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i.
When John wakes up that morning, he doesn’t immediately get up. Instead, he stays in bed and stares at the ceiling, letting his mind wander and his heart yearn until he has to slip back on the mask that he’s okay. It’s been months and he finds that walking around looking desolate and empty, like there’s nothing left in the world to live for, will cause people to talk. And he was only John’s best mate, wasn’t he?
Only, he wasn’t. Sherlock Holmes is more than that - (present tense). And what upsets John most is that he never got the chance to say it out loud. The ghost of missed chances and words left unsaid haunts him.
He shakes his head as if that could clear his head of such sentiments, as if that could erase thoughts (longings, grief, attachments) like an Etch A Sketch. If only it were that simple.
He soon gets up and prepares for the day. It’s a Wednesday, and like all the other Wednesdays in the past five months, it’s a day dedicated to visiting Sherlock’s grave. (There is no particular schedule; sometimes he goes first thing and other times he goes between running errands or meeting people or whatever else attempt John makes at returning to whatever normality he is able). It starts out as paying his respects - and possibly an indirect way of convincing himself that it’s real. Nowadays, it’s more of a comfort to John. A means of not forgetting, a way to get a little bit closer even though he knows it’s for naught.
He enters the living area and picks up his laptop before settling down in his armchair. He’s read the first piece of news when he notices it. It sits there, unremarkable and completely nondescript; a cup of tea on the small table next to his armchair. It’s a curious thing but he doesn’t think much of it, dismissing it as Mrs. Hudson’s kindness. He takes a careful sip. It’s still warm and exactly how he takes it; two cubes of sugar and just the right amount of milk. Something about it tells John that this cup has been made with his precise preferences in mind; a perfection that not even an old woman’s sympathy could elicit. It’s made with intent and John wonders. But it couldn’t be. Because the only person who is capable of making such a thing is now buried six feet underground. So he gets on with his day, trying not to think about it because considering alternative explanations as to the origin of the tea will only revert whatever progress he has made so far.
ii.
He has a pounding headache and his muscles are sore when he rolls out of bed. A quick look in the mirror only confirms his suspicions that he looks a complete mess, hair sticking out in odd places and eyes still slightly red and swollen from last night’s crying (which went on till the early hours and he reckons it only stopped when exhaustion finally took over; oh, small mercies).
He has stopped reproaching himself on the days following when he’s struck by these unyielding bouts of utmost longing and sorrow. When he could do nothing but cry, his body convulsing in grief as if the tears and pain and sobs were being physically wrenched out of him. It’s those days when he tells himself that he’s forgiven, silly as it may sound. Because he is only human and he allows himself this. To get it out of his system in hopes that he’s one step closer to being genuinely all right.
He quickly dresses and goes to the kitchen to make a small breakfast: tea and toast. He puts the kettle on and goes to toast some bread. After, he allows the tea to steep and walks to the living area, toast in hand, thinking of the things he’s meant to do that day.
He spots it then, sitting exactly where it was that first time a few weeks ago: a cup of tea, faint steam rising from it. He wonders if he wasn’t as quiet as he thought he’d been last night and Mrs. Hudson heard him. It’s possibly another sympathy cup; what else could it be?
Against his better judgment, he drinks it and the one he prepared sits on the counter, cold and forgotten.
--
He bumps into Molly that afternoon when he just couldn’t stay cooped up inside the flat anymore, staring at the wall where the yellow graffiti of a smiley face adorned with bullet holes seem to mock him. It still hurts sometimes when he looks around 221B and he honestly thought in those first few days that he wouldn’t be able to go back and live there again. It’s just not the same and everything reminds him of Sherlock, little remnants of him scattered all over the place: the jacknife on the mantle, case files littering every available surface. And although he’s managed to clean up a bit, he doesn’t have to heart to pack up Sherlock’s things to be stored or distributed. Not yet, at least.
He has chosen to stay because living anywhere else is much worse. Nowhere else feels right anymore and it made his skin crawl living in that bare-walled spartan apartment on the other side of town. So he comes back to Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson only gives him a glance before handing him back his key, neither of them needing to say anything else.
Molly and John exchange pleasantries and chat a bit about what they’ve been doing recently. He asks her if she wants to go get coffee somewhere, not wanting to be alone that day. She offers her apologies when says she’s off to meet someone and she gives him a smile that looks too sad. And then she looks at him, a little too knowing, like he’s an open book and she can read every word of him. It makes him feel uncomfortable and bare, so he leaves.
He makes his way back to Baker Street, those knowing eyes and sad smile tugging at him all the while.
iii.
It’s a cold December morning and he’s hurrying up to get to the hospital, a new one. It’s his first day and he’s due at A&E in half an hour. Amidst the whirlwind of trying to get dressed, only a pair of socks on and a scarf (Sherlock’s scarf, he thinks, heart clenching a bit) hanging limply around his neck, and panic rising that he’s absolutely going to be late on his first day, he sees what has now become the proverbial tea sitting in its usual place on the table next to John’s armchair.
There is only a half moment of hesitation before he drinks it in one go, relieved that it’s not scalding hot, and then he’s back to dressing himself as quickly as possible.
It is only when he’s settled in the taxi on the way to Charing Cross that it fully dawns on him that another cup of tea appeared that morning. And that he still has no idea who’s been making them.
--
That night he pops by Mrs. Hudson’s flat just as she’s settling in front of her telly. She smiles warmly at him and beckons him to come inside and would he like some tea? John returns the smile, sits down on a vacant seat and shakes his head, polite refusal on his lips. Mrs. Hudson then makes herself comfortable on her sofa and after a while looks at him expectantly as he still hasn’t said anything. He then remembers why he’s there.
“I’d just like to thank you for the tea this morning,” John says.
Mrs. Hudson furrows her brow a little in a way that says she’s trying to remember whether she made tea for him today. After a few beats she asks, “What tea, dear?”
“I found a cup of tea this morning and assumed it was from you. There have been some other times, too. You’ve been bringing them upstairs, haven’t you?” John is growing a bit concerned now and it must shown on his face because Mrs. Hudson looks more confused by the second.
“No, dear, that wasn’t me. I haven’t brought you tea in a while. Not since, you know.” She makes a little waving gesture with her hand, trying to convey what she cannot say out loud. She looks a little sad now, eyes a little glassy, probably remembering that last time when Sherlock was still around. He understands how it is. Thinking about it doesn’t get any easier even as time passes. He doesn’t want to upset her further so he bids her goodnight and gets up to leave.
“John,” she calls out to him just before he reaches the door. He turns to look at her, a small smile at the ready. “If you want me to bring you tea, all you need to do is ask.”
His smile becomes shy and he chuckles a bit. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary, Mrs. Hudson. Goodnight.”
He leaves before he hears her reply.
iv.
Christmas morning sees him staring at another cup. This time it’s a bit different; the crockery is festive: little mistletoes hand painted around the upper rim of the cup and the bottom half painted red, adorned with small white polka dots over it. It’s the kind of appropriately themed monstrosity that Sherlock would scoff at and openly ridicule.
He looks around the flat, almost bare of any decorations save for a few fairy lights tacked around the windows and the fireplace. He didn’t even bother with a tree this year. The thought of assembling the plastic one they had last year only brings memories - happy memories that have now been blemished with Sherlock’s absence. It’s funny how these things work; pleasant memories become unbearable because the other person who shares it is gone, irrespective of whether they are dead or just walked out of your life. How things seem to become less meaningful because you don’t have that person to share it with. How can these things, happy things, be so dependent on the existence someone else? It would annoy John if he didn’t already know the answer. He was happiest with Sherlock, and a part of John died along with him.
How maudlin, he thinks, a wry smile forming on his lips. It’s Christmas bloody morning and all I can think about is Sherlock.
And then he laughs.
“Even from the grave,” he says out loud, “you still manage to take over my life.”
The flat remains silent, his announcements stay unanswered, but then he’s become used to it.
He does send out a text though, just because he fancies it.
Merry Christmas. I miss you. -JW
He takes a sip from his tea, looks up at the steer skull, now donning a Santa hat on top of the headphones and wishes him a happy Christmas, too.
(And if a text alert rings off a few doors away from 221B, then John is oblivious of that fact. It’s Christmas and it’s nothing if not marked by blissful unawareness.)
--
Later, he would get a text from Mycroft. It’s unusual in that he hasn’t had contact with him in a while. The text is simple enough, though, and John doesn’t think much of it.
Happy Christmas.
v.
He isn’t fazed anymore when he wakes up to another cup of tea waiting for him in its usual spot. It’s a quiet Sunday and he doesn’t have any immediate and fixed plans bar from his shift at the hospital that night. Although, he’s feeling quite all right today and the teas seem to only turn up when he’s feeling particularly troubled or anxious, or on special occasions. Today is starting out as ordinary as it can get, but John doesn’t busy himself with it anymore. He just sits there and enjoys his tea.
nulla.
He comes home from a 36-hour shift. He’s sleep deprived and he feels as if he could sleep for the next two days. He doesn’t usually work such long shifts but there was a massive multiple motor vehicle accident the day before and they were severely understaffed. He couldn’t bring himself to go home even after the 24th hour had struck. So he’s paying for it now; his legs are numb from standing up for too long and his stomach grumbles from not having much aside from litres of coffee and a few biscuits. Therefore, he can’t be blamed when he drops his bag on the floor of the living area and promptly makes his way to his bedroom where he’ll surely collapse in his bed, face first, and sleep for days.
He’s in the middle of removing his sock when he stops, rewinds and freezes. He just sits there for about a minute before he’s bounding down the stairs and back in the living room in a flash.
He stands there, stock-still and stunned.
On the other side of the room sits a slender man, dressed in sharp black suit and a tight dark purple shirt underneath. He’s looking back at John, head tilted slightly sideways, regarding him. John is drinking the sight of him and he seems to be doing the same. He suddenly becomes vaguely aware of his state, sockless and looking very haggard, his trousers unbuttoned and he’s only wearing his undershirt now after discarding his jumper in record time. He makes a vain attempt at flattening his hair, but it’s a lost cause.
“Sherlock,” he says quietly but his voice breaks. He looks away, heat rising to his face. He clears his throat and tries again. “Sherlock?”
Amusement glints in Sherlock’s eyes. “John.”
“You’re dead.” I saw you jump, your blood staining the cold pavement. I checked for pulse. I identified you in the morgue. I buried you, damn it.
John wonders if this is what it’s like to lose one’s sanity. It has finally happened. He has finally gone insane now, Sherlock’s hallucination being the last straw. Or the first indication.
“Clearly, I’m not.” He seems to be aware of John’s internal ramblings but he just sits there, all graceful and alive.
“You bastard!” He lunges at Sherlock and before his brain has caught up with what he’s done, he’s got a fistful of Sherlock’s shirt, their faces only inches apart. He’s seething. He’s angry and he feels betrayed for being made into a fool. There is a flash of relief and happiness and thank heavens he’s alive. But the dominating emotion seems to be fury. He’s furious at Sherlock for not even bothering to contact him and does John really mean so little to him to be worth the effort? He’s mad at himself for believing it. He should’ve seen the signs. He should’ve been smarter than this. It clicks then. It’s exactly a year ago when he saw his best friend jump to his death. In his exhaustion, he didn’t even realise the significance of that day.
They’re breathing in each other’s space, staring at each other. John fuming, ready to strike any second whilst Sherlock just looks back, a mask of indifference in place but John knows better. He sees through Sherlock and what John sees are worry and unease. Remorse. Later John might blame it on the adrenaline when he all but smashes his lips to Sherlock’s. It’s hard and unforgiving and the angle is all wrong. It’s desperate and he tries to convey all the anger and anguish and relief he feels in that one kiss. Then he feels Sherlock’s hand move to his neck and the other to his cheek. He eases up a bit, tilts his head slightly to the side and Sherlock follows his lead. They fit perfectly like this, like a puzzle finally finding the other piece. The kiss turns more pleasant. He opens his mouth slightly and Sherlock seems only too eager to dive in, tracing every curve and crevice in John’s mouth. When he pulls back, Sherlock chases him, not entirely willing to let go yet. John sympathises because he’d like nothing more than to resume with the kissing, and maybe more. But there is still so much that he doesn’t understand and he’d like for Sherlock to explain.
John lets Sherlock go and takes a step back. He sees Sherlock sit up right, mask firmly back in place, as if preparing for battle and John feels a bit weak at the knee right then and he needs to sit down. So he does, on his well-worn armchair opposite Sherlock. It’s almost just like the old days, except they have all these unanswered questions and lies and feelings hanging over them, desperately needing to be analysed and discussed.
He suddenly becomes aware of the tea set (on a bloody silver tray) laid out on a table between them, Sherlock’s prized skull sitting neatly next to it. He looks to Sherlock and then back to the tea set then back to Sherlock before settling on the set again. It’s delicate china, he deduces. The type you’ll likely find in a stately home of an affluent British family, serving afternoon tea in the drawing room to a faceless lord and his lady. The floral pattern is tasteful and the gold trimmings only add class to it. It looks expensive without looking obnoxious. Then he returns his attention back to Sherlock who is looking at him again, surely making his own deductions in his head, probably based on John’s clothes, toe nails and the dark circle under his eyes. He wagers that it’ll only take a few seconds for Sherlock to get a year’s worth of story out of the state of his clothes all without uttering a word.
“You’re alive,” John finally says, breaking the silence.
Sherlock sighs, as if he’s finding this whole conversation a nuisance. “We’ve established that, yes,” he finally says.
“And you kissed me.”
He almost misses the small upturn of Sherlock’s lips before Sherlock says, “I think you will find that you kissed me and I merely responded appropriately given the situation.”
“And you’ve been making me tea!” John says it a bit more accusatorially than he intended but he finds that he doesn’t care anymore.
“Honestly John, who else could it be?” Sherlock gives him a disbelieving look; like he’s personally affronted that John even doubted for a second that it wasn’t him who has been making John’s tea.
“I don’t know, Sherlock! You were definitely out of the equation because I was lead to believe that you were rotting under six feet of dirt!” He’s definitely shouting now and Sherlock’s composure only fires the flame of his ire.
The look is back on Sherlock’s face. The one John once told him not to make when he thinks the situation is very obvious but really, he’s the only one who knows what’s happening. John is caught between wanting to punch him and kiss him again. But he does neither.
“It’s my way of telling you that I’m not actually dead.”
“Only in your head does that logic make sense.” John stands up, suddenly needing to move. “And who knows you’ve been alive all along?”
For the first time in a very long time Sherlock looks contrite and seeing that look feels like a stab to John’s chest. Because he’s now aware that other people have been in on it whilst he has been left out. The feeling of betrayal only grows and John hurts. Sherlock looks like he wants to go to John but thinks better of it.
“Talk. Now. And I don’t want you leaving anything out. I want to know everything.”
So Sherlock explains everything. From Moriarty’s hit men to faking his own death to going into hiding and attempting to eliminate every other spiders in Moriarty’s web. He tells John how Molly helped him and how Mycroft eventually came to know. He confesses that the text John received on Christmas was actually from him. He tells him that it was for John’s own safety that Sherlock had to stay away until the time is right. He explains that he’s been keeping a close eye on John and congratulations on the new job, by the way.
By the time Sherlock is finished, they’re both standing, facing each other. There are still so many things that need clarification. Questions answered only stem to even more questions.
“Why now?” John asks.
Sherlock looks elsewhere. “I couldn’t stay away anymore. And it’s safe enough to come back without putting you or anyone else in danger.”
“You can’t—” John starts but he chokes on the words. His throat aches and it feels like it’s closing up. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. He’s going through so many emotions at a time that it’s exhausting and he just needs to be reassured, going back to that instinctual need for comfort. “You can’t do that again. You can’t – you can’t leave me anymore. Not like that and not without telling me first.” He squeezes his eyes shut, praying to anyone who will listen to not allow the tears fall.
Sherlock embraces him tight and John takes comfort in the solidity of the body holding him. He clings back, clutching as tightly as Sherlock and he knows, even without hearing it, that Sherlock promises.
Later, they would talk. Talk about it until John gets tired of masticating all the information and Sherlock is annoyed at having to explain everything, more than once, just so John could understand. Much later, they’d surrender to their wants and needs. They don’t talk about it though. Not that. Because John finds that some things should be left alone. At least for the time being. At least until they are sure that this is what they want and that it’s worth it (to which John would much much later say, without a doubt, definitely is).
But for now, they cling to each other with only the promise that neither would leave the other, not if they can help it and it’s enough for John.
fin.