushed away the sadness fiddling for a grasp on his mind again and clipped the lead to Mike’s collar. To Regent’s Park it was.
The paths were quiet in the autumn air as the leaves were gently pushed in whichever direction the wind currently decided. Mike was in turn sniffing the path edges and trotting along at a jovial pace, unaware of the cloud hovering in John’s mind. Distracted by the flitting memories and absent thoughts leading nowhere, John missed the signs of Mike’s impending escape. The rigid spine, the twitching nose catching a scent in the breeze.
Before John could re-clasp the lead, Mike was almost a meter away from him, darting down the path with a short yip. Forgetting the pain in his leg, John bolted after him, grasping for the leash, Mike’s collar, even his back legs, desperate to grab him before an accident occurred.
It couldn’t be helped. Mike dove straight into the chest of a stranger. The man’s hoodie was thrown back revealing a mat of dark curls and a pale face. As John reached to pull Mike off, he spewed apologies and excuses, hoping the stranger wouldn’t press charges against Mike. One word stopped him in his tracks. The sounds of Mike excitedly whimpering and attempting to lick the man’s face faded into silence as the resonance of the voice reverberated through his skull.
“John,” was all the voice had said. The voice of a man that should be streets away and six-feet under. The voice John had promised himself to stop listening to the recording of. But here he was, sitting in front of John being welcomed home by their dog.
Falling to his knees, John cupped his hands around the sharp cheekbones, made sharper by time and lack of regular meals. He stared into the pale blue eyes that haunted his dreams before finally saying, “You utter pillock. Tell me I’m hallucinating. Tell me you didn’t actually rise from the dead.”
He watched as Sherlock’s expression turned pained and sour. “No, John. It’s not... I’m just… not, and never was, dead.” Sherlock’s lips closed in a thin line, his eyes darting between each of John’s.
As he leaned back to sit on his heels, John dropped his hands from Sherlock’s face. Clenching his fists together over his knees, the only words that came out of his mouth were, “Three years, Sherlock. Three bloody years.” John shook his head and glanced away, picking up Mike’s lead and moving to stand.
Long fingers on his forearms stopped him. “John, wait.”
He stopped but did not turn to look at the impossible man beside him. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. The floodgates were buckling, threatening to drown him. He couldn’t.
But John remained standing.
After gathering his breath, without looking, John reached out an open hand and said, “Up you get. To Baker Street with you. A hot shower and a good meal is what you need. We can… talk after.”
Cold, thin, strong fingers slipped across John’s palm to grasp at a forearm as Sherlock pulled himself up with John’s help. John looked down and saw their feet, all three sets next to each other—a pair of brown leather shoes beside a pair of scuffed white sneakers and a wagging tail. It wasn’t right—a pair of oxfords would be more so—but it wasn’t wrong either. Throat tight, eyes full, and breath frozen, John followed the white sneakers up into the face he had almost forgotten.
As he took in the sight of Sherlock, long fingers slipped between his and gave a gentle squeeze as Sherlock said, “That sounds perfect.”
At the words, John clenched the hand in his, Sherlock’s clasp equal in response, gave a short nod, and strode toward the flat. To a place missing half of itself ready to be made whole again.
Tonight, they would talk, hash it all out, loud voices and accusations included. Declarations of pain and of love. Betrayal, confusion, and passion. They would start the conversation as scorned friends and end it as tentative lovers. But for now, they would walk, hand in hand, toward home.