Chapter Text
“Goodbye, John.” Sherlock breathed out with a sad smile before throwing his phone away.
“No-” John gasped out, his breathing picking up as despair settled in, and yet he couldn’t move — it was like his feet were glued to the concrete. “Don’t-” he couldn’t say another word as he saw Sherlock, his soulmate, step onto the ledge. His bravado finally flailed as he looked down one last time before opening his arms and letting go.
“SHERLOCK!” John screamed, and he desperately looked at his ring, as it turned black and crumbled to ashes that flowed in the wind.
“NO!” He shouted and bolted upwards, sitting up on his bed, feeling the sweat prickling down his neck. He urgently turned the bedside lamp on and looked at his hand. It’s safe. He breathed out in relief, closing his hand in a tight fist.
He blindly felt for his phone on the bedside table. 3:43am. Same time every day. Was everything going to be a bloody routine without Sherlock? He looked to his side and smiled softly, thanking god for Mary’s deep slumber. At least I didn’t wake her up today... she must’ve been tired.
Knowing he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep, he got up and got dressed in his jogging pants and favorite black dress coat. It was Sherlock’s favorite too, he reminisced, smiling sadly, the time that the arrogant detective had complimented him.
“It suits you well.” He had nodded towards John. “The coat, I mean. I like it better than that hideous jumper.”
John had scoffed. “Well, thanks I guess?” He had shaken his head and crossed his arms. “You’re still awful with compliments. We need to work on that.” He had chuckled at Sherlock’s confused face before placing a soft peck on his pouted lips. He knew exactly how to dismantle his detective’s composure.
John looked back at the bed — feeling guilty for thinking about Sherlock with Mary laying asleep one foot away — one last time before slipping out the door.
Two goddamn years.
The cold wind hit his face like a sharp needle, and he felt his nose grow red as he shoved his hands into his pockets, hugging himself to warm up. His steps echoed through the empty streets of London as he walked aimlessly.
The London he knew so well felt foreign, even as he passed Angelo’s and remembered his and Sherlock’s awfully awkward ‘first date’, if you could even call it that. John remembered feeling incredibly unlucky that his soulmate was someone as clueless to feelings as Sherlock, but things had changed fast between them.
Sherlock didn’t know the first thing about the steps of a relationship, and he skipped at least five of them when he insisted that John moved in with him right away.
“I need a flat mate, you could use a change of routine.” He had stated, pointing out the obvious. “And there’s this,” he showed his hand, the thin band glowing pink around his finger, “that means that we are, uh, soulmates, doesn’t it?” He gestured his hand around nonchalantly.
John couldn’t help but chuckle before looking up at the peculiar man. “Just that simple, hm?”
Sherlock frowned and blinked, his brows furrowed. “Yes.” He stated the obvious. “I don’t see why it should be any more complex than just that.” He turned back to the window.
“Look, as much as we are indeed soulmates,” John’s cheeks flushed as he looked sheepishly at his pink ring and then at Sherlock’s matching one, “I think it’s too soon-”
“Look across the street, there’s a taxi. Nobody getting in, nobody getting out. Why a taxi? Oh, that’s clever! Is it clever, why is it clever?” He started rambling, ignoring John’s words completely, leaving the doctor stunned and amused at once.
“That’s him.”
And then Sherlock took off, and John could only follow. They ran across the streets of London after a cab, and then John was certain that he had to move into Baker Street as soon as possible, meaning immediately.
The wind picked up as John made his way to a place where he could talk to his deceased soulmate. The only place that brought both comfort and sorrow to the ex soldier’s heart. It was a long walk, but he had time, and was not in the slightest hurry.
As the first rays of sunlight crept up the horizon, John paced quietly to the black stone grave. The words engraved in there would never cease to torment him.
He stood there, absentmindedly rubbing his black ring with his thumb — a nervous habit he had developed after the fall.
“Hello again, Sherlock.” He swallowed before letting out a shallow breath. “Today is the day.” He chuckled, determined not to cry. “It’s today. I’ll pop the question to Mary. I do hope she’ll say yes.” He smiled weakly. “I got a nice ring and all. I obviously wasn’t going to use yours... or the one that was supposed to be yours anyway. Well, I just came to... tell you. Thought you should know. She is a ringless... like myself, now. Sort of.” He stopped, looking at the black band attached to his finger once again. “I think... I might finally be walking towards happiness again. She makes me happy... she’s a great woman, and the reason I haven’t gone completely bullocks in these two years.” John sighed, passing his fingers carefully over the polished surface of the gravestone.
“You know I’ll never forget you, right?” He stammered, swallowing hard again, and half hoping that he would get an answer. “Even if I do get married, even if I... get to be happy again... I will never forget you, Sherlock. You saved me from myself, and I am so, so grateful. You know that, ‘course you do, but I still think that I haven’t said it quite as much as I should’ve, and oh, how I bloody regret it. I might as well say it now, then... I love you. I do, so much. Even after all this time. I love you, you sod.” His insides burned as he felt an inevitable sob escape his throat, almost tearing it apart. He kneeled , clutching helplessly at the stone and resting his forehead against it as the sun came up, painting the sky in all sorts of oranges, purples and yellows. His soft cries were all that filled the empty cemetery.
••
John stood outside for a moment before gathering the courage to open the door and enter.
As soon as he was in the corridor, memories came rushing through his head, and he swore he could hear Sherlock’s violin again for a second — the same violin that used to bug him off at times, but he missed so, so dearly. Everything they had been through in that same place was coming undone inside of him, and he could barely grasp at the bolt of emotions that were coursing through him.
He felt misplaced. Like a bird that lost its flock, or a planet out of orbit, just meandering around hoping to find something to grasp onto.
Before he could dwell more in thoughts of Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson came out of her kitchen.
She was mad. Of course she was, and she made sure to let it be known by violently slamming the tray of tea and biscuits down the table. John silently winced.
After pointing out how terrible his mustache looked, and how it aged him, Mrs. Hudson sighed. “I’m not your mother, I’ve no right to expect it... but just one phone call would have done.” Her angry stance dissipated.
John looked down, ashamed. “After all we went through!” She cried out, genuinely upset.
“Yes. I am sorry.” John made sure too look into her eyes. He did just leave with no forewarning, without a word, just vanished. He just left, didn’t call, didn’t pay a visit, didn’t contact Mrs. Hudson at all, and as she sat there, throwing it all to his face, he felt the guilt weighing on his shoulders again.
“Look, I understand how difficult it was to you after... after...” She stopped, not managing to complete her thoughts into words.
“I just let it slide, Mrs Hudson. I let it all slide. And it just got harder and harder to pick up the phone somehow.”
“I’m sorry.” He blurted out again. It was so very hard for him to say those words, but they were the only ones he could manage. “I was a terrible friend for leaving you alone, and I am sorry. I just... I couldn’t, Mrs. Hudson. Coming back here to an empty flat... no gunshots, no violin, no shouting, no nothing. It was... it is too painful.” He swallowed, not daring to look up at the landlady’s softened gaze.
“Oh, John!” She covered her mouth, feeling tears prickling in her eyes. “We both miss Sherlock. All his stunts and the troubles he’d get into.” She smiled fondly at the memories of long years. “You should have called me! You know I would never leave you alone.” She shook her head just as John got up, and so did she.
They went upstairs to the empty flat, and much to John’s surprise, it was exactly the same way he had left it when he moved. It looked forlorn, unfamiliar even, like he had never seen the place before, and yet it held so many memories. The smell of mold, dust and damp was suffocating, and merged with the Sherlock-typical clutter, it was barely bearable to him.
“Why now? What changed your mind?” Mrs. Hudson asked absently as she opened the curtains and windows to let in some fresh air.
“Well, I’ve got some news.” His face was serious, and Mrs. Hudson raised her eyebrows in worry.
“Oh, god. Is it serious?” She grimaced.
John frowned, confused. “What... no. No, I’m not ill. Well I’ve, ah, I’m moving on.”
The landlady gave him a sort of odd smile. “You’re emigrating.”
John closed his eyes and turned his head. “Nope. No, ah... I’ve, uh, I’ve met someone.” He finally said, his face impassible but his heart almost exploding out of his chest with anxiety.
Mrs. Hudson gasped and clapped, giggling with delight. “Oh, lovely!”
He let out a silent sigh of relief. “Yeah. We’re getting married. Well, I’m going to ask her anyway.”
She frowned again. “So soon after Sherlock?” Her face didn’t hold the slightest hint of disapproval, in fact, she looked more concerned than anything, to which John was grateful, however he did not need any more questioning than he already had.
He looked down at his ring again. “I... well. You know we never really... we were never official.” He offered her a slight smile, in an attempt to calm her worries. “I was going to, you know. Make it official. But...” he didn’t need to finish. Mrs. Hudson was by his side in a second, rubbing his shoulder tenderly.
“He did love you, John. You know how he was... always so clueless to emotions, never knowing how to deal with them. Even more clueless when it came to romance.” She chuckled, covering her mouth. “Funny, isn’t it? How could a genius be such a clod.”
John laughed at that. “Well, you are right about that. He was, indeed, a clod.”
The landlady’s smile faded. “It hasn’t fallen off.” She commented, somewhat alarmed as she held the ex soldier’s hand between both of hers.
“Yeah, no. Lestrade thinks it’s just a defect of some sort. He’s probably right, I mean, what other possible explanation would there be?” He looked up at Mrs. Hudson’s face.
She just nodded, thankfully not bringing up the first months after the fall, when John was in complete denial, creating theories, doing researches, trying to find a way to prove that Sherlock was alive and that it was why his ring hadn’t fallen off. Just refusing to even say the words, afraid they might become real. Everyone took it as a broken man’s delusions, even his therapist, and the doctor ended up shutting himself off from everything and everyone, going back to how life was before Sherlock, going back to a dull routine.
That was until he met Mary, by a complete accident, and finally gave himself a chance at happiness again. The road was bumpy until he could come to terms with his own mixed feelings, how being with another person did not erase his feelings for Sherlock, nor did it make him a terrible person.
“Now, tell me more about this someone you’ve met!” Mrs. Hudson’s voice stopped his intruding thoughts, and she sounded so cheerful for him.
He grinned. “Well, her name is Mary. She’s... delightful.” He chuckled and looked down, a bit embarrassed.
“Mary? So it’s a she?”
John was amused. “Yeah, of course it’s a she.” He paused, licking his lips briefly. “Mrs. Hudson, I am not gay.” He held his hands up, defensively.
On the other hand, Mrs. Hudson just hummed in agreement, containing a smile, “Live and let live. That’s my motto.”
The doctor breathed out an incredulous chuckle. “A good one, I suppose,” He cleared his throat, “Well, we met by accident, me and Mary. At Barts. She was just dropping off her application to work as a nurse there. We hit it off right away, her being ringless too, and all.” He nodded, his smile not fading from his lips.
“I’m sure Sherlock gives you his blessings!” She stated proudly, holding her hands close to her chest. “And so do I. You deserve to be happy, John. It’s truly marvelous that you’re finally allowing yourself to get out there again!” She sighed dreamily, her eyes full of tears, and hugged the doctor tightly.
••
Hair neatly cut, beard clean-shaven, clothes pressed and as posh as ever, Sherlock stood in his brother’s office, staring at his own reflection in the mirror.
“Just put me back in London. I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in – feel every quiver of its beating heart.” He looked with anticipation at Mycroft, ignoring what his assistant said about one of their men dying to get information on the underground terror cell he was supposed to investigate.
He absently turned back to the mirror, putting his coat on. “And what about John Watson?” He smiled briefly at himself when the name lingered off his tongue.
He missed the exasperated glance the assistant threw at Mycroft, and the slow inhale of breath his brother took in with a crease of worry on his forehead.
“John?” Mycroft could only ask.
“Mhm,” he murmured, reaching under his shirt after the thin silver chain he always carried with him, “have you seen him?”
Mycroft almost snorted. “Oh, yes – we meet up every Friday for fish and chips!” He gestured to his assistant and she handed folder to Sherlock.
Smiling condescendingly, Mycroft said, “I’ve kept a weather eye on him, of course.”
Sherlock opened the folder, trying to hide his eagerness, to find two black and white pictures of his doctor and a detailed report. He didn’t smile, suddenly feeling a jittery wrench in the pit of his stomach. Why am I nervous? He cursed himself in his head. He refused to let his feelings overtake control of his mind.
“You haven’t been in touch at all, to prepare him?”
Distractedly, Sherlock responded, “no.” Looking back at one of the pictures, he grimaced, “well, we’ll have to get rid of that.”
“We?” Mycroft asked, knowing very well that John had, in fact, moved on with his life, and pondering if Sherlock’s unawareness was better or worse.
“He looks ancient. I can’t be seen to be wandering around with an old man.” He smirked inwardly and threw the closed file onto the desk.
With his Belstaff coat fit around him, the collar pulled upwards the way he liked it, Sherlock felt all more powerful. The blood pumped violently in his veins at the sheer thought of being back in action in dear old London, and he smirked, blindly feeling for the chain across his chest.
“Thank you,” he turned to Mycroft, “…blud.”
••
The ring on his finger felt foreign as he sat down, menu in hand, scrolling his eyes through a bunch of fancy dishes — most of which he hadn’t ever tasted.
John cursed himself as the first thought that came into mind was one of Sherlock, and how the posh bastard would know all those dishes and choose one for his doctor, one he would be certain he’d enjoy, based on years of knowing each other and living together.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the restaurant, a tall lanky individual walked past the double doors of the elegant and grand hotel, just as nervous, if not more than John, however he would never confess to that in a million years.
The ring above his torso felt heavier, and the white scar on his annular-finger seemed to itch uncontrollably. He cleared his throat and pulled on a confident front, snatching the silver chain above his head in a swift manner.
He held the piece of jewelry against the bright lights and examined it. It was glowing orange, with a hint or blue and purple. Sherlock was used to the constant mix of colors that John Watson was, always displaying such a vast plethora of emotions, almost inundating himself in the depths of those sentiments. He supposed that was fine, and he liked to think that they were the perfect duo exactly because of that fact: John was the hearts and he was the brains. (Nevertheless, in reality, they were both all about heart).
An odd combination this time, Sherlock pondered, slipping the ring back on his finger, successfully covering the round scar that had wedged its way there. He looked around, the gears in his brain working unrelentingly as the deductions came so naturally to him.
He smirked, his ego inflating as he realized it would be just as easy as it always had been with John.
Easily snatching a bow tie, a pair of glasses and an eyeliner pencil from inattentive patrons, he disguised himself as a waiter, which would grant him the benefit of anonymity as he looked forward to surprising his doctor.
Spotting John was rather easy, even more so with that obnoxious mustache he had attached to his face. Gruesome. We really do need to get rid of that thing.
John had been fidgeting with his blackened ring — as he always did — when a waiter came to his table, offering his help with a godawful French accent, but John was too anxious to pay any mind to that.
“Hi, yeah. I’m looking for a bottle of champagne – a good one.” He said, not looking up to said waiter.
Sherlock squinted his eyes in slight annoyance and leaned closer, “Mmm! Well, these are all excellent vintages.” They were, in fact.
“Er, it’s not really my area. What do you suggest?”
“Well, you cannot possibly go wrong, but, erm, if you’d like my personal recommendation...” Sherlock kept gazing over at John’s face, silently urging the doctor to look up just for a second. He convinced himself that it was because he wanted to see the surprise on his face, but in reality he just missed the intense blue-gray irises and dilated pupils filled with desire and admiration every time they caught sight of the detective.
“Mm-hm.” John hummed.
“…this last one on the list is a favorite of mine.” He cleared his throat, attempting to call the doctor’s attention, but to no avail. John only nodded.
Sherlock then straightened up, gazing at his ring, which now was mostly orange with tinges of purple. No blue, that is good. “It is – you might, in fact, say – like a face from ze past.” He took his stolen —no, borrowed— glasses off expectantly.
“Great. I’ll have that one, please.” John added, finishing his glass of red wine.
Sherlock looked like an abandoned puppy, so disappointed that John hadn’t recognized him yet. He tried again nevertheless. “It is familiar, but, er, with the quality of surprise!” At the last word, he switched off his intentionally terrible French accent, gesturing dramatically.
But John didn’t even flinch, and just handed the wine list to the supposed waiter.
“Well, er, surprise me.”
In his own voice, the detective replied, “Certainly endeavoring to, sir,” before walking away with a hint of annoyance in his pace to fetch the promised champagne.
John took a deep breath and looked at his ring with a sad smile. He knew he should have taken it off for tonight, but he didn’t have the heart to. Not yet. It had been long two years but… it felt wrong to even think of taking it off.
Mary didn’t seem to mind anyway, so he didn’t feel too guilty.
Sherlock… you won’t be mad at me for moving forward will you? He sighed inwardly. His heart was still torn in two, one side wanting desperately to have Sherlock back, and to go back to the not-normal-at-all normality of his old life at 221B, and the other wanting to be able to move on with no regrets towards happiness again.
He had been questioning if he deserved happiness at all for far too long, and now he was certain that he did, indeed, deserve it. He wasn’t a horrible person, a criminal, a murderer of such. He was just a troubled man with scars too deep to heal, perhaps.
Interrupting his self-destructive chain of thoughts, Mary came, stunning as she ever was, down the stairs, slowly, and John felt his heart shiver and palpitate inside of his chest. She is the woman I love. He assured himself.
“Sorry that took so long.” She smiled and retrieved her place in front of him again.
When John didn’t reply, she added, “you okay?”
John snapped his head up, smiling, “yeah, yeah. Me? Fine. I am fine.” He repeated more to himself, looking at her with delight as she chuckled.
She is the right one for me. She’s as close to a soulmate as I’ll ever get, and that in itself is a blessing. It’s a second chance not everyone gets to have.
“Now then, what did you want to ask me?” She interrupted his thoughts again, and he looked nervously at her, his smile fading.
“More wine?”
“No, I’m good with water, thanks.”
“Right.” He looked away.
She didn’t deviate her gaze, “so?”
“Er, so... Mary. Listen, erm... I know it hasn’t been long... I mean, I know we haven’t known each other for a long time...” he struggled with his words and looked down.
“Go on.” Mary encouraged.
“Yes, I will. As you know, these last couple of years haven’t been easy for me; and meeting you...” He looked down, thinking of his next words, and nodding, “yeah, meeting you has been the best thing that could have possibly happened.”
With a tiny smirk, she added, “I agree.”
“What?” John asked, even though he should already be used to that kind of behavior from his date.
“I agree I’m the best thing that could have happened to you.” She had a smile plastered on her lips. John laughed, feeling a bit more at ease.
“Sorry”
“Well, no. That’s, uhm…” he paused, “so... if you’ll have me, Mary, could you see your way, uhm...” he cleared his throat as she giggled. “…if you could see your way to…”
And just as he was about to get to it, he hissed as he felt something on his ring. He snapped his gaze onto it, but it was still black, the same way it had been for two years. And Mary looked at him with worry in her features, and he felt guilty, and embarrassed, and confused, uncertain, fearful even, and he was sure that if he could see Sherlock’s ring it would be glowing just like party lights.
And as if on cue, the previous waiter came trotting down with the bottle of champagne in hand, and John was frozen when he saw the ring on the man’s finger, glowing in all colors, and he felt fear, and he saw when the ring turned fully lavender. He looked up, somehow all the sounds had been drowned out by the sound of his own heartbeat, that was increasing by the second.
By any means was he expecting to see Sherlock himself, in the flesh, standing ridiculously with a poorly drawn mustache above his lips. John staggered and looked down, hiding his tearful eyes and swallowing the hard knot that threatened to form on his throat.
He knew that the detective was spluttering barely thought sentences now, but his brain could not process them at that moment. He was in utter shock, only able to distinguish the brawl of mixed feelings by the glowing in Sherlock’s ring, that was quickly changing from orange, to yellow, to blue, to purple, to brown, to beige, and jumbling them all together, just as he felt inside.
He could hear Mary’s worried questions as she realized who was the man causing so much distress to the doctor, whom was breathing heavily.
John stumbled up, using one fist to support his weight on the table as he felt a bit dizzy. John was trying very hard to lock his eyes with the cold-blue ones of his deceased soulmate, but he couldn’t keep his gaze up for more than a few seconds.
He heard Sherlock’s laugh, and saw him wiping his mustache off before making a snarky comment about John’s one. At least he looked guilty, a little embarrassed even, misplaced. Like a bird that lost its flock, or a planet out of orbit, just meandering around hoping to find something to grasp onto.
John looked at his ring once more, seeing it was still black, and he wondered how the hell the detective had pulled off that stunt. He hated that he couldn’t see what Sherlock was truly feeling, and he hated that Sherlock thought he could just turn up during the most crucial moment of the two years he had been gone and walk away with a smirk on his face, having things go his way, as they always did.
He heard Sherlock’s half-assed apology, and another feeling bubbled up inside of him, overpowering all the others. He flinched as he felt another shockwave coming from his ring, and saw it briefly glow a fading blue-orange. Sherlock must have felt it too, because he hissed and gazed at his own ring, that was now glowing a pure, strong, angry red, deeper than blood, and cherries, and red hots.
John heard Mary’s angry intervention at Sherlock’s dumb comment about his mustache. He felt grateful for that. He heard Sherlock saying something about an apology, and the cluelessness in the detective’s face was enough to make him burst. He clenched his fist and slammed it down at the table, not caring when the whole restaurant went silent and started watching the three of them. He hunched over his fist, trying to breath, anger management, just as we’ve worked out, John, come on now, he thought to himself, trying his best to contain his rage.
The first words he uttered were full of pain and anger, barely above a whisper, being cut short by his own shortage of breath, “two years.” He looked down again, seeing his ring flash with a mix of blue and lavender, and a hint of orange, before going back to black. He felt somewhat pleased upon seeing Sherlock squirm in discomfort. John continued, his voice somehow tighter, “two years”.
Sherlock looked ashamed, completely out of place, and he most certainly regretted doing his triumphal reappearance from the dead in such a public place.
“I thought…” John stammered, gesturing helplessly and desperately. His stomach was doing such pirouettes that he was glad they hadn’t eaten yet, or else he’d certainly be putting all of the food out right then and there. “I thought… you were dead…” he completed, still struggling to keep his gaze up, “hmm?”
His breathing became even shallower, and Sherlock was completely shaken by his reaction. He expected a happy embrace, perhaps, at least a fond handshake and a nice dinner out afterwards, where he’d explain in detail what he had been up to in those years, and how he had managed to fake his death so thoroughly.
“Now, you let me grieve, hmm? How could you do that?” John’s voice was a frightening mix of rage and heartbreak, and the detective halted every movement, only biting his lip. He had no answer to that, he truly hadn’t, and being speechless wasn’t a Sherlock thing, but that was how the detective found himself.
Thinking better now, he realized that Mycroft had been right. He should have contacted his doctor earlier, prepared him for it, given him a sign of some sort. He felt absurdly guilty, as if he was being crushed down by a mountain, his back ached, and his lungs burned as he struggled to breathe properly. He caught a glimpse of John’s ring as it burned with lavender.
However, as the massive and utter idiot that he was, he couldn’t help but conceal the true nature of his feelings, and using the malfunctioning ring as an advantage, he cracked a joke.
“Wait – before you do anything that you might regret…” the retired army doctor half-groaned, but Sherlock continued nonetheless, “uhm… one question. Just let me ask one question.” John looked at him, his eyes still full of fury. Gesturing towards his own top lip and almost giggling, Sherlock concluded. “Are you really gonna keep that?!”
Everything seemed to slow down after that. Mary had her jaw open, face scrunched up in disbelief as she let out a half-hearted laugh. John’s whole body shook, and the ring Sherlock carried burned even brighter, the red almost blinding, so pure and strong.
And as John took one last deep inhale, his murderous smile on display, and his limbs shaking as he struggled to maintain control. Sherlock kept staring at his ring with wide eyes, the red so striking that he gulped, and that was the last thing he remembered seeing before being shoved back and hitting his head on the floor, with an enraged doctor on top of him.