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Chapter Text

“How long has it been since you’ve seen John?” Ella asked. It was the same question she always opened with, and Sherlock was not naïve enough to think it was just an innocent probing question. He knew what Ella was thinking, and could tell what her scrawling notes on her notepad said without even having to read them. He could tell by the expectant way she looked at him that this, she felt, was the most important question she could ask. She thought, as did Mrs. Hudson and Molly and even Mycroft, that his friendship with John was in shambles. 

Sherlock did not like the pitying look in Ella’s eyes, nor did he like the disappointed expression in Mrs. Hudson’s face every time John came to pick up Rosie without as much as a passing comment in Sherlock’s direction. He did not like the tight line that appeared on Mycroft’s lips every time he stopped by Baker Street and saw the absence of one former army doctor. They all thought that Sherlock had lost John, and Sherlock hated this because he was afraid it may be true. 

“I saw him last week,” answered Sherlock, curtly. “Mrs. Hudson watches Rosie on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He came by the flat to pick her up after his shift at the surgery.”

“And did you speak to him?” asked Ella. 

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I think I may have said something about a triple murder that Lestrade had ran by me earlier that day. I thought John might be interested in coming to the crime scene to take a look with me.”

“And?” asked Ella, with a look of concern that suggested she already knew the answer to this. This irritated Sherlock. He couldn’t stand when Ella pretended to know things she didn’t.

“He said something about being tired from his shift at work and needing to put Rosie to bed. I expressed my understanding and he was off with his daughter. That was it.”

“When would you say was the last time that you spent meaningful time with John?” she asked, clearly not noticing or caring how much this topic of conversation irritated Sherlock. 

Many things about therapy irritated Sherlock. It irritated him that Ella asked questions she already knew the answer to. It irritated him that Ella, unlike most other people in Sherlock’s life, did not back off from a topic when Sherlock snapped at her or got short with her. Instead, Ella seemed to press on even harder when this happened, as if she knew that Sherlock’s irritation was doing nothing but masking his hurt. Therapy, Sherlock thought, was a form of deduction in that way. Ella could deduce his true feelings about a topic as easily as Sherlock could deduce a murder victim’s occupation. He told himself that this was the reason why he continued to show up to these appointments week after week. Seeing someone make clever deductions that wasn’t Mycroft was always interesting. 

He started coming after Mary died. Not for him. But for John. He hoped that Ella would be able to help him figure out how to dampen John’s grief. He knew that John would not go to Ella himself, not after Mary’s death. John had not seen Ella since Sherlock’s return, this Sherlock had been able to deduce from John’s schedule. He never worked at the surgery on Tuesday afternoons, and instead used his Tuesday afternoons to come to Baker Street and help Sherlock with his cases. This always struck Sherlock as unusual, since the rest of John’s week was far more unpredictable. At that time John had still been working part time at that surgery, and his shifts varied from week to week depending on which other doctors were available. Tuesday afternoons, however, were always free. Conclusion: at some point, John had requested Tuesday afternoons off indefinitely. 

Sherlock had asked John about it once, before the wedding, during the months when Sherlock and John had been working together nonstop, when they weren’t doing wedding planning. John had shrugged it off and said that it was just a coincidence. Conclusion: John had reserved his Tuesdays for something that he was embarrassed to talk about around Sherlock.

Before The Fall, John had never been embarrassed about talking about his therapy appointments. As a doctor himself, John often lectured Sherlock about the importance of mental health, and offered to refer Sherlock to one himself multiple times. Sherlock always refused. 

Sherlock had wondered, briefly, why John was all of a sudden embarrassed to talk about his therapy appointments, but the solution had ended up being quite simple. John had gone back to therapy, after 18 months without it, to help him deal with Sherlock’s death. After Sherlock had returned, John no longer felt a need to continue those appointments. Sherlock would have been touched if he hadn’t felt so guilty. 

Sherlock had known John would not go back to Ella after Mary’s death. He would not allow himself to cope with the loss of his wife the same way he had coped with the loss of his best friend. Illogical as it might be, John could always be counted on to be insecure about the magnitude of Sherlock’s importance to him. 

John had chosen a new therapist, and Sherlock had gone to Ella. The new therapist would take too long to understand John, and Sherlock couldn’t afford to wait that long before he saw a smile on his friend’s face again. So Sherlock went to Ella, the only person in the world who knew John as deeply as Sherlock did.

It turned out that Ella had not wanted to talk about how to help John. She insisted that she could not therapize John through a third party, and so she had taken to talking about Sherlock instead. 

All of a sudden, it became clear to Sherlock that he hadn’t been paying attention. He had been in his Mind Palace again, and forgotten to answer Ella’s question. 

“What was that?” he asked, making his voice as apologetic as he could muster. 

“When would you say was the last time that you spent meaningful time with John?” Ella asked, her patience never-ending. 

“Define ‘meaningful’.” said Sherlock. “He helped me catch Culverton Smith earlier this month.”

“When was the last time you and John talked, or had a conversation about something other than logistics or niceties?”

Sherlock thought back. “After we caught Culveron Smith, he admitted to me that he had been texting another woman while Mary was alive. He expressed feelings of guilt to me, and chastened me for not pursuing a relationship with an old female acquaintance of ours, Irene Adler. He said to me that I wasn’t currently equipped to understand how good a romantic relationship could be.”

“How did that make you feel?” Ella asked. “That John said that to you.”

Sherlock shrugged. “The revelation about his cheating….that didn’t matter to me. He’s always been…the best person I’ve ever known. I know he would never have gone through with cheating on Mary. I don’t think he agrees. I think a part of him worries that if she had lived, he eventually would have cheated. But I know John Watson. He is the most loyal person I have ever met. He would not have done it.”

“And if he had?” asked Ella. “Would that have changed the way you feel about John?”

Sherlock thought about this for a moment. He pictured a world in which Mary still lived, they came to visit Baker Street one day, and Sherlock was able to read the truth of John’s betrayal in the guilty lines of his mouth, the way he wouldn’t have been able to look his wife in the eye, and the way he wouldn’t have been able to look Sherlock in the eye, couldn’t bear to see the knowledge of his betrayal in Sherlock’s knowing eyes.

“No.” Sherlock said, honestly, but wondering what that said about him that that was his answer. 

Ella was silent, as if waiting for Sherlock to elaborate. When he didn’t, she asked, “Why is that, do you think?”

Sherlock thought for a moment, trying to figure out why his gut feeling of “no” had been so strong, so incendiary. This was new territory for him. He was used to reading other people’s emotions and sentiments in a single glance, but he was not used to identifying his own. 

“I think because…. John Watson should be allowed to make mistakes. He has had enough turmoil in life already. Injured in war, lost his best friend, found out that his two years of grief was a lie, married an assassin, had an unplanned baby, lost his assassin wife, and now still has to deal with his junkie friend and his child alone. Through all of that, he is still kind and thoughtful and loyal to a fault. People like that just don’t exist, Ella. I’ve met so many people, have read their motivations and greed like a book, but I’ve never met someone who loves and forgives and just…endures…the way John Watson does. If he cheats on his wife a couple times, who am I to judge? As I said to him when he confessed this to me, he is only human.”

Sherlock felt a deep ache in his stomach. He was reminded of his best man’s speech, when he had made similar comments about John’s ability to endure. Those had been such simpler times, such happier times. As miserable as he had been that day, at the prospect of losing his only friend to suburban domestic life, he would take that day a million times over these current times. 

Ella smiled knowingly. Sherlock did not like this, the understanding and touched expression that Ella wore any time Sherlock said something kind about John. It was an expression he had seen on the face of all his acquaintances and even strangers when they had seen Sherlock and John interact. It used to make him proud, to elicit that type of response from others. Now, it just made him sad.

“Is that how you feel about the way John attacked you in the morgue? That he deserves forgiveness because of how much he’s had to endure?” Ella asked.

Sherlock looked away from her eyes, at a painting of the London skyline that sat behind Ella’s desk.

“I told you I don’t want to talk about that.” he said, forcing bitterness into his voice despite the vulnerability he felt. He regretted telling Ella about that incident. He should have known she would insist on unpacking it. 

Sherlock was not stupid. He knew what Ella was trying to get him to say. She wanted him to say that what John had done to him was wrong, and that Sherlock believed he deserved better than the treatment John had given him at that moment. But Sherlock could not get himself to vocalize this sentiment. He didn’t even know if he believed this to be true. John’s very presence in his life still seemed such a miracle. Sherlock could not say truthfully that he deserved better. 

“I do believe that was enough for today, Ella.” Sherlock said, standing and grabbing his Belstaff. He turned, his coat billowing, and walked out the door without so much as a glance behind him. He looked at his watch. 3:20 PM. Their hour-long session had lasted 20 minutes before Sherlock had decided he had had enough. That was a new record. 

***

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock sat down at his microscope. He had been examining some mold cultures from an old raspberry. Not a particularly interesting experiment, but there had been very little going on recently. The triple murder from Lestrade had only taken him a couple of days to solve. There was a time when this amount of free time would have led Sherlock so bored as to shoot the wall to avoid shooting up heroine. Nowadays, however, Sherlock felt too much sorrow to feel boredom. 

This had only happened once before. In Serbia, the long days of hideouts and spying and waiting had been terribly monotonous. However, every time Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to feel the itch he always got when his mind was not stimulated, he only felt the loss of London, the loss of his Baker Street flat, and the loss of John. Now, as he looked at his mold cultures, he felt the loss of Mary, the loss of his friendship with John, the loss of Rosie. Grief, it seemed, drove the boredom out, though Ella would have said it was love. 

“Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side” he had once said to Irene Adler. Sherlock still believed this, yet now he believed himself to be a member of the losing side. 

He heard the ‘ding’ of his phone that signaled he had gotten a new email. He checked his phone. 

Sherlock,

Thanks for coming to your appointment today, 1/27. As you left too early for me to give you your assignment for the week, I decided to follow up with you in an email. Your task for this week is to have one single meaningful conversation with your friend John. Remember, we have defined ‘meaningful’ to mean: any conversation that is not just conversational niceties (for example: “nice weather we’re having”, or “nice to see you”) and is not about logistics (the logistics of his daughter’s time at your flat). I’ll see you next week!

Dr. Ella Thompson 

Sherlock sighed and opened his messaging app, and navigated to his messages with John. He knew that a text conversation was not exactly what Ella had in mind, but it beat trying to have a conversation to John’s face. 

How are you? SH

Chapter Text

John looked down at his mobile at the text message that had just come in. 

How are you? SH 

He felt a pang of guilt at this. Sherlock was not one to text for the sake of texting. His texts were always things like “New murder at Tralfagar Square, meet you at 5?” or “Come to Baker Street tonight, bring towels.” John knew Sherlock worried for him. He had almost killed himself trying to take on a powerful serial killer in order to distract John from his own pain, and then held him later that day as John had cried into his shirt. Afterwards they had gotten cake with Molly for Sherlock’s birthday, and it had been delightfully cordial, but then John had gone home and gotten drunk after he had put Rosie to sleep. The distraction Sherlock had worked so hard to curate had only lasted so long. 

He sighed and drafted a reply to Sherlock. 

I’m holding up. Thanks for asking. JW

It was a lie, and Sherlock would know it was a lie. He could almost hear Sherlock scoffing at this and saying something like “ Of course you’re not holding up, you just lost your wife, your dismissal of genuine concern for your wellbeing all but confirms your poor state of mind .” He sat with his third glass of scotch of the night, sipping quietly. Rosie was fast asleep. 

The evenings John spent after getting home from the surgery were often alright. He spent them with Rosie. He fed her, told her a bedtime story (almost always a story from his blog. Someday, Rosie would be old enough to understand the horrific details of the cases and he would have to transition to boring old fairy tales, with heroes that were unfailing and kind, not ones who faked their death and called everyone idiots), and put her to bed. Once Rosie was sound asleep was when things got decidedly not okay. Without the distraction of Rosie, and his obligation to not completely fail her, John had nothing to ground him in reality. He couldn’t reliably sleep. Not anymore. 

Mary was everywhere in the flat. Her shoes still sat in a garbled heap by the door, her dirty laundry still unwashed in her hamper. When Sherlock had died, John had moved. He couldn’t stand to be in the same flat that had held so many memories, so many adventures. This time it was different. This time John had a daughter that he didn’t want to uproot. At Baker Street, the entire flat had been a life that John simply couldn’t have without Sherlock. Science equipment, case files, and experiments had coated floors. His flat with Mary, however, had been just a home. Nothing else. It didn’t make sense to leave. However, this meant that John had to be punched in the gut every time he glimpses something that was hers. He couldn’t stand to throw any of it out. 

John tried not to compare Sherlock’s death with Mary’s death. Somewhere, deep down, it unnerved him that the experiences were so similar. There was a deeply buried part of him that didn’t want to question which death had been harder to bear, because he didn’t think he’d like the answer either way. Regardless, John had now had to live through watching both of the people he’d loved the most die. And John was profoundly sure that each person only gets one miracle, and he already got his. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me he had asked. He had gotten his miracle. Sherlock wasn’t dead. John hated himself for partly wishing that he could have had one more choice into which person to use his one miracle on. 

John’s phone beeped again. 

What are you doing right now? SH

John looked guiltily at the whisky glass in his hand, thankful that Sherlock could not see him. He wondered why Sherlock was asking. He probably wanted help with a case. It was odd, though. Sherlock never bothered to ask if he was free before asking for his help. He must be really worried. John sighed. 

Just watching telly, about to turn in, sorry. JW

John briefly turned on the television, to a news channel, just so his text wouldn’t be a complete lie. It was completely illogical, to be afraid of lying to a man who was a 40 minute cab ride away and could not, in fact, deduce anything about whether or not John was watching TV. However, John had seen Sherlock perform too many miracles to feel comfortable lying to him. He tried to pay attention to the television, but he was too drunk. His vision was swimming. That was all well and good, he’d sleep here tonight. He didn’t sleep in his old bed that he shared with Mary anymore. He hadn’t washed the sheets since she died, and if he slept on her side of the bed he could still smell her. He couldn’t stand to smell her. 

***

John woke a few minutes later, covered in sweat, pulled out of his nightmare by the sounds of his crying child. He groaned, and tried to sit up. His vision was still blurry. He grabbed the side of the couch to sturdy himself as a wave of nausea came over him. 

Rosie continued to cry, her sobs piercing his pulsing headache with pain. John let himself let out a sob, and then another, and another. He sunk back into the couch, his pyjamas sticking to his sweaty body like paste. He knew he was failing his daughter, that his inability to comfort her when she sobbed in the middle of the night was profoundly Not Good. He comforted himself with the knowledge that his daughter had been fed, had recently changed, was in perfectly good health when he put her to bed this evening. She was crying, she wanted her father, but she was most likely okay. John knew he was only making excuses for his horrible behavior, but at this point the excuses were absolutely paramount to preventing him from taking steps that he had been tempted to take that would separate him from his daughter permanently. Steps that would involve the gun that was currently in his nightstand drawer. 

He was used to the nightmares these days. When he first returned to London from Afghanistan, they had been a novelty and a nuisance. He attended the therapy sessions mandated by his discharge from the army, hoping that the nightmares would subside after he got used to civilian life. He had been right, in a way. The nightmares had gotten less frequent after he started accompanying Sherlock on cases. Then, when Sherlock had “died”, the nightmares had come back. Dreams that had once been of gunshots and of dying soldiers in the sand were replaced by the same image over and over again: Sherlock lying in a pool of blood, wide and unseeing, no pulse in his wrist. 

Those nightmares went away, to an extent, when Mary started to sleep by his side. She would hold him tight when he woke up with another nightmare, and would stroke his forehead until he fell asleep. By the time he had decided to ask her to marry him, the nightmares had become just an occasional nuisance. He wondered, now, if part of the reason Mary had been so understanding about his nightmares is that she suffered from some of her own. Nightmares of people dead on the ground, because she had put them there. He wondered if she ever had a nightmare about the time she shot Sherlock. John had certainly had nightmares about it. 

Now that Mary was gone, the nightmares were constant. He couldn’t sleep without them, which was why he often refused to sleep. 

John put a pillow over his head to drown out his daughter’s crying, and wished for death. 

***

It was about an hour later when he heard the door unlock. His military instincts were still pristine, despite the alcohol and the nausea, and he catapulted out of bed and grabbed the heaviest object within grabbing distance (a vase that he and Mary had gotten as a wedding present). He was all set up and ready to throw it at the intruder when he heard a familiar, deep chuckle. 

“Are you going to kill me, John? With a vase? What an undignified end that would be.”

John rolled his eyes. “Sherlock, what the hell?” he said, exasperated. 

“You did give me a set of keys, you can hardly be surprised that I’m using them.” 

“Sherlock, it’s 11:45 PM. I texted you and said I was about to go to sleep.”

“And yet, you remain on the couch, with a glass of whisky in your hands.”

“I’m watching telly.”

“Clearly.” said Sherlock, nodding towards the television, which had started to play a reality show that both Sherlock and John knew that John had not been watching. John gulped. 

“What do you want, Sherlock?” he asked, his voice filled with venom. 

“I came to check on you.” said Sherlock, matter-of-factly. 

“Well, next time warn me before you check on me in the middle of the night.” John said, his voice raising in volume. He could feel his shoulders stiffening, his fingers folding into a fist. It was the alcohol, he could feel it in his bloodstream, clouding his judgment, bringing feelings to the surface that he usually did such a good job of hiding. 

“You never responded to my last text.” Sherlock said, in the tone that he usually took when preparing to talk John through one of his deductions. 

John fell back onto the couch, and grabbed around for his phone. Sherlock took pity on him and grabbed it from beside the couch, and put it into his hand. 

The screen flashed to life and John saw the most recent text from Sherlock. 

Is Rosie alright? Do you need some help? SH

“You texted me that you were “turning in” for the night at 7 PM. You also mentioned that you were watching telly, but I am quite aware that nothing that airs at this hour on a Monday night is anything you would ever willingly watch.”

“I could have been watching Netflix.” John snapped, talking slowly to prevent his words from slurring. 

“You’re one of the most frugal men I’ve ever met in my life, John. You don’t have any media subscription services.”

John glared. “What do you want, Sherlock?” he asked, talking loud to let his voice be heard over Rosie’s shrieks. “To shame me for being a horrible father? For drinking? For falling asleep at 7 PM on a Monday night? Well go ahead, because nothing you say can make me hate myself more than I already do.”

This outburst proved to be too much for John’s still piercing headache, so he placed his head in his hands and let out another sob, too drunk to be mortified that Sherlock was witnessing this. 

“No.” whispered Sherlock, barely audible. “I deduced that you needed help. I’m here to help.”

Before John knew it, he found himself pushed gently back onto the couch. Sherlock took the blanket that John never bothered to use and draped it over him.

“Sleep, John.” Sherlock whispered. “I’ll take care of your daughter.”

John found he was too light headed to argue with this, so he relaxed into the warmth of the blanket, tears slowly and consistently dripping down his face. Eventually, he heard the cries of his daughter fade away, and he slept. 

***

When John woke again, the sun was high in the sky and his head was killing him. 

“Here.” he heard a gruff voice say to him, pushing a glass of ice water into his hand. 

John opened his eyes and groaned as the brightness hurt his eyes. Sherlock was standing over him, still wrapped in his Belfast and his scarf. Rosie was in his arms, her eyes bright and a rattle in her hand. She giggled, delighted to see John awake. 

“What time is it?” John asked. 

“Ten thirty.” responded Sherlock. “Drink, you’ll feel better. And take these.” he added, handing him two pills of Paracetomol.

John gratefully took the pills, and took a couple sips of the water. “Shit. I’m late to work. Really late.”

“Nope.” said Sherlock, popping the p. “I called in sick for you. I also called Molly and said she was relieved from babysitting duties for today. Today Watson is going to stay home and be looked after by her favorite and only godfather while her dad takes a much needed day off.”

***

All things considered, it was a nice day. John spent most of it asleep. Food arrived eventually, take-away from a Thai place that he and Sherlock used to eat together back in the days when they lived together. In the hours that he spent awake, he and Sherlock talked about cases. Sherlock told him about a case of insurance fraud that had initially seemed like a 4, but had eventually been promoted to an 8 after he learned of he existence of an attempted murder. Sherlock told him about how he deduced where the suspect had been hiding by analyzing the soil samples on the heel of his shoe. John listened, and asked questions, and laughed at all the right moments. He didn’t tell Sherlock that he still drank himself stupid every night, and he didn’t tell Sherlock that he had stared at the drawer that held his gun three times since Mary died. But Sherlock didn’t ask, and somehow, John felt like Sherlock might suspect that this was the case anyways. 

Sherlock didn't leave until 8 PM, after both John and Rosie had dinner, and Rosie was tucked away in her bedroom. 

“Are you going to be alright tonight?” Sherlock asked, hesitantly, grabbing his scarf from where it hung by the door. 

“Yeah of course I’ll be alright.” John replied, hoping it wasn’t obvious how much he was lying. He was dreading yet another night on the couch. Craving the whiskey bottle. 

Sherlock nodded, once, and then turned away, his coat following behind him like the wings of a bat. 

***

The next morning, John woke up and went to work. He felt more rested than he had in a long while, and it startled him how different the world felt when he wasn’t using all of his strength to keep his eyes open. He slept a full 8 hours that night, despite the long nap he took while Sherlock had been there. He felt like a new man. 

Before going to the surgery, John took Rosie to Baker Street. It was a Thursday, which was Mrs. Hudson’s day to watch her. Rosie had babbled in delight when she had seen Mrs. Hudson (Baker Street was Rosie’s second favorite place to be, after her own crib. Like father like daughter, John supposed). Unsurprisingly, Sherlock was awake, sitting in his armchair and sipping a cup of tea. John wondered whether Sherlock had slept at all. Unlikely. 

“Oh, John!” said Mrs Hudson in delight. She was busying herself tidying the kitchen from what looked like Sherlock’s latest experiments. “It’s so nice to see you dear!” 

“You too, Mrs. H.” said John, a fond smile on his lips. Mrs. Hudson grabbed Rosie from his arms and gave her a wet kiss on the forehead. Rosie briefly frowned in response to being taken from her father’s arms, but quickly forgot her fear as Mrs. Hudson bobbed Rosie up and down in her arms. 

“I’m just going to take this one downstairs, our favourite program is about to start!” Mrs Hudson said. The program in question was a new kid’s cartoon about animals that solved crimes, and Mrs. Hudson loved showing it to Rosie in hopes that she’d turn out “just like her father.” John always rolled his eyes at this, but he secretly thought that this was adorable (and was thankful for at least one children’s program he didn’t have to watch himself). 

When Mrs. Hudson left the room, John finally looked at Sherlock. Sherlock was staring determinedly down at his cup of tea, as if waiting to be scolded. 

“Sherlock” began John carefully. Sherlock looked up and finally met John’s eyes, and there was hesitancy in his haze. John had a good idea what put that expression on his face, and hated himself all the more. He had to actively fight against the prickling annoyance at Sherlock for taking care of him in such a way. But John was determined not to hurt Sherlock for being the only person in the world who could stop him from pulling the trigger, twice now. 

So John simply said, “Thank you.”

Sherlock smiled, still slightly hesitant. 

“I’ll see you tonight?” Sherlock asked. 

“Okay.” said John. He nodded his head once, and pivoted towards the door, walking out of it and heading to his job feeling better than he had in a while.

Chapter Text

Sherlock knew there was a word. He was not, in fact, naïve enough about the human heart to not know that there was a rather widely used word that could be used to describe the way he felt for John Watson. But he never let himself use it, not out loud, and rarely even in his thoughts. 

He knew there was a word to describe the way that Sherlock would cut a gash into his arm, and bleed out until he died, if it meant it would put a smile on John Watson’s face. He knew there was a word to describe the way he would not hesitate to put a bullet in an innocent man’s brain if that man was posing a threat to John’s safety. He knew there was a word for what it meant when you agree to plan someone else’s wedding, even though you decidedly hate weddings and have never willingly attended one in your life, just in the hopes that it will bring one day of joy and happiness into their life. He knew there was a word for the way that shivers ran through Sherlock’s body each time John touched him, shoulder brushes and arm pats that set his world ablaze. He knew there was a word for the way that sometimes, when it was very late at night and Sherlock was very alone, he longed to know what the rest of John’s skin looked like, and what it would feel like pressed very closely to his own. 

Yes, Sherlock knew the word. 

He had only used the word to describe his relationship with John once, in front of a room of people, phrased in such a way that could be justified as a friendly tribute. Nevermind the fact that he directly compared his feelings to that of John’s new wife. Sherlock knew that most people would have been too stupid to pick up on that particular subtlety. Apart from that, however, the word went unuttered from Sherlock’s lips. It didn’t matter. Nothing but pain could come from the reveal of that particular piece of information. 

So that’s why, when he sat across from Ella the next week, he found it hard to answer her questions. 

“What would you say are the nature of your feelings for John Watson?” she asked. Earlier in that session, Sherlock had proudly told her how he had completed her assignment. 

“I’ve been to his flat every night this week. Usually we chat about my cases for an hour or so, and then he falls asleep on the couch. I put Rosie to bed and then I go home.” 

Ella had smiled kindly at this information, but her brow had furrowed in a way that Sherlock learned meant that she had detected something that she would spend the rest of the session digging into. When she asked about Sherlock’s feelings for John, Sherlock tensed his hands on the armchair, and forced himself to look Ella dead in the eye. Sherlock had always been a good actor. He could do this. 

“Didn’t we discuss this last time? He’s loyal, brave, blah blah blah?”

Ella was un-phased. “Yes, I recall. But I’m not asking for the reasoning behind your affection for him. I’m asking about the nature of your affection for him. Is it friendly? Brotherly? Professional? Romantic?” 

Sherlock momentarily allowed himself to be impressed with the casualness of which Ella posed this question, as if she didn’t already know. Ella was good, but not good enough. Sherlock could tell, from the way she gripped her pen, as if anticipating the reveal of some crucial information, that Ella knew. 

Annoyance sparked through him, at that. Who was this woman, to think she deserved the privilege to hear the secret that Sherlock would quite literally take to his grave?

He sighed, dramatically. “I suppose a mix of the first two.” He lied, coolly. “Friendly, and what was the other one? Brotherly. I suppose I do see him as a brother. Though, certainly not anything like my actual brother.” Sherlock chuckled. Ella did not. 

“Are you sure, Sherlock? You do realize that I am bound by privilege. Unless I believe that you are a harm to yourself or others, I cannot tell anyone what you tell me in this room. Anything you say to me is completely private, and I will only use it to provide you the best care and counseling I can possibly offer. So I will ask you again. What is the nature of your affection for your friend John?”

“My answer stays the same.” said Sherlock, indignant. He looked around the room. There were no obvious cameras or recording devices, but Sherlock was all but convinced that his older brother listened in on every one of his sessions with Ella. Not that it mattered much to him what Mycroft knew and didn’t know about his life, but in this particular instance, he knew he couldn’t trust Mycroft to remain discreet. 

Ella nodded. “Alright. I have no choice but to believe you, then. Your assignment for this week is to write John a letter, just one letter. You’re not going to send this to him, he will never read it, this is just for you. Tell him how you feel, and what you want from him. I will not read this letter either, so feel free to open up."

“If you’re not planning on reading it, how will you know if I’ve done it?” scoffed Sherlock. 

“I won’t. Consider it the honor system.” Ella responded, with a smile. “This isn’t school. This is for you, Sherlock. All of this is for you. You can only get out of our appointments what you put into them.” She paused for a moment, watching Sherlock shift in his chair uncomfortably. 

“It seems to me,” she continued, “that there are many things you wish to say to him, but feel like you cannot. I also believe there are feelings and thoughts you have in regard to your friend that you have not fully accepted yourself. I think that only once you get those thoughts to paper, you’ll be able to open yourself up to growth.”

Sherlock nodded, curtly, and looked down at his lap. “A letter. How wonderfully Victorian.”  

“Feel free to complete the letter digitally.” said Ella, and it was only when he looked up that he saw that she was smiling. When he didn’t say anything, she continued. 

“It does not matter what you put in this letter. Just think about what you would tell him if you could speak to him with no consequences.”

Sherlock stood up, suddenly, and grabbed his coat. “There are always consequences.” he snapped, and turned around and walked out. Only when he had left the pavement did he look down at his watch. He had made it 45 minutes this time.

***

Dear John,

Ella wants me to write to you. She thinks it will help “open me up for growth”. I have no idea what sort of growth she expects from me, and further I’m not sure what growth I’m actually capable of. Regardless, I intend to complete this assignment. Though I have yet to complete a full session with Ella, I do have respect for her and I am trying to be a good patient. I don’t know what I can get out of it, but if anything she tells me can make me a better friend for you in this time, it will have been worth it. 

So here we go.  Ella told me to write to you as if there were “no consequences.” I’m not sure what good that will do. There are always consequences, and talking as if there are none seems like a fruitless exercise. But I will try. Out of respect for Ella. 

So, John. Dr. John Hamish Watson, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. My best friend, my blogger. What would I say to you if there were no consequences?

If there were no consequences, I would tell you that I’m sorry that Mary died. More specifically, I’m sorry that Mary died and I lived. I know you would be sad if Ms. Norbury’s bullet had killed me instead of her, but at least you would have Mary and Rosie, your family, to help you through it. You would not be drowning at the bottom of a bottle. If it had been me that died, you would organize my funeral (for the second time), give a heartfelt speech (for the second time), and shed quite a few tears (for the second time), but it wouldn’t have been like last time. I think that after a few months, you might begin to be grateful for it. 

I’ve known for a long time that I’m a liability for you. Knowing me, being near me, has caused you nothing but pain. Mary kept you safe from me. Until she didn’t. 

I bet you wish you never even met me. I don’t blame you. 

There. I think that’s all I want to say. I know what Ella is hoping I’ll say in this letter, but I’m not going to do it. It won’t do any good. 

Sherlock

***

Dear John, 

Okay fine. Fine. Just this once. Maybe Ella’s right and it will magically make me feel better to “get it out”. 

Nope. Can’t do it.

Sherlock

***

Dear John, 

I saw you last night. You were a mess. I think your drinking habits are getting worse. I’m not quite sure what to do about that. If I’m being honest (see Ella? Honesty!) It terrifies me that I can’t help you. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help other than how I’m already helping. I can come over to your flat night after night, I can put Rosie to bed and tell her stories, I can make sure you both eat and drink, I can cover you in blankets when you sleep and I can clean up your puke when you vomit. But aside from that I don’t know what to do. It scares me, John. Am I supposed to just watch you die?

Sherlock

***

Dear John,

Fine. Fine. I’m at a loss, I don’t know what to do, I am desperate. So fine. If Ella thinks that being truly honest in these letters will help, then honest I shall be. I will try absolutely anything. 

Honestly, John Watson, I’m in love with you. 

Yes yes, your suspicions were right all along, I am gay. A homosexual. Attracted to men. However you want to phrase it. The point is this: I have never felt for anyone, or anything, what I feel for you. 

You are clever and kind and wise and brave, so brave. You are the only one who understands why I need the work and why it needs me. You understand me when I have trouble expressing myself, and you trust in me when I don’t even trust myself. You are lovely and handsome; strong and soft in equal measure. I consider any woman that has gotten to touch you to be luckier than the richest man alive. 

You make me feel crazy. It’s not healthy to just want so badly. And I don’t mean physically, or sexually (make no mistake, I want those things with you too. Desperately so. But that’s not what I mean when I talk about the Wanting). I want to just give you things. All that I have, I want to be yours. The attention and praise I get for my work? It belongs to you, my conductor of light. The money in my trust fund? I want nothing more than to give it all to you and ease every last financial burden you have. My home? It was yours once, I want it to be yours again. I want you to be happy and healthy more than I want to not be bored. More than I want to get high. More than I want to breathe. A dangerous disadvantage, indeed. 

And I don’t care that you’re not gay, that you can’t want me that way. I never have. Being your best friend is already an honour I don’t deserve. 

That’s the truth, John. The honest, horrible truth. And the worst part is, I don’t even want to stop feeling this way anymore. For years, I fought against it. For years, I saw it as an unnecessary distraction. These days, I don’t know who I am without my crazy want of you. You are ruining me and I no longer care. 

Honest enough for you, Ella?

Sherlock

Chapter Text

It was a slow day at the clinic. Flu season in London was winding down, which meant John was seeing far less runny noses and sore throats. He didn’t mind the lack of germ-infested children, but he was coming to hate the long silences between patients. 

The clinic, much like John’s home, was filled with painful reminders of Mary. Every time the new nurse (Grayson, who was 25 and wore trousers that were far too tight) rapped on the door, John was reminded of a time when it was Mary coming to bring him information on his next patient. Every lunch break sparked a flashback to the days that he and Mary spent eating stale sandwiches in the break room, talking about everything and nothing, and sometimes just sitting in comfortable silence. 

John looked around his office, remembering that this was the place where Mary had first asked him out. He had been a shell of his former self back then, going through the motions, trying not to think or feel anything at all. Mary had been working at the clinic for a couple of weeks, and their interactions had been limited. John’s main impression of her at the time was that she was a far better nurse than the woman who had previously held her position, Lilah. Lilah had been young, overconfident, and far too chatty. In those days, the people John had liked best were the people that didn’t make him speak. 

Mary stepped into his office one Monday evening, her hair combed back and wearing a pair of gold hoop earrings that complimented her face shape. John would later look back on that moment as the first time his brain had registered that Mary was, in fact, very pretty. 

"Dr. Watson, don’t forget that Mrs. Cartwright is coming in tomorrow, might want to revisit her most recent blood tests.”

“Oh, yes, thanks Mary.” John said with a smile and a dismissive nod, turning his head back to his computer.

“Oh and Dr. Watson?” John had looked up and met Mary’s eyes, and was surprised to see her softened expression.

“Hmm?”

“Would you like to get a drink with me tonight?” 

John was silent for what he imagined was far too long. In his mind, a dozen different ways to turn her down played in his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to get involved with anyone I work with.” he thought about saying (and hoping that it never got back to Mary that he had dated coworkers on more than one occasion). He also considered “I’m sorry, I’m not in a place to date right now,” which was, in fairness, probably true. However, as he looked Mary in the eye, he found that he didn’t actually want to make any excuses. Yes, she was attractive, and didn’t bother him much at work, but there was more. She had a quality about her that intrigued him. Something about her demeanour screamed mystery and intrigue in a way that no one else’s had since Sherlock. 

“Alright.” John had said, simply. 

“Excellent!” Mary said, with a smile. “Come by my office on your way out today, we can check out the new pub down the block.”

They had gone to get drinks, and John had gone home that night feeling a kind of hope and brightness that he had almost forgotten was possible. He texted her the very next morning, and they scheduled a second date for that weekend. Within less than 6 months, John was planning to propose. 

Now, he sat alone in that very office, watching the clock tick slowly as he counted the seconds until he could pick up his daughter from Molly’s. 

There was only a half an hour remaining in his shift when Dr. Burton, head physician at the clinic, knocked on John’s door. 

“Dr. Burton, nice to see you!” John exclaimed in a voice that was far too cheery. Dr. Burton almost did a good job at hiding the frown that crossed his face. 

“John.” Dr. Burton replied gravely, his eyes full of apology. John suddenly felt a pit form in his stomach. Dr. Burton wasn’t often a first-name type of man. 

Dr. Burton was John’s senior by about twenty years, and had a no-nonsense attitude that often reminded John of his time in the army. Normally, John quite liked Dr. Burton as a boss. He liked that he was firm in his convictions, professional in all of his manners, and quite a competent doctor as well. Mary had been slightly less enamoured by him. 

“Dr. Harold Burton? More like Dr. Hard-Ass Burton.” she had said once, on their third date. It had caused John to choke on his ice cream sundae in a fit of giggles. 

“You don’t like Dr. Burton?” he asked. “Why not? Believe me, Mary, I’ve worked in my fair share of clinics and you can do a lot worse than him. Dr. Burton is firm, but he really cares, you know?”

“Cares?” Mary scoffed. “What Burton cares about is clean bathrooms and organised charts. He’s not doing this for the good of London public health. He’s a stickler for rules for rules’ sake.” 

“Maybe a little.” John conceded. “But he’s good at what he does, and I’ve met too many head physicians who just go through the motions. Burton’s a good man, Mary, and I like working for him.”

The conversation had drifted elsewhere after that, and John could never remember what else they talked about that night. Cliché as it was, it had been their third date, and both of them had been hyper-aware of the events that would possibly transpire later that night (and had, indeed, transpired). John was quite nervous about it. He hadn’t had sex in two years at that point. Sherlock had been gone a year and a half, and the longer John’s association with Sherlock had carried on, the less sex he had. John found he didn’t mind as much as he thought he would. Life with Sherlock was fun and exciting enough as it was, and the adrenaline rush he got from cases filled a void that had previously only been filled by sexual escapades with new women. 

In fact, within months of knowing Sherlock, John had resigned himself to a life of bachelorhood. None of his girlfriends ever seemed to understand the way he and Sherlock both needed the work to survive, and needed each other to survive. Not until Mary. 

The sex that night had been fine. John had always been very good at sex (his nickname in the army was Three Continents Watson), but the nerves of doing this for the first time after so long had really hampered his usual confidence. Mary hadn’t seemed to mind. They never spoke about it, but John suspected that her sexual drought before meeting him was even longer than his was. 

“Come in, take a -” started John, but Dr. Burton was already sitting in the patients’ chair across the office. Mary used to sit in that chair, doing crossword puzzles on her phone as she waited for John to be finished for the day. 

“We need to talk, John,” he said. 

“Yes, of course, by all means.” John replied. “What’s the matter, sir?”

“Son. I’d like to say, again, how very sorry I am for the loss of your wife. I liked Mary. She was a good nurse and a good person. This clinic is far worse without her in it, and I’m sure the world as well. I can’t even imagine how you must be feeling.”

“Thank you sir.” responded John. “That means a lot.” In all honesty, though, it didn’t really mean that much to him. Everyone he and Mary had known said similar things to him, and it sounded just as performative as it had when Sherlock died.

“He was such a great man.” people had said to him. “What a talent. The world needs more people like that.”

In truth, most of those people had hated Sherlock when they met him. Mary hadn’t experienced quite as much vitriol in her time as Sherlock, but many of the people who claimed to feel lost without her had been indifferent towards her at best. 

“Son, I hate to say this.” continued Dr. Burton. “But I think you came back to work too soon. You’re miserable, understandably so, and it’s starting to affect your job performance.”

“I-” John was at a loss for words. “Has someone complained? One of the patients?”

“No no, nothing like that.” Dr. Burton responded, threading his fingers through his moustache in discomfort. “Your patients remain as satisfied as ever.”

“Then what-?”

“John, it’s just little things I’ve noticed. Here and there. You don’t seem to have much energy anymore. You conduct each appointment with a lethargy I didn’t know you were capable of.”

John gulped. It wasn’t exactly untrue. In the past, John had tried to bring his cheeriest self to each appointment, knowing how much magic a good attitude could do for a patient’s frame of mind. These days, he slugged through each appointment, watching the clock as it inched closer and closer to the time when he could finally be back at home, with a bottle in his hand. 

“I’m sorry, sir.” he said, as genuinely as he could. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I’ve not been quite my normal self. I can work on it though, I’m sure it will get easier as time goes on.”

Dr. Burton smiled that apologetic smile again, and John was starting to hate the way the corners of his mouth bunched together. 

“I think you should take a sabbatical, John. An indefinite break. Get back on your feet, take care of your daughter, give yourself time. Grief, as I understand it, is a process, and-” 

“A sabbatical? No, sir, I don’t want to do that. Work is the only thing keeping me sane.”

“That’s just it, John. Work isn’t for keeping you sane. Particularly not this line of work. The health of human beings is on the line. This job is not your therapy.”

And there it was. The wisdom and zero-tolerance that John so admired in Dr. Burton. It felt kind of like being subject to one of Sherlock’s deductions, as he rattled off the many levels of proof that all pointed to the one seemingly-impossible thing. 

Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. 

The truth: John Watson was no longer emotionally equipped for his job as a general practitioner. 

“I need the money.” John responded after a long silence. It was the unfortunate truth. Mary’s life insurance policy had been disappointingly small. 

Must not have been a very good free-lance assassin. John had thought after emptying the funds into his bank account, and then hated himself for it. 

“The money will be taken care of. For as long as you feel you need to stay away, you will receive your normal salary. Everything is all arranged. Your job will still be here when you come back.”

This was unexpected. “What?” John asked. “What sort of policy is that? I don’t remember seeing anything like that in the NHS’s bereavement benefits.”

Dr. Burton returned his hands to his moustache, unable to meet John’s eyes. “It’s not our normal policy, no. It’s all been arranged. The clinic has been highly encouraged to make an exception for you.”

A horrible suspicion was starting to occur to John. What sort of person had the power and influence to convince the NHS to make such a huge exception for such a mediocre physician? John knew of only one such man. 

“Is Mycroft Holmes behind this?” he asked pointedly. “Because if so, tell him no. I don’t want his charity. I don’t need his help. I’m perfectly fine on my own, thank you.”

“I don’t know of a Mycroft Holmes.” answered Dr. Burton. “And I know you are a proud man, John. But it’s time you realised that you do need help. You do. And I’d recommend, just this once, that you take what’s being offered to you. No one will think less of you.”

“I’ll think less of me.” he responded, not caring how small it made him sound. Dr. Burton’s expression softened. 

“Well, try not to.” he said, in a tone that reminded him of James Sholto. “Anyway, it’s all arranged. You’re placed on sabbatical, effective immediately. Your salary will not change. Just let us know when you’re ready to come back.”

“And there’s no limit to how long I can be gone?” asked John, suspicious. 

“No, John, there’s not. Everyone involved in this decision is in agreement that you are not the type to take advantage of such a generous offer. Take some time, get some help. When you are ready, we will welcome you back with open arms.” 

John nodded, feeling like he should say something along the lines of “Thank you, Dr. Burton, this is very generous of you.” Instead, he said “I’m sorry.” 

“Don't be sorry.” Dr. Burton responded. “Your wife died and you are incapacitated by grief. There is nothing more human.”

*** 

Was this you? JW

Of course it was me. MH

Why? JW

Why do you think? Should be an easy enough deduction, even for you. MH

Sherlock asked you to? JW

I don’t think ‘asked’ is quite the right term for it. Blackmailed me into it, rather. Enjoy your sabbatical, Dr. Watson. MH 

***

You know, you can’t just throw your big brother at every problem and expect it to go away. JW

Not every problem. But this one, yes. SH

Is this your way of telling me you’re tired of having a baby at Baker Street two days a week? JW

No. We will all gladly continue to help out with your daughter. SH 

Are you coming over tonight? JW

Always. SH 

Chapter Text

“How did the letter writing exercise go, Sherlock?” asked Ella later that week. “Anything you’d like to share about the experience of writing it?”

Sherlock shrugged, noncommittally. “Not particularly. I wrote a letter to John. Letters, in fact. Multiple. I told him that I’m sorry that his wife died and that I would do absolutely anything to help the situation. That’s all.”

“And is there anything that you learned about yourself, in the exercise?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t think so. If anything, just a sense of hopelessness. Desperation.”

“You feel confused, because you’re not used to being in a situation where there’s no clever solution,” Ella responded. 

Sherlock sighed. “I suppose.”

“Where do you think that comes from?” asked Ella, crossing her feet and leaning forward. 

“Isn’t that your job?” asked Sherlock, bitterly. “Aren't you supposed to tell me why I do things? Where my idiosyncrasies come from?”

Ella chuckled. “Sherlock, if you haven’t figured it out by now, my job is to help you come to terms with things you already know. Now, think back to your childhood. Can you think of anything that made you feel uncomfortable when you couldn’t think your way out of it?”

Sherlock sighed heavily and looked, again, around the room. He tried to imagine where he would put the cameras and recording devices, if he wanted to spy on one of Ella’s sessions. The vents might work for a camera, but they would be too noisy to pick up any audio in the session. The best place for recording audio would probably be under his chair. He placed his hand under the edge of his seat, and slowly brushed them across the surface, trying to find an obvious bump without making his search too obvious for Ella. He felt nothing, but he didn’t expect Mycroft to make his surveillance so obvious. 

“Sherlock, your brother is not listening in on this session.” Ella said. 

“What? Why would you say that?” 

“You’re clearly looking for some sort of recording device. Do you really think you’re my first patient who’s absolutely terrified of being overheard? My specialty is veterans. They’re not exactly a trusting sort.” 

“Yes, sure, but how did you know I was worried about my brother in particular?”

“I treated John Watson for several years, Sherlock. Your brother’s particular methods of caring for you are not new information to me.”

Sherlock nodded. Of course, this made sense, but it was the first time Ella had spoken freely about her time with John. Most times, she insisted that everything she spoke about with John was privileged information, and insisted on only speaking about Sherlock’s own feelings. 

“If my brother wanted to listen in on our session, he would. He has nearly unlimited resources at his disposal. Don’t be naïve enough to assume you’re safe from Mycroft Holmes.” 

“And why would he want to listen in our session, Sherlock?” Ella asked. 

“He worries for me.”

“And what, exactly, does your brother worry about?”

“Drugs, I imagine.” sighed Sherlock. “I think I’ve mentioned my prior drug use in one of our previous sessions, yes?”

“You mentioned you had a history of addiction, yes.”

“I am not an addict .” Sherlock scoffed, annoyed. “I am a user. There’s a difference.” He had a sudden vivid flashback of a plane tarmac, hallucinations of Emilia Ricoletti, Mycroft’s heartbroken disappointment, John’s angry disbelief. 

“I see. And what might that difference be?”

Controlled usage is not usually fatal, and abstinence is not immortality. 

“I’m not at risk of endangering my health with drugs. In truth, I never have been. My brother has had the misfortune of finding me on death’s door on more than one occasion, and has picked up the idea that I have some sort of dependency . But that isn’t true. I never turn to drugs out of craving, or habit. I turn to them when they directly benefit my work, and that’s all.”

“And how does being on death’s door benefit your work?”

Sherlock sighed. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. Nobody does.” 

“Alright. I want to discuss more with you about your prior drug habit, and your near death experiences, but I don’t want to get too off-track from the topic at hand. Your brother. Has he violated your privacy in the past in order to monitor your sobriety?”

Sherlock laughed. “On numerous occasions. He used to stalk John, and abduct him any time he thought I was having a so-called danger night. ”

“And how did John react to this?” 

“Oh, it pissed him off. He complained about it, loudly. But he always did what Mycroft asked. My brother was always able to get him to be concerned about me.” Sherlock had already finished the sentence by the time he realised that he wasn’t even trying to hide the affection in his voice. Damn Ella. 

“Here’s what I think, Sherlock. I think your brother loves you. Dearly so. But I think it’s time we acknowledge that the way that your brother expresses his concern for you is putting a damper on your emotional progress. His constant surveillance is making you uncomfortable, and is stopping you from working through feelings that you should have worked through years ago.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Perhaps. But I can hardly make him stop now, can I?”

Ella smiled, sadly. “Perhaps not. But you can work on communicating to your brother that his surveillance is doing more harm than good. You can also work on being more authentic, despite your brother’s surveillance. If he is going to insist on invading your privacy, that cannot stop you from living your life.” 

Sherlock shrugged. “I haven’t stopped living my life. Mycroft’s opinions about what I do don’t matter to me.”

“Maybe not in your day to day life. But here, Sherlock, I can tell that you’re struggling. There are questions that I have asked you that have you immediately looking around the room, presumably for some sort of recording device. There are things that I think you want to say to me, but don’t feel comfortable doing so in an environment that is possibly monitored by your brother. I cannot help you until we resolve the issue of your brother, one way or another.”

It was then that Sherlock’s mobile chimed. Sherlock knew who it would be before he even looked at his phone. 

Ella makes some good points. I will no longer monitor. MH

Sherlock felt the fury start deep in his gut, and turn into adrenaline that pulsed through his body making it impossible to sit still. He was out the door before he had even finished deleting the message. 

***

Sherlock was still angry when he reached Baker Street. He was still angry when Mrs. Hudson called “is that you, Sherlock dear?” from unit 221A. He was still angry as he slammed the door to the loo and paced back and forth in the tiny room, needing nothing but complete privacy. 

Mycroft had been listening to the whole session. Sherlock had never really believed it to be the case. He had been paranoid, yes, and knew that Mycroft could do it if he wanted to. But he never actually expected Mycroft to be listening to every word he said in those sessions. He had heard everything . Every last desperate admission of his concern for John, every last embarrassing account of his life. 

He might not have been listening to every session Sherlock thought, but it was no use. Mycroft had never been one to do things by halves. Either he had been listening the entire time, or not at all. 

Sherlock angrily stripped off his clothes, feeling suffocated by the thick fabric. However, naked, he felt too exposed. He decided to leave his pants on, and fumbled with the shower faucet until it was blasting water at full heat, and stepped under the spray. 

He held his arms close to his chest and hugged himself. He felt tears gathering in his eyes, and hated himself for this base reaction. He hated letting his emotions get the better of him, and it felt like this was happening more often than not lately. The terror of watching John in pain, the discomfort of having his privacy invaded by his brother, the unnamable feeling that started in his chest every time he looked at John….

John. 

Suddenly, Sherlock remembered the letters. He had written them digitally, in a Word Document on his laptop. At the time, he had thought they would be safer there. Leaving physical evidence was never wise, Lestrade invaded his home on a “drugs bust” enough times that he knew this to be the truth. However, digital documents were far less safe from the prying eyes of one “concerned older brother”...

Sherlock leaped out of the shower, turning off the faucet and drying himself off as quickly as humanly possible with his towel. He patted down his soaking wet pants as much as possible, and then put on a dressing gown and threw open the door, rushing to his laptop. 

He didn’t know what he was looking for, exactly. Sherlock knew that hiding traces of digital spyware was relatively easy, but it was not impossible to spot the signs, if one knew what they were doing. He opened the file that he had saved, full of John’s letters. He had entitled them “Bat Feces Experiment” in the hopes that no one would be interested in snooping on that particular file. 

The words he had written to John swam before his eyes, and Sherlock immediately felt a deep feeling of shame in the pit of his stomach. He had not reread these letters since the first time he had written the words down. 

Honestly, John Watson, I’m in love with you. 

The words looked stupid, just sitting there, being so raw and honest. Sherlock hated that phrase. I’m in love with you. What a silly preposition to use. In . Why was love something that one had to be in ? Love was an emotion, a feeling. Not a state of being. Although, now that he thought of it, his state of being had changed rather dramatically since the day he met John Watson at Bart’s Hospital. 

Sherlock considered deleting the file entirely. If Mycroft had already read the letters, then the damage was done, but maybe he would feel less exposed if he deleted the evidence. Ultimately, though, deleting the file felt too much like self betrayal. The idea of deleting the evidence of the one time he felt brave enough, sure enough, vulnerable enough to write those words was not an act Sherlock could go through with. 

“Oh John dear, you’re here early!” Mrs. Hudson’s voice suddenly cut through the silence. Sherlock tensed up. He must have been too engrossed in his laptop to hear the sounds of John opening the downstairs door. 

Oh yes, Rosie is here this afternoon. Sherlock remembered. He remembered leaving the flat for his appointment with Ella, and seeing Rosie wrapped in her godmother’s arms, watching telly in 221A. 

“Yes, well, as I no longer have a job, I don’t have as strict hours to keep to. Thanks for watching her this afternoon, I just had a few errands I wanted to get out of the way.” 

“No problem, dear. Rosie was an absolute sweetheart for me this afternoon. She even ate the carrots you brought for her!”

“Oh yeah? Good girl, Rosie my love.” Sherlock heard John’s voice take on the special tenor that he only heard when John spoke to his daughter. It made shivers go up Sherlock’s spine, and felt like home. 

“Is Sherlock in?” John asked. “I thought I might just pop upstairs, and say hi. I haven’t seen him in a while.” 

This, of course, was a lie. Sherlock had been at John’s flat every night for the last month. They rarely spoke. Sometimes, Sherlock would talk about his cases and John would talk about his clients at the clinic, but since John had been let go from his job more often than not the two men would sit in silence. Often, John would sleep. Sherlock didn’t mind. It made him happy to see John sleeping. He still was drinking far more often than Sherlock liked, but when Sherlock was over, at least he knew that John and Rosie would be able to safely sleep through the night. 

However, Sherlock was pretty confident that Mrs. Hudson had no idea that Sherlock spent his nights wide awake on John’s couch, watching him sleep and listening to Rosie sleep on the baby monitor. He was entirely sure that John would feel self conscious if Mrs. Hudson ever learned this information. 

The sounds of John’s footsteps on the stairs finally shook Sherlock out of his thoughts, and sent a spark of panic through him as he remembered his state of undress. When they lived together, Sherlock often would walk around the flat in nothing but a dressing gown. However, these days, with the increasingly tense nature of their dynamic, Sherlock no longer felt comfortable in this state around John. Particularly considering the fact that John would be fully dressed and freshly washed. Sherlock sprung to his feet, but too late to escape to his bedroom. John opened the door and came into the flat, Rosie on his hip, smiling when she saw Sherlock standing in the sitting room. 

It was then that Sherlock realised his pants were still mostly soaked, seeping through his dressing gown and making him look quite ridiculous.

“Is this a bad time?” asked John, a hint of humour in his voice. 

“No, no of course not.” replied Sherlock, hastily. “I was just working on a study on….bat droppings.” he improvised, remembering the title of his letters. “I’ll just….go clean up. Give me one moment.”

“Oh….okay.” said John, clearly flustered from seeing Sherlock so flustered. “I’ll just wait here for you, then.” he sat in his old chair, and bounced Rosie on his hip.

Sherlock closed the door of his bedroom and put his head in his hands. He shouldn’t have allowed Mycroft to get in his head like that. John would now be curious what was wrong, and would inevitably ask Sherlock about it when he returned. Sherlock hated when John worried on his behalf. 

Sherlock slipped off the dressing gown, and took off his pants. He used the dressing gown to pat himself all the way dry, and then found a clean pair of pyjama pants and a T-shirt to slip into. He took a deep breath and emerged from his bedroom, preparing to NOT think or talk about Mycroft for the rest of the day. 

When Sherlock arrived back in the living room, he immediately knew something was wrong. John was no longer sitting in his old chair, and was instead sitting at the desk, with Rosie in his arms and a pained expression on his face.

“What’s wro…” Sherlock began, but then realised that one did not need to be the world’s only consulting detective to see what had happened. 

“I’m sorry,” said John, simply. “I was curious…about the bat droppings. I didn’t mean to…”

Sherlock’s heart sank into his stomach. John had read the letters.

Chapter Text

2012

Ahhhhhh.

The noise woke Sherlock up from his light sleep on the dusty and not-nearly-long-enough-for-his-legs bed in his Serbian hotel room. Shocked, Sherlock looked down at his mobile, surprised to hear that signature text alert he never believed he’d hear again. Sure enough, he had a text from the last person he would have ever expected:

I just heard the news. Sorry for just now reaching out, being on the lam makes it remarkably hard to keep up with the goings-on of London.  Quite the pity. You being dead makes it awfully difficult to have dinner. 

Sherlock certainly hadn’t expected to get a text message from Irene Adler. When he last saw her, she and her partner Kate were in a safehouse in Germany, preparing to leave the European Union altogether. He was similarly surprised at the fact that she seemed certain that his death was fake. It was just as well, Sherlock supposed, as she had pulled a similar stunt now on two separate occasions. 

Sherlock had left his mobile on the roof when he had jumped, which was retrieved by one of Mycroft’s assistants. Mycroft kept the phone in his possession, in case one of Moriarty’s henchmen thought to track it. However, against his better judgement, Mycroft agreed to set it up so that all of Sherlock’s texts were forwarded to Sherlock’s burner phone. 

“Do explain to me why you think you’ll need to be reading your texts. Everyone who ever bothered to contact you will think you’re dead. Except me, and perhaps Mummy. Though I guarantee you, we won’t be texting.”

“You never know who might try to contact me, Mycroft. What if one of my previous clients wants to send me a message about a particularly intriguing case?”

Mycroft gave Sherlock a pointed look that suggested that he saw through this, and knew perfectly well that the texts Sherlock was hoping for had nothing to do with his previous clients.

“If that happens, Sherlock, you are to ignore it. It’s not like you’ll be able to offer them much help from Serbia.”

“No, but I can send the case information to you, and you can investigate for me.”

“Sherlock, I think I have rather bigger fish to fry than the trifles of your clients…”

“So I’m expected to just let the criminal population of London thrive while I’m away?”

“We do have a police force you know.” responded Mycroft. “Scotland Yard managed just fine before you turned up and they’ll manage just fine without you.”

“If that’s what you call managing….” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Besides, letting the criminal population of London thrive , as you put it, actually does help our story. Moriarty’s network will expect you to continue your work.” 

“Come now, Mycroft, what harm does it do for me to see my texts? Can’t I just have one remnant of my old life?” Sherlock was aware he was sounding childish, but Mycroft never failed to bring out that side of him.

“Sherlock, we discussed this. At length. You cannot contact John Watson. He must believe you’re dead. It’s the only way this plan works.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, annoyed that Mycroft had seen through him, like he always did. 

“I’m not going to contact him. I just want to know if he texts.”

“And why would he text? He thinks you’re dead.”

“If you’re so sure he won’t text, then just let me see my messages. Please, Mycroft.” 

Eventually, Mycroft had conceded, after making Sherlock promise in a dozen different ways that no matter what John might say to him, that he would not contact him. Sherlock had agreed. 

It wasn’t long after the fall that he got his first text message from John. It came a few hours after John’s heartfelt speech at the graveside, the one that had made Sherlock’s chest feel simultaneously warm and tight in ways that he couldn’t quite explain. It said, simply, 

I still know you’re for real. 

Sherlock had gulped. This hadn’t been the plan. The plan was that John would be convinced by Sherlock’s insistence that he was a fraud, a fake. John usually believed him so easily. Sherlock couldn’t begin to understand why this time was an exception. 

He had known that John would text him, after his “death”. John was a writer, after all. He was one to address trauma solely through words that he didn’t have to speak aloud. He hadn’t expected this declaration of confidence, however. He had expected scathing insults, harsh criticisms, maybe even a litany of questions. John could always be counted upon to need situations thoroughly explained to him. Sherlock supposed that the missing factor in this equation was the inane insistence people had on not thinking ill of the dead. John was probably feeling too stunned over Sherlock’s sudden demise to be able to fully process the anger that was inevitable. 

However, a couple days later, Sherlock had gotten another text. This one said 

I wish you had talked to me. We could have fixed this, you know. You and me. We always did. 

It was so incredibly naïve, so optimistic, so John , in a way that categorically should not have appealed to Sherlock but somehow did anyway. 

The texts kept coming, exactly once a day, for the next two months. They were often short, always to the point, and always reflected the same few basic sentiments. Through these texts, Sherlock watched John go through the stages of grief. First was denial: 

I still can’t believe you’re gone. I keep thinking that I hear bumbling about downstairs. 

I still don’t know why you did it. You never cared what others thought of you. Or so I thought. 

Then came anger, the emotion that Sherlock was expecting. However, the anger never seemed to quite take the form that Sherlock expected it to. 

I punched Donovan in the face today. I still think this is her fault. Ella says that blame is pointless, but I think that’s just because she doesn’t want to be out of a job. Turns out the punch was more therapeutic than the six sessions we’ve had so far. 

Sherlock had laughed out loud at that one, filling his small dingy hotel room with the sound. It had startled him. He hadn’t heard his own voice since he left England. 

When the bargaining began, Sherlock felt his resolve waiver for the first time. 

I keep trying to imagine what I could have done differently. I don’t think I was a very good friend to you, and for that I’m sorry. 

This message made Sherlock’s chest ache in the very specific way that was entirely unique to moments when Sherlock saw John hurting. He had felt it first when he had made eye contact with John in the darkened swimming pool, the first moment that he had had to face the fact that The Work could get John hurt, and getting John hurt was Not An Option. 

One specific message had made Sherlock come so close to ending the whole operation that he called Mycroft and had to be reminded what this was all for:

I will always believe in you. But even if I didn’t, even if I thought you were a fraud, it wouldn’t matter. Because you were more to me than the cleverest detective in the world.  You were a good man and a good friend. If I could do it all again, that’s what I would have told you. 

When John entered the depression phase, those texts were also hard to read:

Stayed in bed all day. I can’t find a compelling enough reason to leave the flat anymore. 

After a while, the texts came fewer and farther between. The first time John went a few days without texting Sherlock, he was initially concerned. After the third day, however, he received this text:

I miss you 

And three days later…

I miss you

And then, finally, after a full two weeks:

I miss you. Ella thinks it’s time I stop sending these texts. “Holding on to the past”, she called it. But I still miss you. 

After that, the texts pretty much stopped entirely. At this point, Sherlock tried to feel happy for John, happy that he had found the ability to move on with his life. However, those texts had been the highlight of Sherlock’s days for so long. Not getting texts from John meant he was officially and completely cut off from the life he had lived at Baker Street. 

There was also the fact that the content of John’s texts allowed Sherlock’s mind to wander (only in the most remote corners of his mind palace) to a world where he and John could be together again, in a capacity perhaps beyond the confines of Flatmate, Friend, and Conductor of Light. 

“I miss you”. John had said. The straight-laced, traumatised military man that Sherlock had lived with for so long wouldn’t have said those words. Sherlock imagined the only thing that allowed John to open up in that capacity was John’s confidence that Sherlock was dead, and that his words were being shouted into the void. It would have made Sherlock feel guilty if he hadn’t felt so touched. 

When Irene Adler’s signature text alert sounded in Serbia, Sherlock immediately responded (from his new, burner number) before even stopping to consider whether or not that was a terrifically bad idea. It’s fine , Sherlock reasoned to himself afterwards. She’s hiding from the same people. 

Hello. Not dead. If you want to get in contact with me, use this number. SH

Sherlock had just started his morning routine (visiting John’s blog from a VPN to see if there were any updates (there weren’t)) when his notification sound blared again. 

Ahhhhhh.

Glad to hear you’re not dead. Does John know? I saw him on telly a few months ago, he’s either beside himself with grief or a very, very good actor. 

Sherlock’s response was simple: 

No. And he musn’t. He’s being watched. SH

Ahhhhhh.

Simply devastating. He adores you, you know. 

Sherlock did not respond to this. A few minutes later, he got another text: 

So what are you doing on this little holiday of yours? Hiding out and waiting for Moriarty’s network to die down?

Essentially. SH

Sherlock didn’t feel like elaborating. 

Well, let me know if you need help. After what you did for Kate and I, there’s very little I wouldn’t do to help you. 

Sherlock thought back to that night in Karachi. 

***

“You saved me.” Irene had said, her dark hair still covered in cloth. 

“It would seem so. Don’t get used to it, I don’t expect to make it a habit.”

“I thought you hated me.” 

“I couldn’t hate you, Irene.” 

It was true. Sherlock was capable of feeling nothing but affection towards the woman who had taught him so much about himself, so much about who he wanted to be. 

“I was just playing the game.” Irene said, echoing one of the last things Irene had said to him. 

“Yes, you were. And you’re quite a good player, might I add. It’d be a shame to lose such a fine competitor.” 

Irene had smiled at him, a playful and confident smile. An onlooker might have thought of it as sexy, or suggestive, but Sherlock had finally learned the truth of this woman, the truth that she never hid but yet everyone still missed. 

“I can’t leave.” Irene had responded. “Not without-”

“Not without Kate.” Sherlock had said, finishing her sentence. 

Irene’s smile turned into a smirk. “Finally figured it out, did you?”

“It wasn’t much of a stretch. You told John to his face that you were gay. It wasn’t exactly hard to put two and two together after that. I am a detective, after all.”

“You were very slow.” teased Irene.

“Possibly.”

“Have you figured out the rest of it?”

“The rest of it?”

“Come now, Sherlock. The rest of it. The fact that you and I have quite a bit in common?”

“Are you asking me if I’ve figured out that I’m homosexual? I’m in my mid-thirties, Irene. I think I can be trusted to know something like that about myself.”

Irene’s eyes glistened when she met Sherlock, in a way that told Sherlock that they were, indeed, on the same page. Irene knew the truth - that Sherlock may never have taken the time to put a name to his own sexuality if he hadn’t seen himself mirrored back to him so clearly in Irene. 

When Sherlock first met Irene, he had walked into that living room and seen kinship that he never expected to see. There had stood a woman, completely nude in front of two relatively attractive men, and kept her wits about her enough to not only impress Sherlock but also to outsmart him. Sherlock had never met anyone but himself that was able to keep so cool in overtly sexual scenarios. It wasn’t until he stood covertly in Battersea station that he finally began to understand what it all meant. 

“I’m not actually gay.”

“Well I am. Look at us both.”

Oh. Sherlock had thought. Oh. 

It wasn’t that he was, as he so often claimed to be, intellectually above his baser nature. If he really thought about it, it seemed he had known that for a while. Looking at John’s face, his resigned little smile at Irene’s accusation that he and Sherlock were a couple, it all fell into place. 

Sherlock Holmes was not a heterosexual man who was able to resist the temptation of the flesh in lieu of the challenges of the mind. He was not an asexual man who did not experience any sexual attraction whatsoever. He was a gay man with a very specific preference for a short army doctor who kept an absurd blog and never took sugar in his tea. 

Oh. 

It should have been ridiculous that it had taken him this long to figure it out. Sherlock had always had a gift for noticing latent homosexual tendencies in closeted individuals, but he had failed to notice it in himself. Sherlock supposed that he must have known at some point, but deleted it in his younger years.

After saving Irene, he had taken her to a safehouse in Germany. A few hours later, he brought Kate to the same location. Seeing the way that they fell into each other’s arms in complete relief that they were safe, and together, made Sherlock think longingly of what awaited him back in Baker Street. 

When John had told Sherlock that Irene was dead, Sherlock had gone along with it. 

It was better that way, better for John not to know how much Irene meant to him, and for what reasons. 

The Woman. The Woman that made Sherlock realise that all he really wanted was A Man. 

***

Sherlock smiled at his phone. 

Thank you, Irene. SH

Chapter Text

“You read my letters.” said Sherlock, his voice pitched higher than normal, and slightly panicked. 

John nodded once, sharply. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. 

“I can explain.”

John said nothing, not able to make sense of the swirling thoughts inside his head. 

For a long while, John could not bring himself to look at Sherlock. He felt his heart pounding in his ears, and his hands started to tremble. He called to mind a long forgotten trick he learned in the military for controlling his fear, and breathed in slowly for four seconds, and out for four seconds. His heart rate declined, slightly, but was still higher than he’d prefer (by his best estimate, it was down to 110 bpm). 

John forced himself to meet Sherlock’s bluish green eyes, and saw that they were wide with fear. John didn’t trust it. If he had learned anything about Sherlock in the last few years, it was that his acting was so good that he could give several of the most prominent members of The Academy a run for their money. 

Looking Sherlock in the eye caused John’s heart rate to sneak up again (around 140 bpm now), and John thought back to some tips Ella had given him to control impending panic attacks. 

Name five things you can see. 

John could see Sherlock, looking more shocked and uncomfortable than John had seen since Baskerville. John could see Rosie, and her blonde ringlets bouncing as she played gleefully with a stuffed giraffe she had gotten from Mrs. Hudson. He could see his red armchair, placed in the exact same spot as it had been back when he lived at Baker Street. He could see Sherlock’s microscope in the kitchen, looking recently polished (of course the only time Sherlock would care about cleanliness is when it came to his science equipment). Finally, he looked at the smiley face on the wall filled with bullet holes, a symbol of a simpler time; a time when Sherlock hadn’t faked his death, John didn’t have a dead wife, and John hadn’t read a clearly private letter in which Sherlock confessed his long-standing feelings of romantic attraction. 

Name four things you can touch. 

The first thing John registered was his own sweaty palms, still trembling in a manner that made John’s inner marksman feel deeply ashamed. The second was John’s daughter. He felt the denim of her tiny little overalls. He placed his other hand in her hair, and felt the soft recently-washed feel of her blonde hair that was so like Mary’s. Finally, John placed his hand on the desk in front of him, on which sat the laptop that had turned his entire world upside down. The wood was mahogany, smoothed and polished. John let out a shaky breath. 

Name three things you can hear. 

Rosie’s babbles, that was the first one. Rosie was softly muttering to herself, “bah bah bah!”; the nonsensical gibberish of a toddler. The second was the clock, ticking so slowly, making each second feel like several hours. Finally, John could hear Sherlock’s breathing, as unsteady and shaky as his own. It seemed Sherlock’s heart rate must be just as elevated as his own. 

Name two things you can smell. 

John could smell Mrs. Hudson’s pastries coming from downstairs. He focused as intently on this smell as he could, so he wouldn’t have to focus on the sandalwood and jasmine scent of a freshly-showered Sherlock. John had always loved that smell. 

Name one thing you can taste. 

That one was easy. Blood. Anxiety always caused John to get a sharp metallic taste in his mouth. 

John took another deep breath, less shaky this time. His heart rate had calmed down to roughly 90 bpm. He felt slightly more sturdy. 

“Are you alright?” asked Sherlock, breaking the silence. Damn him for being so observant in a time like this. 

“Piss off, Sherlock.”

“Do you need to sit down?”

“Rosie and I were just leaving, actually.”

“I can explain.” Sherlock repeated. 

John’s anger finally broke the surface, and it was only the fact that he was still holding Rosie that kept him from shouting. 

“Explain what exactly, Sherlock? What is this? An experiment? A case?” 

John didn’t actually believe this was an experiment. Something deep inside of his mind had felt several important puzzle pieces fit together when he had read those letters. If someone had asked John just one day previously whether Sherlock Holmes was in love with him, he would have laughed. But now, John felt as if he had always known, somehow. 

Still, this was Sherlock. Sherlock . The man who faked his death, who pretended to not know how to diffuse a bomb, who proposed to Janine Hawkins so convincingly. John didn’t know what to trust.

“No, not an experiment.” said Sherlock, looking at John intensely. “An exercise.” 

“An exercise?” scoffed John, putting as much ice in his voice as he could muster. “Are you practising writing love confessions? In case you need to find yourself another Janine ?”

“An exercise for Ella.”

John felt the pit of his stomach sink. “Oh is that her name, then? Your next fake girlfriend? Ella?”

“You really are quite dim sometimes, I’m surprised you’re literate enough to actually read that letter.” Sherlock snapped. “Ella Thompson, John. My therapist.”

“ Your therapist?” John snapped, the volume of his voice getting dangerously close to shouting. “Ella Thompson is my therapist. ”

“She isn’t. You haven’t booked an appointment with her in months.” 

“ Get your own sodding therapist. ”

“I like Ella, she’s helping me.”

“I don’t bloody care. Find someone else. Shouldn’t that be a conflict of interest or something?”

“You know more about medical ethics than I do, you tell me.”

Rosie started to whimper, and John sighed, cradling her closer and rocking her slowly back and forth. Neither man spoke for a while, letting the silence calm the tension in the room. Slowly, Rosie’s whimpers stopped and she once again began cradling her stuffed giraffe.

 This time, John was the one to break the silence.

“Did you mean it?”

“Yes.” Sherlock replied, simply. He was looking at John with the conviction of a man who was resigned to his fate. 

“It’s not an experiment?”

“No.” 

John was silent for another moment, staring fixedly at his old armchair for a while. Sherlock's letter had sounded so tender, so confident in his feelings. He couldn't imagine Sherlock ever saying those words to anyone, much less to him. Finally, he had an idea, and met Sherlock's eyes again. 

“Can you say it, please? Out loud? I can’t trust it until I hear you say it.”

Sherlock’s expression became pained. “John, I can’t.”

“Please? Just this once, and I’ll never ask you to say it again.”

“I don’t see what good it will do.” Sherlock pleaded.

“Please?” John asked, hating himself slightly but not enough to stop. He knew that making Sherlock say the words, and not being able to say them back, would hurt Sherlock. However, his curiosity won out, and he hurt him anyway. "For me?"

Sherlock’s face crumpled. He closed his eyes, as if unable to look at John when he made his confession.

“I love you,” Sherlock said, simply. “I have for a while. But I never intended for you to know.”

John felt a shiver go down his spine, and just like that, he knew that Sherlock was telling the truth. He knew that this was not another Reichenbach, or another Janine. No performance could make John feel like this. It wasn’t until that moment that John realised how much he had wanted Sherlock to be lying. He did not want to be loved by Sherlock Holmes. 

John was silent for a long time, trying to decide what to say. He did not look at Sherlock, but instead focused all of his energy on the tiny little girl in his arms, who was oblivious of how much the world had turned on its axis. 

Finally, John looked up, and found that Sherlock had opened his eyes and was looking back at him. His expression was unreadable. 

“I have to go.” John said. “I can’t be here right now. I can’t talk to you for a while. I need to think.”

“Okay.” said Sherlock. 

It was less than a minute later before John was out the door and into a cab, Rosie still in his arms. 

***

“Thank you so much, Molly. I can’t begin to express how grateful I am.” 

“Of course, John. What are godmothers for?” Molly replied, smiling. She was still in her scrubs, having come straight from Bart’s. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah of course, I’m fine. I just need to be alone tonight.” John responded. 

“I understand,” responded Molly. “Only, I thought you were doing better? You haven’t needed anyone to take Rosie overnight in months.”

John shrugged. He certainly wasn’t about to admit to Molly that the reason he’d been able to care for Rosie overnight was thanks to Sherlock spending almost every night in his flat, watching over him and his daughter. Not after what he just learned. 

“Well, you know Molly, this whole recovery business is a slow process.”

Molly smiled. “Of course it is. I’m happy to help. I love Rosie, and I don’t have to work tomorrow.” 

“Thanks again, Molly.” John said, leaning in for what ended up being an awkward side hug.

After Molly and Rosie were safely out of the house, John put on his coat and walked to the nearest liquor store. This chilly air nipped at his cheeks as he walked, alone with his thoughts for the first time that evening. 

Honestly, John Watson, I’m in love with you. 

Though he knew it was true, John still had a hard time processing it. Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Married-to-his-work, Mr. Emotion-is-the-grit-on-the-lens, was in love. With him. With the short, disabled, angry, alcoholic widower that was John Watson. 

Mary always used to joke about it. 

“Sherlock loves you just as much as I do”

“Ha. Maybe, in a very different way.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that, darling.”

“Oh come on, Mary, not you too. We get enough of this rubbish with the press.”

“That’s because the press is able to see what’s right in front of them.”

“The press sees what they want to see.” 

“Oh come on John. He planned your wedding, and then left early. He faked his death to save your life. He dressed up as a French waiter to surprise you after two years apart. The poor man’s got it bad for you.”

“I feel sorry for you, Mary, that you’re not able to see displays of platonic affection between two heterosexual men without assuming that one of the men is in love with the other. Can’t two men just be friends these days?”

John felt the way he often did, in the months after he had reconciled with Mary but before her death. Once Mary no longer felt compelled to hide her assassin nature from him, he often felt five steps behind when he would spend time with Mary and Sherlock together, as he failed again and again to make the logical leaps that seemed to be so simple to the two of them. God. How could John have been so stupid? 

John barely managed to get inside his home and close the door before he had his mouth on the Jack Daniels bottle, taking a big hearty sip. He had never wanted so badly to black out. After a while, he felt the edges of his vision begin to blur, let himself fall down onto the sofa (he still couldn’t bring himself to lay in the bed he shared with Mary), and covered himself with blankets. His mind went blank, and he succumbed to sleep. 

***

John knows. SH

About me? 

No. Well, yes, he found out about you when you texted me on my birthday. But no, I meant he KNOWS. About me. SH

Atta boy, Sherlock! Finally told him? 

No, he accidentally read a letter that was meant to stay between me and my therapist. SH

Ah. A classic. How did he take it? I assume not well, or else you’d be out getting buggered by your new boyfriend instead of texting your lesbian ex-nemesis. 

Ex nemesis? That’s a little melodramatic. SH

You didn’t answer the question, my love. 

About as well as you'd expect. He had a panic attack and then walked out. He told me he didn’t want to talk to me for a while. SH

Ah. I’m sorry. But don’t fret. Dr. Watson was always rather sensitive about his sexuality, and about his closeness to you. He’s just one of those military men who doesn’t want to be bothered by traditional ideas of masculinity but can’t help but get bothered anyway. But don’t worry, he’ll get over it. He loves you, if not in the way you want him to. 

He’s not well. He lost his wife six months ago, and hasn’t been coping well. He left his job and drinks himself stupid every night. I’m concerned. SH

He’s a grown man who’s seen a lot of turmoil in his life. I wouldn’t worry too much about it. He’s in a dark place, but if there’s anyone who I feel confident will climb his way out of it, it’s your Dr. Watson. 

He’s not mine. S

He is, Sherlock. More than anyone else’s, he’s yours. 

***

Sherlock spent the next couple days trying not to think about John. He updated his website to include the very specific clues that helped one tell polyester apart from nylon. He didn’t schedule a session with Ella. He asked Molly for a jar of toenails and set them on fire, examining the melting patterns. He didn’t schedule a session with Ella. He reorganised his sock index in order of thread tensile strength. He did not schedule a session with Ella. 

Work is the best antidote to sorrow.

When Sherlock finally got a call from Lestrade, he had never been so happy to hear the inspector's voice. 

“Murder in Camden. Standup comedian, Alex Milner, does a bit about his ex-wife’s hypothetical murder, and the exact same time that his show is going on, his ex-wife is found dead. Her death matches Milner’s joke exactly, but of course Milner has a couple hundred audience members who can vouch for his alibi.”

“What was the joke?” 

“Well I don’t know about the delivery of it, but basically it involved her vitamin pills all being replaced with identical looking cyanide pills.”

“Have you ruled out a negligent or malevolent pharmacist?” 

“Yes. We were able to verify that the pill’s coating used a slightly different material than what the pharmacist uses, and some of the original vitamin pills were seen on the ground at the scene of the crime. The switch was clearly made inside the victim's home.”

“Well that should make the suspect pool rather thin.” replied Sherlock. “Only audience members of past shows, who have heard Milner’s joke in the past, could have done it.”

“As far as we can tell, this is the first time he performed this particular joke in front of an audience. His shows were all recorded, and this seems like brand new material.”

“Intriguing.” replied Sherlock. “This is at least a 6. Where in Camden? I’m on my way.” 

The case ended up distracting Sherlock for a couple of days. He interviewed Alex Milner, the pharmacist, and many of the couple’s friends and family. He watched hours and hours of Milner’s standup material, which was really quite dreadful (and made quite a few jokes at the expense of the homosexual community, which irritated Sherlock immensely). Eventually, he came to the conclusion that the ex-wife had not been murdered at all. She, in fact, had been the first one to hear this particular joke from her husband the night prior to the murder while in a spectacular fight with her ex over alimony (which Sherlock deduced from a combination of CCTV footage and the woman’s nail polish choices). She committed suicide in the same manner as her husband’s death, hoping it would end up implicating him in her murder. The only mistake she made was failing to realise that his show was at the exact same time as her eventual death. 

Sherlock couldn't help being mildly disappointed by this outcome. It was always anticlimactic when murders turned out to be suicides. He vastly preferred the opposite. 

When Sherlock got home, he tried and failed to not think about John. He couldn’t help it. He needed to know if he was okay. 

Just checking in. You’re alright? SH

Sherlock held his phone in his hand for a few minutes, hoping for a speedy reply. When one didn’t come, he began to feel anxious. Was John dead? Or just ignoring his texts? He couldn’t stand either option. 

He tried to busy himself with reading the news article that had just been published on the comedian case. ( WRONG! Sherlock commented, in all caps, on the news article. They had failed to include almost every feature of interest about the case ). He tried to distract himself by reading his old organic chemistry textbook. He even tried cooking, though he gave up halfway through and decided he wasn’t actually that hungry, anyway. 

Sherlock was just about to step into the shower when he heard his phone’s text alert. 

I’m fine. Thanks for checking in. JW

Sherlock grinned, ear to ear. John was alive. John was not ignoring him. John was talking to him again. He felt like he had just solved an 8. 

Just solved a case. Standup comedian’s wife found dead in the exact same manner that the comedian joked about in his show. Ended up being rather boring, it was just a suicide. SH 

Wow, I just saw a story about that on the telly. I had no idea you were involved. That sounds like a good one for the blog, actually. JW

Come over tomorrow and I can walk you through it? SH

Sherlock tried not to feel hopeful, but nevertheless felt his heart sink a little further into his chest with every minute that passed without John responding. It was around midnight when Sherlock’s text alert finally went off again. 

I’m sorry, Sherlock. I still need some time. JW

Okay. Are we still friends? SH

Yes, Sherlock. We’re still friends. JW

Sherlock sighed and stepped into the shower. Still friends. Well, that was something at least.

Chapter Text

Sherlock didn’t see John for the next few weeks, nor did anyone else. Mrs. Hudson was particularly upset about this development, especially when John called to say that she was temporarily relieved of her Tuesday and Thursday Rosie-watching duties. 

“I appreciate how much you love Rosie, Mrs. H, but I don’t have a job anymore. I can really look after Rosie myself.” Sherlock heard John say over the receiver. 

“John, love, you don’t have to do everything yourself, you know!” Mrs. Hudson lectured. “Sherlock and I are happy to help. That’s what godparents are for!” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. This was tedious. 

“This has nothing to do with your capabilities as a godparent.” snapped Sherlock. “It’s me that John doesn’t want to see.” 

“Oh dear.” said Mrs. Hudson, placing the receiver on her shoulder and staring up at Sherlock. “Did you two have a row?” 

“Something like that.” Sherlock snapped back, taking the phone from Mrs. Hudson’s hand and forcefully hanging it up. 

A couple minutes later, Sherlock got a text. 

That was rude. JW

Yeah? So is depriving a kindly old woman of her goddaughter just because you don’t want to see one of her tenants. I can leave the flat when Rosie’s here, you know. SH

John did not respond. 

A couple days later, Sherlock was at Bart’s, examining a murder victim for one of his new clients (Nancy Fieldman, who came to Sherlock 100% convinced that she had killed her sister Annie while sleepwalking. Scotland Yard had arrested Annie’s boyfriend, Patrick, and had ignored Nancy’s “confession” outright). 

Molly sat next to Sherlock, making tedious small talk. 

“She was such a pretty girl you know, such a shame, it always is so sad to see them go so young like that. She went to the same uni as my younger cousin, you know, they have a real problem with…”

“Molly.” Sherlock cut her off. “I’m trying to focus.” 

“Sorry.” said Molly, and she was quiet for a moment, letting Sherlock work. 

“Hey, Sherlock?” she said tentatively. Sherlock sighed. One could always count on Molly to butt her head in where it didn’t belong. 

“Yes?”

“Have you spoken to John recently?” 

“Nope.” Sherlock replied, popping the p. 

“Yeah, I didn’t think so. I’m worried for him.” 

“Molly, John Watson has thus far survived medical school, deployment to Afghanistan, a gunshot wound, and the death of his closest friend. I feel quite confident that he can survive this current agony as well.” Sherlock said, coolly. It didn’t matter that he himself had suffered many a sleepless night over the last few weeks, with the exact same worries. 

“Sherlock, did something happen? Between the two of you?” Molly asked. The kindness in her voice was almost unbearable. It reminded Sherlock of when she had confronted him prior to his Fall at Bart’s, and told him quite plainly that she could tell how sad he was by looking at his face when John couldn’t see him. In some ways, Molly reminded Sherlock of Ella. Her intuition was almost unforgivably acute.

“What do you imagine has ‘happened’ Molly?” Sherlock replied, using finger air quotes. 

“Well, I’m no detective.” she said softly. “But he was doing better. A lot better. Did you know that the first few weeks after Mary died, he called me almost every night?” 

Sherlock looked up from the corpse, startled. He had not known that. 

Molly continued. “He always tried not to, bless his heart. He didn’t want to be a burden on me. Every night, after putting Rosie to bed, he would try as hard as he could to fall asleep. But every night, between 1 and 3 AM, he would call me. He would ask me to come take Rosie. I think he was worried for her safety. Worried that Rosie wasn’t safe with him.” 

“Why wouldn’t Rosie be safe with him?”

“Absolutely no reason. Every night when I came to get her, he reeked of alcohol, but never to the point that I worried for Rosie’s safety. It’s just John being John, isn’t it? He’s always convinced the people he loves would be better off without him. It’s the same thing he did when you died.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 

“Oh, well, of course you wouldn’t know I suppose. But he isolated himself completely. Turned down every invite we offered him. He seemed to think that his grief would bring us all down.”

Sherlock had a sudden flashback to Mary’s letter, when she had tried to run away rather than let Sherlock help her. 

I don’t want you and Sherlock hanging off my gun arm. I’m sorry, my love. 

Truly, John and Mary were perfect for each other. Sherlock felt a wave of nausea come over him. John’s soulmate (if he were to believe in such things, which he did not) was dead, all because of him. 

“Anyways,” Molly continued. “About two months ago, I stopped getting calls from John altogether. I worried for him, you know, one doesn’t expect someone to just heal overnight from something like that. And so I went over to his flat one morning, to check on him, to offer to help out. And I saw….”

Sherlock suddenly knew exactly what Molly had seen, and exactly what she must have assumed. 

“You saw me leaving.”

“Yes.”

“You thought John and I were sleeping together.”

“Weren’t you?”

Sherlock laughed. “No, Molly. I just went over there to help out. I spent the night there, but I often didn’t sleep. I would just talk to him until he fell asleep, and look after Rosie if she cried in the middle of the night.”

“Oh. Okay.” said Molly. “It’s just….it seemed to help him a lot. Having you around every night.” 

“Maybe.” 

“But then it stopped. A couple weeks ago, John called me in the middle of the night again. And he looked so lost. I thought maybe….it had ended, between the two of you.”

Sherlock laughed again, and this time it was icy. Molly flinched. 

“No. There has never been anything romantic between John and I.”

“Alright. Only…are you sure? When I started to think about it, it made a lot of sense.”

Sherlock stood up suddenly, and grabbed his coat. 

“I think I have enough data now. Can you send me the results of that toxicology report?”

“I’ve offended you.” 

“Goodbye, Molly.” 

“Sherlock Holmes, don’t you walk away from me!” shouted Molly, with more venom in her voice than Sherlock had heard since the time John had found him high in a crack den. 

Sherlock turned around, looking Molly in the eye for the first time that day. 

“Tell me the truth.” Molly pleaded. 

Sherlock took a deep breath. 

“John and I were not sleeping together. We never have. I went to John’s flat to help him watch over Rosie, and that is all.” 

“And?” Molly prompted. 

“And, a couple of weeks ago, John found out something about me that he was not comfortable hearing. He has assured me that we are still friends, but he needs a break from our association.” 

“What did he find out about you, Sherlock?” Molly asked, tentatively. Something in her voice told Sherlock that she might already know. 

“How I feel. About him.”

Molly’s face changed in an instant. Her features softened, and she smiled encouragingly. 

“Oh, Sherlock…” she said, and she stepped forward and hugged him. Molly had never hugged Sherlock before. Sherlock stood, frozen, not sure how to move. He felt like tact would suggest that he hug her back, but he wasn’t sure he felt comfortable doing that quite yet. 

“You’re in love with John?” she asked, stepping back from the hug. 

“Yes.” Sherlock responded, simply. He suddenly wondered if he should be offering some sort of apology, remembering that at one point Molly had felt quite strongly about him.

“Molly, I’m sorry that I could never….return your affections. I…”

Molly laughed kindly, and when Sherlock looked into her eyes, he saw tears sparkling in them. He felt an immense sense of guilt. He shouldn’t have said anything at all. To his surprise, however, when Molly spoke her words sounded quite cheerful. 

“Sherlock Holmes, don’t you dare apologise to me.” she said. “Don’t ever apologise to anyone for your sexuality, or for who you love, and you are ESPECIALLY not allowed to apologise to me for loving John Watson. He’s the best man I know, Sherlock, he really is.”

Sherlock couldn’t help the small smile that came over his face. “Yes, he is.”

“He loves you back, you know. Even if he doesn’t know it yet.” 

Sherlock pursed his lips and looked back down at the ground. “No, he doesn’t. Don’t lie to me, Molly. John Watson is a straight man who is not capable of romantic feelings for me.”

Molly shook her head, emphatically. “I don’t think that’s quite true, Sherlock. You’ll see. Trust me. He’ll come round.”

Sherlock shrugged, not agreeing but not quite having the energy to argue either. “Thanks, Molly.” 

Sherlock walked out of Bart’s and put on his scarf. He went home, longing to text John but knowing that he probably shouldn’t. 

Every other night, he texted John asking if he was alright. 

Checking in again. I assume both Watsons have all their vital organs operating properly? SH

Yep. Two beating hearts, breathing lungs, and inebriated but functioning brains. JW

And a couple minutes later…

Well. Rosie’s brain is not inebriated. Obviously. JW

Glad to hear you’re not getting your daughter drunk. But what about your kidneys and livers? Aren’t those also vital organs? Aren’t you supposed to be a doctor? SH

Kidneys and livers are just fine, Sherlock. Goodnight. JW

A couple days later….

You’re alright, yes? Will we ever hear from you again? SH

I told you, Sherlock. I just need time. I’m sorry. JW

Mrs. Hudson worries, you know. SH

Well tell “Mrs. Hudson” that she has nothing to be worried about. I really am fine. JW

Okay. Goodnight, John. SH

It continued like this for a week or so, until John finally started beating Sherlock to the punch. 

I’m going to start sending one text a day so that you know I’m alright. I’m fine, Sherlock. Rosie’s fine. We’re all fine. JW

Glad to hear it. Thank you, John. SH

As much as Sherlock appreciated the gesture, John texting him once a day to remind Sherlock that he was alright took away the one excuse Sherlock had to send John a text when he missed him. As Sherlock stood on the tube, on his way back to Baker Street from Bart’s, all he wanted to do was talk to John. 

He felt liberated, in a way. His conversation with Molly was the first time he had told anyone, out loud (aside from the confession John had forced out of him a few weeks prior) that he had feelings for John. In a way, it surprised Sherlock that the world kept turning. He wondered if Mycroft had been eavesdropping. Most likely, Sherlock assumed. Well, the cat was out of the bag now, he supposed. 

He grabbed his phone and navigated to his email. He had been ignoring multiple attempts from Ella to contact him. 

Sherlock,

I heard from my receptionist that you have cancelled all of our upcoming sessions. Might I inquire as to why? I feel like we have been making progress, and I hate to see all of that work tossed out the drain. 

Dr. Ella Thompson

Sherlock,

Please call at your earliest convenience. You are a person that likes to push his troubles away when they become too unwieldy, and I think that is exactly what you are doing by cancelling our appointments. The fact that you feel this way makes me think that we are, in fact, making progress. Digging into these emotions can only help in the long run. 

Dr. Ella Thompson

Sherlock sighed. He knew that Ella was right. Their sessions really had been helpful, and would probably benefit him even more so now that so much had happened. Well, Sherlock figured, if he could come out to Molly, then he could do it with Ella. He picked up his phone and dialled her receptionist’s number. 

***

John Watson, as it turned out, was actually doing just fine. He found that not having a job to report to actually made coping quite a bit easier. Every morning he woke up to Rosie’s cries, fed her, played with her, cleaned up after her, and then fed her again. He found that by the time Rosie was ready to be put to bed at night, he too was exhausted. He still drank himself stupid every night, but at least he slept. During the days, he found that he actually really enjoyed his daughter’s company. Rosie really was brilliant. John figured she must have gotten that from her mother, because he certainly didn’t imagine that he was that bright as a child. Mary had bought Rosie a bunch of “educational toys” that were supposed to be given to her at strategic points in her development to help her learn. Right now, Rosie was playing with an intricate block set that included various different shapes and sizes of blocks, and corresponding holes to place them through. Rosie was figuring it out so quickly that John feared he was going to have to buy a whole new set of educational toys. 

Suddenly, Rosie stretched and yawned. 

“Aww, is Rosie sleepy?” John said, cradling his daughter in her arms and rocking her slowly. Rosie pressed her face into his vest, and sighed lightly. Alright , thought John. Naptime it is. 

John categorically hated naptime. When Rosie took a nap, he found he had nothing and no one to distract him from his thoughts. He couldn’t drink, because he knew Rosie would be up in an hour or so and he didn’t want to be drunk while caring for her. He thought bitterly of his own father, and knew with certainty that was one boundary he would not cross. 

Once Rosie was sleeping soundly, John navigated to the couch. He thought briefly about texting Sherlock, but then thought better of it. He knew that the next time he talked to Sherlock, they would have to address their last discussion. John did not feel ready for that. It would break his heart to have to look into the eyes of his favourite (adult) human on Earth and tell him that he couldn’t return his feelings, that he just wanted to be friends. Especially considering that John was pretty sure that Sherlock had never confessed romantic feelings to anyone else in his life (and John was a little skeptical that Sherlock had ever even had feelings for anyone else). 

John wished he had read the letters multiple times, or that he had a copy of his very own to reread. He remembered the gist of the letters, but the details were a little hazy. 

For example, he remembered that Sherlock had mentioned something about wanting to touch him, to be with him physically. John wished he remembered exactly what Sherlock had said. 

Before reading those letters, he assumed that Sherlock had been asexual. There were times when he wondered otherwise (Irene and Janine, to be specific), but more often than not Sherlock had shown absolutely no interest in sex whatsoever. John wished he knew when Sherlock’s attraction to him had begun. 

He wondered what particular sex acts Sherlock was interested in. Did he want to have anal sex with John? Did he want to be penetrated, or to be the penetrator? John wondered if he was interested in foreplay, such as hand jobs or blow jobs. Had Sherlock ever looked at John and gotten hard? Had he ever looked at John and fantasised, while John was in the same room with no idea? Did Sherlock touch himself and think about John? 

Gay sex was quite a mystery to John. Well, mostly. One time in uni, he had gotten drunk and made out with a boy on the Rugby team. They did nothing but grind their erections against each other fully clothed, until they both came in their pants. John tried not to think about it, writing it off as a weird thing that happened when he was drunk. Everyone hooked up with people they weren’t normally attracted to when they were drunk. 

And then there had been a couple of hand-jobs in the army, only under the cover of darkness, only out of loneliness and desperation. John wasn’t gay, and neither were the men he had jerked off in the army. 

And if he occasionally pressed on the “Gay” category when browsing porn, it certainly didn’t mean anything. It only happened a couple times a year, and never when he was in a relationship. Everyone searches for weird things in porn when they’re close to orgasm. 

John wasn’t exactly soft at the moment. He squirmed on the couch, trying to find a more comfortable position. He hadn’t touched himself since Mary died. 

John picked up his phone and navigated to his favourite porn website. He typed in “big tits” and scrolled through the videos. Yes, this was what he liked, he thought as his cock gave an approving twitch at all the distinctly feminine porn stars on the screen. He pressed on a video called “Big Tits Babysitter Fucks Dad on the Couch”. He dropped his hands to his waist and slipped them into his pants, grinding the heel of his hand onto his erection. 

The girl in the video was exactly his type. Thin, brunette, large breasts, large ass. John could imagine spreading her legs and sinking inside of her. She would be so tight and wet. God. 

When the man in the video walked into the frame, John had to pause for a moment. The man was tall and thin, with curly brown hair and high cheekbones. Fuck. John cringed as he felt his cock get harder. He had to exit out of the video. No, he was not going to do this. 

With a start, John thought back to the last time he had sex with Mary before she died. They hadn’t had sex a single time since their reconciliation, despite Mary attempting multiple times to seduce him. The only time that it worked was once after John had spent most of the day writing up a case for the blog, with Sherlock there to fill in all the missing details that John didn’t quite understand. 

“Oh look, John, Sherlock forgot his coat here.”

“Ah, that’s a shame.” said John, “I’m seeing him tomorrow, I’ll just return it to him then.” 

“Sounds good, I’ll go fold it and put it near your things.” said Mary, walking out of the room. John had turned his attention back to his laptop screen, fixing a couple grammatical errors, when he saw Mary walk back in, wearing nothing but Sherlock’s long, black coat.

“What are you doing?” asked John, blood immediately going to his face (and some to his crotch). 

“Oh I don’t know,” said Mary. “I thought you might want to fuck me.”

“Mary, that’s Sherlock’s coat.” 

“I know. But he won’t miss this one. He has lots of coats.”

“What makes you think I’d want to fuck you in Sherlock’s coat?” asked John. 

Mary shrugged, playfully. “Don’t you?” she asked, sitting on the table and spreading her legs. She was drenched. 

“Fuck.” said John, his cock getting impossible harder as Mary started slowly fingering herself. 

“I’m nice and wet for you, John.” she moaned, entering in a second finger. “Please, fuck me.”

John could never stand it when Mary started begging. He groaned, and stood up, loosening his belt. Mary grinned devilishly. “Yeah that’s it.” she encouraged. 

John finished taking off his trousers and pants, and then picked Mary up, walking them both to the bedroom. 

“You are a bad, bad woman.” he said, kissing her on the forehead. She giggled as they reached the bed, immediately laying on her back and spreading her legs. 

“No,” growled John, flipping Mary over and placing her on her stomach. “Like this. From behind.”

He hiked up Sherlock’s coat so that he could reach Mary, and placed his cock at her entrance. She whimpered, spreading her legs wider and allowing John to sink in. Fuck, she was wet. 

He sank in slowly, and then leaned closer to her, using his arms to brace himself above her. He could smell Sherlock’s signature sandalwood and jasmine scent, his Bleu de Chanel cologne. God it smelled good. He suddenly imagined himself in an entirely different situation, with Sherlock on his belly in front of him instead of Mary, with his cock sinking into a tight arsehole. It was incredibly arousing. 

“Fuck,” John swore. “I’m not going to last long.” 

He hoped Mary would assume his brevity was due to the fact that they hadn’t shagged since the Honeymoon, and not because the idea of being balls deep inside of his best friend was getting him more turned on than he’d been in years. 

John thrusted once, twice, three times, thinking of Sherlock’s incredibly tight arse, his broad chest, his milky white skin, all while letting his scent overwhelm his senses. On the ninth thrust, John pulled out quickly and came, hot spurt after hot spurt covering Sherlock’s posh coat. 

Afterwards, Mary had the coat dry cleaned, but John never gave Sherlock the coat back. Sherlock never asked. 

The memory was not doing anything to lessen John’s incredibly insistent arousal. He tried to find another video, this time searching “lesbian” so that he could watch a video that had no chance of forcing him to look at a man who looked disturbingly like Sherlock.

It was no good. About five minutes into the video, one of the women started eating the other girl’s arse, and John was immediately blessed with the fantasy of Sherlock in that position, on all fours, spreading his hole open for John’s tongue. Fuck.

Fine. If John was going to do this, then he was going to do it properly. It’s fine. Sherlock would never know. He stood up and walked to the closet, where he still had Sherlock’s coat hanging. He brought it back to the couch, immediately sniffing it. Sherlock’s smell was no longer there, thanks to the dry cleaning, but John found he didn’t mind. 

John wrapped the coat around his hand, and used it to touch his cock. It felt incredible, the soft material wrapped tightly around his aching prick. John thrusted into it a few times, groaning softly. He thought shamefully of the way Sherlock had looked the last time he had come over, having just come out of the shower, drenched in water and naked except for his pants. He had looked absolutely perfect. John picked up his phone again and navigated to his pictures folder, trying to find a picture that would help him out. He found a picture of Sherlock from when they lived together, wearing nothing but a dressing gown, smiling devilishly. The picture was sinfully hot. John thrusted three more times into the material until he came with a groan, absolutely drenching the coat with his cum. 

He lay there for a few minutes, trying to catch his breath. It’s fine, he told himself. Sherlock would never know. And it’s not like it changed anything. It’s not like John actually wanted to fuck Sherlock. And he certainly didn’t want to be in a relationship with him. It was just confusion, a combination of Sherlock’s letter and the fact that he hadn’t gotten laid in ages. 

John got up, got dressed, and placed Sherlock’s soiled coat in the dirty clothes hamper. It was time to wake Rosie up from her nap.

Chapter Text

Molly Hooper considered herself to be a good person. At the very least, she certainly tried to be. She volunteered at homeless shelters every Christmas (it wasn’t as if she had anywhere else to go), she always remembered her friends’ birthdays (speaking of which, John’s birthday was coming up. She needed to remember to print out the concert tickets she had bought for him), and when her friends called her late at night to look after their infant child, she said yes. Especially when that particular friend was busy grieving the death of his wife. 

But today, Molly was gearing up to do something she didn’t often do, and never liked doing. Molly Hooper was going to say no. 

She loved John. Of course she did. In the last few years, he had become one of her closest friends. Despite this, she could not stand for the version of John Watson that pushed away Sherlock Holmes. Molly may not love Sherlock the way she once had, but Sherlock’s broken face at the morgue earlier that day had made up her mind for her. She was going to say something. 

She got off work as soon as she finished her last post mortem (Milo Deninger, 57, stomach cancer that had eventually stopped his heart), and hung up her lab coat neatly. She said goodbye to Milton the security guard (and handed him a tray of cookies that she had baked specially for him), hailed a cab, and went straight to John’s flat. It was a 40 minute cab ride during rush hour (the one good thing about being called in the middle of the night was that Molly did not have to deal with traffic). John was not expecting her, but Molly knew he would be home. It wasn't as if he had any place to be these days. 

She knocked on the door in a successive burst of three quick raps, and took a deep breath. She had rehearsed this speech several times on the ride over. She knew what she needed to say. 

“Molly!” said John, upon opening the door. He had Rosie balancing on his hip, crying softly. He wore a plaid dressing gown, and looked like he hadn’t taken a shower in several days. “What a surprise!”

“Can I come in?” asked Molly, trying to sound more confident than she felt. 

“Of course!” said John, stepping aside to let Molly enter in ahead of him. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” asked John once Molly had made herself comfortable beside him on the couch.

Molly took one last deep breath, and then looked John directly in the eyes. “You need to talk to him.”

John’s face changed at once, from kind and welcoming to uncomfortable and annoyed. 

“Molly, I don’t think that this is any of your business.”

“It is my business when you call me almost every night to look after your daughter. You have someone else who’s more than willing to help you out and would jump at the chance to be there for you.”

Molly saw John’s features morph into an expression of guilt, which made her briefly want to back down. Her intention was not to make John feel guilty. 

“I’m sorry, Molls. I know, I’ve been relying on you far too much. You’re an absolute saint for all the help you’ve given me. You’re right, I’m sorry, I’ll ask someone else.”

“No.” said Molly, firmly. “You need to talk to him . He’s worried he’s lost you forever. How long do you intend on punishing him?”

John hesitated for a moment, looking at her quizzically. “Do you know?” he asked, vaguely. “Did he tell you about….about the reason we’re not talking?”

“He told me about the letters, yes. And his feelings. You’re lucky enough to be loved by the most incredible man in London, and you just cut him out of your life?”

Rosie started crying harder, so John was forced to momentarily avert his gaze from Molly in order to soothe his daughter. He rocked her in his arms and sang to her softly. Molly recognized the tune he was singing as a song she heard Sherlock play on the violin once. 

“I’m not punishing him.” said John, once Rosie had calmed down. “And I’m not cutting him out of my life. He did nothing wrong. I tried to make that clear to him.” 

“Then why won’t you talk to him?” 

John hesitated for a moment, as if not sure how honest he wanted to be. “It’s incredibly confusing to be around him right now.”

“Confusing how?”

John exhaled, balling his Rosie-free fist up in a show of frustration that Molly had seen John do many times before. 

“I don’t know,” he said finally. 

“Don’t give me that bollocks, John.” Molly snapped. “Tell me the truth. For once, tell someone the truth.”

“I don’t know the truth, Molly,” said John. “That’s why it’s so bloody confusing. It used to be so simple . Just me, him, Baker Street, the blog. But when he died, and then he came back, it was confusing. What am I supposed to feel in a situation like that? I don’t know how any of the rest of you were able to carry on like normal after that. He died , Molly. He was dead , on the ground, and he came back . That should have been a bloody miracle, but I was engaged and…” 

John stopped abruptly, as if having just caught himself from saying something that he really didn’t want to say. 

“Why did it matter that you were engaged?” Molly asked softly.

“I don’t know,” stressed John, hopelessly. “It just did. Things were different after that. I couldn’t make him my priority, couldn’t be at his beck and call. I had a wedding to plan, and he wanted to help with all of it. Sherlock bloody Holmes helped plan my wedding. Why? I never understood that.” 

“Do you understand better now, though? Now that you know how he feels?” Molly probed. 

John shrugged animatedly. “No. Not really. And that’s what makes this all so much more bloody confusing. My wife dies, and then he’s telling me he’s loved me all this time, and I didn’t even think he felt things that way…”

“Come on John.” scolded Molly. “Don’t tell me you didn’t have a clue.”

“Did you have a clue?” asked John. “Am I the only one too bloody stupid to see the writing on the wall, then?”

“I always suspected,” said Molly. “But I never wanted it to be true.”

John chuckled icily. “Well. That makes two of us.”

Molly sighed. “John Watson, listen to me. He’s your best friend in the whole world. You are suffering and grieving, and you need him more than ever right now.”

John smiled weakly. “I know.”

“And he’s hurting. He misses you terribly, he thinks he’s done something unforgivable, he’s embarrassed. He needs you just as much as you need him.” 

“I know.” John repeated, his smile fading. 

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” started Molly. “I am no longer going to look after your daughter unless we’ve agreed on a time for me to babysit at least 48 hours in advance. And you are going to call Sherlock and set up a time for the two of you to chat. When this chat happens, you are going to be kind. You are going to be caring. And most of all, John Watson, you are going to be honest.”

“Why wouldn’t I be honest?” asked John. “I’m not talking to him, sure, but I’ve never been dishonest with him.”

“John. I don’t think you’re doing a very good job of being honest with yourself right now.”

John paled immediately. Molly didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t need to. Seeing John’s shocked expression was confirmation enough that they both knew exactly what Molly was referring to. 

“I’m not gay, Molly.” John whispered after a long silence, almost inaudibly. 

“I don’t care John. I’m not asking you to marry him and attend a Pride parade. I’m just asking you to talk to your friend.”

John was silent for another long moment, looking at the wall, seeming as if he had forgotten that Molly was there entirely. 

Do we have a deal?” asked Molly, finally. “You’ll talk to him?”

John nodded. “Yes. Yes, Molly. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

With that, Molly smiled, gave Rosie a quick kiss on the forehead, and walked out the door. 

***

Sherlock was lying on the sofa, deep in his Mind Palace, when he heard the telltale sign of Mycroft’s expensive shoes climbing slowly up the steps of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock could tell by his footsteps that he was wearing his second best pair of dress shoes. Clearly not coming from Buckingham Palace, then. Sherlock figured based on Mycroft’s current cologne choice (Polo Ralph Lauren) that he had just come from a visit with the President of the United States. 

“Go away.” Sherlock said plainly. 

“Good evening, brother mine.” Mycroft said, setting his umbrella against the wall and walking towards Sherlock. “Rather a dramatic couple of weeks it’s been for you, hasn’t it?” Mycroft took a seat in John’s armchair, crossing his legs. 

Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up. “Mycroft, would it actually kill you to mind your own business? For once? Because if so, all the better, we’d all be much happier without you around to intervene in our lives.” 

“I would like to apologise whole-heartedly for encroaching on the privacy of your appointments with Dr. Thompson.” Mycroft began. “It was wrong of me, and I understand it has dissuaded you from scheduling any further sessions. If I may, I’d like to suggest you reschedule them. I only listened to the first few because I was afraid you were likely to take up some of your rather unsavoury old habits.” 

Sherlock said nothing, hoping that Mycroft would get this speech out of his system and then leave him in peace. Mycroft, however, seemed to be waiting for a response. 

“Leave me alone, Mycroft.” Sherlock stated. He got out of the sofa and picked up his violin. He began playing something he knew Mycroft would despise (a currently popular single he had often heard playing in cabs). 

“I just wanted you to know that you can feel free to return to therapy.” Mycroft said, speaking louder so that his voice would be heard over the music. “I had an assistant monitoring Dr. Thompson’s schedule, but I have told that assistant to halt all surveillance effective immediately. You can rest assured that all further sessions with Ella Thompson will go unmonitored by me. Feel free to speak your mind.”

“Thrilled to hear it.” Sherlock responded. He hated when Mycroft played mind games. Mycroft was likely already aware that Sherlock had finally scheduled another appointment with Ella. Even if he no longer was monitoring her practice (which Sherlock very much doubted), he felt confident that Mycroft probably knew his schedule by the state of the flat, the way he had shaved this morning, or the wrinkles of his eyes. With Mycroft, conversations like these were a mind game: who would give up valuable information first? 

“It also seems you are no longer speaking with Dr. Watson.” Mycroft continued. 

“Yes, and I’m sure you know why, Mycroft. Out with it. What do you really want to say?”

Mycroft took a deep breath. 

“I know emotions aren’t really your strong suit, Sherlock. Goodness knows they certainly aren’t mine. You and I, we prefer logic and reason. Things that can be explained. But-” 

“Love can be explained.” Sherlock snapped. “You know as well as I do that love is nothing but a combination of the instinct to further the species through procreation and the need for building community and companionship to ensure survival. Biology and chemistry, all of it.” 

Mycroft smirked and Sherlock grimaced, realising that he had fallen into Mycroft’s trap, ultimately admitting to Mycroft what he already knew, and starting a dialogue he did not want to begin. 

“I knew of your feelings for Dr. Watson, of course.” said Mycroft, matter-of-factly. “From the beginning. I’m sure you knew that. I’m not sure why you felt so threatened about the idea that I might learn about it in your therapy sessions.”

Sherlock paused his playing. “And I know that you entertain a different prostitute every week, and yet I’ve no interest in hearing the details about it, Mycroft. I’d appreciate it if you offered my private life the same respect.” 

Mycroft turned slightly red. “Oh grow up, would you Sherlock? I only do what I do because I care for you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Great. I feel so cared for. Immensely. Now, can you leave, please? I want to play my violin.”

“Fine,” said Mycroft. “Goodbye, brother mine.” And with that, he picked up his umbrella and walked unpleasantly out the door. 

***

“Welcome back, Sherlock.” said Ella, kindly, with a smile on her face. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you again.”

“Pleased to see you too, Ella.” responded Sherlock, surprised to find that he really meant it. 

“Now, let’s begin. How about you start by telling me why you left so suddenly in our last session. I noticed you got a text. Was it from John?”

Sherlock shook his head. “It was from my brother. He apologised for listening in on our sessions, and promised to stop.”

Ella suddenly grew pale. “Your brother admitted to bugging my practice?” she asked, sternly. “I could call the police on him. I could sue him. Doctor-patient confidentiality is one of the core tenets that psychological therapy is based on, and one of my most strongly held ethics. I - “

Sherlock interrupted. “I’m quite certain that it was only me that my brother was interested in listening to. Besides, suing or reporting him would do no good. He practically is the British government, and I’m sure he got all the necessary approvals. He probably convinced someone that my therapy sessions were critical to national security. Regardless, I don’t believe he’s listening anymore.”

“Because of his text?”

“Yes, but also because he paid me a visit this morning. He seemed apologetic.”

Ella seemed wary, so Sherlock added. “Please, Ella. Trust me. You no longer have anything to fear from my brother.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure whether or not this was actually true. It was entirely possible that Mycroft was still listening, despite his apologies. Mycroft was never one to value integrity of any sort. However, Sherlock found that he didn’t particularly care anymore what his brother did and didn’t hear. All that mattered to him, when he really thought about it, was John; learning to care for John, learning to be a better friend to John, anything at all that could help Sherlock save John from the depths of Hell he was currently residing in. 

“Alright…and is that also the reason why you waited so long to resume our appointments?” asked Ella. 

“No.” said Sherlock. “There’s more.”

Ella was silent, giving Sherlock the time he needed to feel comfortable beginning to speak. 

“I’d like to begin by reading you the letters I wrote for John.” said Sherlock. “I believe that you already know most of the content of these letters, but for the sake of full transparency….”

He pulled up the letters on his phone and began to read. He had tried his hardest not to think about the contents of these letters at all since John stumbled upon them. As he read aloud, it was hard not to cringe, knowing that John had read these words. 

Honestly, John Watson, I’m in love with you. 

I consider any woman that has gotten to touch you to be luckier than the richest human alive. 

You are ruining me and I no longer care. 

When Sherlock finished, he cleared his throat and placed his phone back in his pocket. He looked back up at Ella, who was smiling at him. 

“That was very brave of you to admit, Sherlock. I’d like you to take a moment and appreciate the courage it took from you, not only to write those words out loud but also to share them with me. I must admit, I am quite proud of you.” 

She certainly seemed proud. Sherlock didn’t have to be a consulting detective to notice the way her eyes brightened, and how she sat up slightly taller in her chair. Sherlock was not used to being on the receiving end of such unabashed pride. 

Sherlock gulped. “I appreciate it, Ella. But that’s not all. That’s not the only update I have for you.”

“Oh?” Ella asked, tentatively. 

“John read these letters,” said Sherlock. 

“Oh!” said Ella, surprised. “You gave them to John to read? That must have taken quite a lot of courage, indeed.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. He found them, accidentally. He was over at my flat, picking up his daughter. I was distracted and left the room, I wasn’t thinking. And he found them and read them. So he knows everything now.”

“And how did he react?”

“He was angry. He left. I haven’t seen him since. He insists that we are still friends, but that he needs some time before talking to me again.”

“How did that make you feel?” 

“Er….sad. It makes me feel sad.”

“And what exactly made you sad? The fact that John knows? Or the fact that he’s broken contact with you? Or both?” 

Sherlock thought about this for a moment. It was a fair question. 

“I don’t really mind that he knows. It’s embarrassing, to be sure, but I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I don’t need to hide anything from him. But I don’t understand why he can’t talk to me like normal.”

Ella nodded, writing this down on her notepad. “Do you have other friends and family you can lean on during this time? Your friend Molly, perhaps? Or the Detective Inspector. I’m worried that you place too much of your emotional needs in John’s hands.”

“Yes.” Sherlock said. “Molly has been helpful, and kind. I don’t think Lestrade knows, and I don’t much fancy opening up to him about this. But he’s been giving me cases, so we’ve been spending time together. I don’t feel lonely, Ella. I just miss John.”

“Okay. You miss John. That is understandable. What else is making you feel sad?”

“The possibility that this may be a turning point in our friendship,” said Sherlock. “I worry John will no longer feel comfortable around me. He will always worry that I am misreading his friendship as interest.”

“May I interrupt for a moment,” said Ella. “Is there any part of you that was hopeful that John Watson may have been willing to be in your life in a more amorous capacity, after reading your letters?”

Sherlock shook his head furiously. “No.” that was never an option.”

“What makes you so sure?” 

“John Watson is straight.”

“Have you asked him?”

“No.” said Sherlock. “We don’t talk about those things. But he always insisted that he wasn’t gay, whenever someone would assume we were together. I think that’s confirmation enough.”

“So there was no part of you that believed it possible that John Watson had romantic feelings for you?”

“No.” said Sherlock, and then he paused, thinking. Well, that wasn’t actually true was it? 

It’s all fine.

There was a moment, that first night, when Sherlock believed that John had been asking . 

“When I first met John, I deduced that he was bisexual. All the signs were there. He even seemed to take an interest in me. He asked if I had a romantic partner, and grew noticeably excited when I implied that I did not fancy women. I didn’t think much of it at the time, I was used to people being interested in me and not being able to return their affections. By the time I began to develop feelings of my own, John had moved on.” 

“Do you think you’ll be able to continue your association with John, even knowing that his feelings are not returned? Would it be too painful? Too awkward?” 

“No.” Sherlock responded. “I want John in my life. I don’t care how he feels about me.”

“Alright.” said Ella. “I think it can be helpful to make a list of things that you want. You want John to continue to be in your life, romantic attachment or not. What else do you want?”

“I want John to get better. I want him to be able to deal with the grief of losing Mary.”

Ella nodded, and then leaned forward. “Sherlock, it worries me that you define so much of what you want and need by John’s safety and happiness. Can you think of a list of things that you want that do not involve John?”

Sherlock thought for a moment. “Is it alright if it includes John’s daughter?”

Ella thought for a moment. “We can add it to the list. But I’d also like to hear a list of things that don’t involve John or anyone related to him. Now, what do you want when it comes to John’s daughter?”

“I want to be a part of her life,” said Sherlock. “I want John to feel comfortable leaving her alone with me, and I want to get to know her and watch her grow. I want to be a good godfather.”

Ella scratched furiously on her notepad. “Alright. That’s lovely, Sherlock. Have you ever wanted children of your own?”

Sherlock shook his head, chucking slightly. “My lifestyle is not exactly equipped to handle being a father. But John’s child….she’s magnificent. It’s fascinating to watch her learn and grow. I already see so much of her father and her mother in her little personality. I’d love to get to know her more, but everyone assumes I wouldn’t be interested in caring for a child.”

Ella nodded. “Alright. Have you considered talking to John about your desire to get closer to his daughter? How do you think he would take it?”

“Not well, considering our current predicament.”

Ella nodded. “Yes, I understand how him not speaking to you at the moment could make it hard to bring up your wishes to be closer with his daughter. Alright, let’s put that wish aside for now. What do you want that has nothing to do with John?”

Sherlock thought for a moment. The moment stretched on and on, until Sherlock realised he hadn’t said anything in almost a minute. 

“Ella. All I’ve ever wanted is to not be bored. That, and drugs.”

“And how do you feel at the moment? Bored?” 

“The only time I’m not bored is when I’m working on cases. Or spending time with John.” 

“I fully understand and respect the desire for mental stimulation. I don’t have much experience dealing with former addicts, but it seems to be like your addictive personality has carried over into the desire for constant mental and physical stimulation. That’s something I’d like to work with you on.”

Sherlock nodded. 

“I also would like you to spend the rest of our session making a couple of lists for me. First, I’d like you to list things that make you happy that are not related to your work or to John Watson. Then, I’d like you to make a couple of goals for your life that do not involve your work or John Watson. I’d like to see at least 10 items on each list. Do you think you can do that for me?” 

Sherlock nodded emphatically, though he had already started lamenting the impossibility of the task. He could barely think of one thing for each list at the moment. Fortunately, Ella’s understanding smile made Sherlock feel like she saw right through him. 

“Don’t worry if you struggle with these lists, Sherlock. This isn’t supposed to be easy. But I believe it will be better for you, and ultimately better for your relationships with the people you love, to have a strong sense of self identity and contentment. I think, if you ever enter a romantic relationship with John Watson, that the relationship will be far more successful if you can make progress in these areas. Does that sound alright?”

Sherlock nodded again, this time letting his hesitancy show in his features. This wasn’t how these sessions were supposed to go. She was supposed to be teaching him how to help John deal with his grief. He felt as if attending these sessions for his own self improvement was an act of selfishness and betrayal to the silent promise he had made, to learn to care for John. He didn’t speak these feelings aloud, however, feeling confident that Ella would not approve of these thoughts. 

Over the remainder of the session, he and Ella had compiled a few items on each list:

Things That Make Sherlock Happy 

• Playing the violin

• Drinking tea

• Well-tailored, fashionable suits and coats

• Dancing 

Sherlock’s Goals:

• Sustained sobriety

• Lack of boredom

And that was about all he could come up with. 

Sherlock had tried to convince Ella to let him add “complete website entry dedicated to recognition of different types of North American moths” to the list of goals, but Ella decided that was too close to work to be allowed on the list. 

“It’s a hobby.” Sherlock had argued. “Learning facts is an interest of mine. It’s who I am. I don’t see what’s wrong with that.”

“Sherlock, there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. Completing this website entry is a wonderful goal, one that I hope you’ll be able to achieve quite soon. But it’s still related to your work. Don’t even try to argue that the reason that you spend so much time categorising is to aid you in your deductions. You are addicted to your work, Sherlock, and it will help you to find things that make you happy outside of it.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked, petulantly. “So what if my work is the primary thing that makes me happy? I’m sure that’s the case for plenty of people. I’m lucky enough to devote my life to the thing I love most, why shouldn’t that be celebrated?”

“Your work won’t always be there, Sherlock.” Ella said, simply. “There are times when Scotland Yard won’t be able to find anything for you, and no clients will come knocking. It is my understanding that during those times, you have turned to drugs to cope. It will be far easier to cope if you learn other things about yourself that you can use to fill the void.”

Sherlock was silent. He couldn’t exactly dispute this. 

Sherlock left the session feeling even more lost and frustrated than he had when he had come in. He still hadn’t been able to finish either list, and Ella had assigned him the completion of the lists as homework. 

He had showed up that day to learn how to cope with the uncertainty and loneliness he felt since the fiasco with John, and left feeling more lost and confused than he had felt in a very long time. 

It wasn’t until he got his nightly text from John that he found himself smiling again.

Hey. I’m doing alright. As is Rosie. And yourself? JW

This momentarily took Sherlock aback. It had been a long time since John had asked about his own well-being. 

I’ve been better. Rough day. I saw my brother. SH

Ah. That would ruin anyone’s day. JW

And then I had an appointment with Ella. It was a difficult one. She’s given me work to do. SH

Haha. That’s certainly something I can relate to. I remember sometimes leaving Ella’s office feeling worse than when I came in. JW 

Don’t let it get to you, Sherlock. Sessions with her are supposed to be hard. They wouldn’t work if they didn’t take effort. JW

Have you considered going back to her? SH

A bit. Can’t now, though. Her treating both of us at the same time probably isn’t a good idea. JW

Sherlock felt a momentary instance of panic, until he saw the next message from John. 

But I’ve been needing a change in therapists for a while, anyway. Ella’s wonderful, and her specialisations in addiction and PTSD quite literally saved my life once upon a time. But for now, I think I need someone who specialises in grief. I’ve been looking. JW

I’m glad to hear it. SH 

Sherlock wanted to ask to see John. He wanted to ask John what he did today, and what he was planning on doing tomorrow, and how much he had drunk so far tonight. But he didn’t. John needed time, he reminded himself.  

Molly came over today. JW

Sherlock tried to push aside the jealousy he felt at the thought of John spending time with other people while he continued to ignore Sherlock’s invitations. He tried to remind himself that it was good that John was not isolating himself. 

How’s she doing? She still hasn’t sent over the toxicology report I asked for this morning, so I imagine she’s horribly busy. SH

She was here to lecture me. It was terrifying. JW

Sherlock laughed out loud, picturing Molly’s kind face scrunched up in anger at John. Molly was a force to be reckoned with when she wanted to be. 

I’m glad it wasn’t me on the other end of one of Molly’s lectures this time. What was she there to lecture you about? SH

How horribly I’ve been treating you. JW

Sherlock felt his stomach sink, remembering his conversation with Molly earlier that week. 

Don’t listen to her. SH

You’re not treating me ‘horribly’. You’re allowed to process all of this in whatever way you like. SH

No, Sherlock. She’s right. She’s right and I’m sorry. JW

She’s not right. Don’t be sorry. SH 

Sherlock, would you come over tonight? I just put Rosie to bed, and I think maybe you and I need to talk. JW

Sherlock felt his heart rate increase substantially. Despite wanting to see John so badly that it made him feel like he wanted to burst, part of him did not want to go see John tonight. He knew that whatever John wanted to say to him, it could only make him feel worse. 

Regardless, there was no way in a million life times that Sherlock would give up a chance to see John Watson. He put on his coat and sent one last text:

I’m on my way. SH

Chapter Text

John Watson was good at a great deal of things. He graduated top of his class and went on to become a good doctor ( very good , as he had informed Sherlock that first night), could comfortably aim and shoot any type of gun, had ran several marathons, and had pleased women on three different continents. However, one thing he was reliably rubbish at was telling people how he felt . 

I find it difficult, this sort of thing… John had once said, to a version of Sherlock that seemed almost like a stranger now. 

The only way John found he could navigate these types of situations was by writing down precisely what he wanted to say, reading it over a dozen times, and then condensing it down to the most concise way to express the sentiment. 

These are prepared words Mary. I’ve chosen these words with care.

When Molly had come to his flat and told him in no uncertain terms that he needed to make things right with Sherlock, John knew that he had no other choice but to prepare words again. 

Ella had once told him that when he struggled to find the words to say, he should first name his feelings. After naming his feelings, he could then begin to dig down into the weeds to find out why that particular feeling was rearing its ugly head. 

John found it difficult to name this particular feeling, the one that made him simultaneously ache for Sherlock and also wish to never see him again. Confused, he had told Molly. Confused , because the real emotion he was feeling was anger , and anger didn’t make any sense. 

John spent all day on it, writing down words and then crossing them out. He did not allow himself a single drink, despite how much he wanted one. He could not risk having an unclear head.

By the time Sherlock knocked on his door that evening, John knew what he wanted to say. The tricky part was finding the courage to say it. 

John walked to the door, hating how hard it was for him to move around these days. His psychosomatic limp was showing signs of returning, and it made it hard for John to move around without a cane. John should have known it would come back, eventually. He should have known that the wounds he thought Sherlock had healed were actually only lying dormant, waiting for John’s most vulnerable moments before they reared their ugly heads again. 

John opened the door and looked at Sherlock standing in the doorway, and felt his resolve waver. He forgot how intimidating Sherlock looked sometimes. He was tall and attractive and radiated pure confidence. When Sherlock looked down at John, his expression changed entirely, and John saw nothing but warmth and affection. This man is in love with me. John reminded himself. Part of him was still shocked that he had never noticed before, and the other half still couldn’t believe it was real. 

“Hey.” John said. 

“Hey.” Sherlock replied, with an encouraging smile. 

John went in for a hug, and Sherlock obliged him stiffly. They hadn’t hugged very many times before this. Once at John’s wedding, and once when John confessed his text almost-affair. This hug was unlike either of those times. This one was awkward and clumsy, neither man knowing exactly where to put his hands or exactly what emotion should be conveyed. Was this to be like their second hug, in Baker Street, intimate and comforting? Or more like their first, quick and lighthearted, done mostly for show? 

In the end, it ended up being an awkward mix of the two. 

“How’ve you been?” asked John. “I’ve missed you.” 

“Oh, I’ve been alright.” said Sherlock. “I haven’t had many cases lately, though the standup comedian case was one of the more interesting ones I’ve seen in a while. You would have loved it, it felt straight out of one of those detective novels you love so much.”

John chuckled. “I can’t wait to hear about it. What else? Any other cases?”

“No. Just working on my website, mainly. 

“Oh, the North American moth categorisation? How’s that coming along? Did you finally get a response from that entomologist in Florida?” 

Sherlock smiled warmly. “I did, actually. He referred me to another entomologist in the area, who is far more friendly and responsive. I’m finally making progress on the southeast regional breeds.”

“Incredible. You’ll have to show me the pictures.” 

“Of course.” responded Sherlock.

This. This is what John had been missing, not talking to Sherlock for so many weeks. Their easy companionship, their shared love of Sherlock’s work, the way they understood each other. It made John feel warm and safe. Suddenly, talking to Sherlock about this did not seem so intimidating at all. Sherlock was just Sherlock; obstinate, ridiculous, dorky, loveable Sherlock . 

John wished they could stay like this all evening, just enjoying each other’s company. John wished he could lay on the couch and listen to Sherlock talk about moths until he fell into a warm, comfortable sleep. He wished they could have many more nights like that, full of friendship and mystery and danger. But alas, John had not spent all evening preparing for this conversation just to back down now. He had made his choice, and it was time to be a soldier and stick to it. 

“So. We need to talk.” said John.

Sherlock sighed. “Must we?” 

“I think we must, yeah. It’ll be quick, though. Painless.” 

Sherlock sat on the couch, leaning into the cushions. He threaded his fingers together on his lap, and looked John straight in the eye. 

“Oh I doubt it will be painless . For me anyway.” said Sherlock, and it broke John’s heart to hear. How was Sherlock so confident that John would be breaking his heart? How did Sherlock always just know ?

John sighed. 

“I wanted to start off by saying I’m sorry.” John said. “I haven’t been the best friend to you lately, and you deserve to be treated better than that.”

“Apology wholly unnecessary.” said Sherlock, echoing the same sentiment he had expressed earlier over text. 

John cringed. It was time to rip off the band-aid. 

“I want to start by explaining why I’ve been so angry and distant with you, since Mary died. Did you ever figure out why Mary took that bullet for you?”

Sherlock’s face darkened immediately. “No.” answered Sherlock. “No, I have absolutely no idea why she chose to give up her life for me.”

“Me neither, for a long time anyway.” said John. “For a long time, it didn’t make any sense to me at all. Mary cared for you, sure, and she certainly felt guilty about shooting you. But it didn’t add up. Mary loved me and Rosie more than anything, and it didn’t make sense that she would leave us so permanently like that.” 

“So, I suppose you’re about to tell me you figured it out?” asked Sherlock. 

“Yeah.” said John. He paused for a moment, looking around the room. “When she shot you, Sherlock, I was really close to leaving her. I’m sure you remember that?” 

Sherlock nodded curtly, briefly averting his gaze from John’s. John knew they were both thinking about the same thing. Sherlock had spent six months recovering from his gunshot wound. John had lived with him at Baker Street during that time. It didn’t quite feel like their younger days, as Sherlock was constantly going back and forth from hospital, and often on painkillers, and certainly not well enough to do any work. There were no cases, no late night chases, no blog posts. It had been quiet. John spent quite a bit of those six months sulking, and not in a good enough mood to talk to anyone. However, it was nice. They watched movies together most nights, John would cook for them both, and Sherlock would pretend to hate his cooking and then make John smile by eating second and third helpings. 

“Well.” continued John. “If I’m honest, I don’t think we would have lasted much longer if she stayed alive. We were really trying, for Rosie’s sake anyway, but ever since she shot you….things just weren’t the same.” 

Sherlock nodded impatiently. John figured that Sherlock must have deduced all of this already, because he didn’t seem particularly shocked by this revelation. It certainly made sense, since John already confessed to his almost-affair. 

“And here’s the thing, Sherlock. If you had died that day, instead of Mary, there’s no way we would have lasted. I would have blamed her for your death, since you were there investigating her case. I wouldn’t have been able to share a space with her at all. If you had died, what would have otherwise been an amicable divorce committed to a peaceful co-parenting arrangement would have turned into a bitter and hostile divorce. Mary would have gotten custody, obviously. Mother’s often do, as I’m sure you’re aware, and it doesn’t help that I’m rather publicly involved with criminals on a regular basis. If you had died, I would have hated Mary forever, and would have been all alone. But if Mary died for you….she would have cemented herself in my mind as a hero. I would remember her fondly, and raise our child to love her.”

Sherlock blinked a couple of times, confusion swirling in those blue-green eyes. John so rarely saw Sherlock confused, it was a pity he couldn’t bottle this moment and appreciate it for a little longer. “So you think Mary died for me because it’s the only way you’d still love her? Even in death?”

John shrugged. “It sounds ridiculous, I know. But I think it’s true. Ultimately, she thought she was doing me a kindness. If you had died, I would have lost you, and then ultimately her and Rosie after we divorced. If she had died, however, I would have only lost her , and I could even keep my good memory of our time together.” 

“You realise how manipulative and psychotic that sounds?” asked Sherlock bluntly. “And that’s coming from a self-diagnosed sociopath.”

John chuckled. “We’re getting to that, Sherlock. For now, I’m just trying to explain what I think her thought process was, in the seconds between her realising you were about to get shot and her deciding to save your life.”

“And how do you feel?” asked Sherlock. “Do you also believe that she did you a kindness?”

John laughed, and it was full of bitterness. John was surprised that he was even capable of making a sound like that. “No. I don’t.” 

Sherlock nodded. “So that’s why you’re angry with me. You wish I had died instead.” Sherlock looked to the ground, and John was thankful for it. He didn’t think he could handle seeing Sherlock’s eyes at that moment.

John was silent for a long moment. This was the part that he was still having a hard time understanding, even now. 

“Not exactly.” said John, with a sigh. “And that’s just the thing. Ultimately, Mary probably was right. If you had died at that moment, I would have, eventually, suffered even more pain. The problem isn’t that Mary made the wrong choice .The problem was that she thought it was hers to make.”

There it was again, that look of confusion on Sherlock’s face. His brow was scrunched up and his eyes were narrow and calculating. 

“I don’t understand.” 

John took a deep breath. Out with it, then. “I’m sick of the people I love dying for me.” he said simply. “Or putting me in difficult situations because they think it’s what’s best for me.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly, comprehension finally gracing his features. “You think Mary and I are the same.”

“Well aren’t you?” John retorted, his voice getting uncomfortably close to shouty.  “You pretended to be dead for two years because you thought it made me safer from Moriarty’s network. You killed a man in cold blood just because he had dirt on my wife. You tried to kill yourself on the plane ride to eastern Europe, for god’s sake.”

“I didn’t try to kill myself, I simply OD’ed.” snapped Sherlock. “You sound just like Mycroft.”

“Yeah? Maybe because Mycroft is right. There’s no other rhyme or reason why you would have taken that much. That was a failed suicide attempt, right in front of me, just because you thought you wouldn’t see me again.”

“I was being sent to my death anyway. Did Mycroft tell you that?”

John nodded. Mycroft had told him that, after they returned from the tarmac and took Sherlock home to let him recover. Mycroft had explained exactly where Sherlock was being sent, and exactly what was to have happened to him. John still had trouble seeing Mycroft without getting angry. 

“And it wasn’t a failed suicide attempt in front of you. You wouldn’t have seen. If it weren’t for Moriarty’s message, I would have passed away quietly and peacefully. I had more heroin on my person when we said goodbye. My plan was to slowly up the dosage, to pass away just as the plane crossed the England border. The only reason you saw me suffer as I did was because Moriarty put a wrench in my plans, I had to stop using and think .”

“Ah, so now you admit it. You see what I mean?” asked John. “You keep trying to kill yourself. You keep trying to take yourself away from me because you think it’s what I want or what’s best for me. Just like her.”

“But it was what’s best for you.” Sherlock argued. “How have you not figured that out yet? If I hadn’t thoroughly convinced you that I was dead, you would have been murdered. It wouldn’t have been quick, either. Moriarty would have slowly tortured you to lure me back to him. Is that really what you would have preferred?”

John shook his head. “No. Of course not. Of course you did the right thing. And so did Mary, by dying for you. I hate to admit it, but yeah, this is the best of two awful options. I’m happier having you alive, and Rosie in my care, then I would have been with you dead and Mary and Rosie far away from me. She was right. That’s not the point .”

“Then what is the point?” asked Sherlock, his voice taking on the timbre of mockery. “What could the point possibly be, if not objective truth?”

John looked out the window for a moment, steadying his face, taking a moment to fight back the tears that threatened to creep down his face. Sherlock mustn't see him cry. 

“The point,” started John, “is that I’m sick of this. I know I shouldn’t be, but I’m sick of it. I’m absolutely bloody done with being loved so….selflessly. That isn’t what I want. I know it sounds stupid, to be angry at someone for loving you so much they would die for you. But Sherlock, I have now suffered overwhelming grief more times than I can bear. I know you're not really dead, but the grief I suffered when you died was real, and it didn't just go away when you came back. And now Mary's gone, for the same stupid selfless reasons. I can’t stand it, knowing that the people I love would willingly jump in front of a bullet for me. These last few months have been bad for me, Sherlock. Really bad. So bad that my gun is fully loaded in a drawer in my bedroom, and I have contemplated using it several times.”

Sherlock’s face grew white, and he shifted towards John as if subconsciously needing to be closer to him. 

“I can’t survive losing anyone again. I can’t stand having anyone in my life that loves me enough to die for me. That’s why I’ve been pushing you away. That’s why I’ve been angry with you.”

“What do you want me to say?” asked Sherlock after a long silence. “You want me to promise not to put myself in harm’s way for you? I can’t make that promise. You know I can’t.”

“I know,” said John. “I know that, Sherlock. But you must understand, that’s why I can’t….” 

“That’s why you can’t love me back,” whispered Sherlock, completing John’s unspoken words. 

“Yes.” said John. “That’s why I can’t love you back.”

“I thought you were bringing me here to tell me you weren’t gay ,” said Sherlock, a faint trace of bitterness in his voice. 

John sighed. “It’s true, I’m not. But this is about more than that, Sherlock. This is about more than just my lack of attraction to men. This is about how I don’t think we’re compatible to be life partners, romantic or otherwise. As much as I wish it wasn’t the case, we have to accept the truth.”

“So you don’t want to be friends anymore?” asked Sherlock, and he looked so lost, so vulnerable. In their 7 years of friendship, there had been so few times when John had seen the mask fade from Sherlock’s face and seen real, raw hurt. John looked away. He couldn’t stand it. 

“I don’t know,” said John. “I want to. I want to come to crime scenes with you sometimes, and I want to write your blog. But it’s not going to be like it was in the past, Sherlock. I have a child now, and eventually I’m going to start trying to find another partner. From now on, let’s look at our relationship as mostly professional. We’ll always be friends, but from now on….colleagues first. Alright?”

“So we’re still friends,” repeated Sherlock slowly, and John’s heart ached knowing how hard this was for Sherlock to parse. He had so little experience with any type of relationship. “But we’re not….best friends?”

John nodded. “I think that’s a good way to think of it, yes. But I'm done ignoring you, Sherlock. I truly am sorry for the way I've shut you out. It won't be like that after today.”

John looked back at Sherlock and was surprised to see tears. Not just the shimmery ghost of tears being held back, but wet streaks down the side of Sherlock’s face. John had never seen Sherlock cry like this.

“For how long?” asked Sherlock. “Is this change….permanent?”

John shook his head. “I hope not,” said John. “I sincerely hope that one day, we can be as close as we once were. Or at least close to it. But right now, I just can’t stand to be close to you in that way. Not after everything that happened with Mary. I hope you can understand.”

Sherlock nodded, wiping his face with the backs of his hands. “I understand, John.” he said in a quiet voice. 

“Thanks, Sherlock. I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“Don’t apologise,” said Sherlock, standing up and smoothing out his coat. John was shocked to see how suddenly Sherlock’s face schooled itself, and how quickly all signs of emotion that had been so prominent only seconds before were now gone. “So I’ll be off now, I suppose. But first, I just need to….to pop to the loo.”

“Okay,” said John quietly, watching Sherlock walk away and wishing he could say something, anything, to make this all better. Sherlock must be wiping his tears, thought John, and sure enough when Sherlock came back downstairs he looked much fresher. Sherlock smiled emptily at John, and began tying his scarf around his neck. John felt so guilty that he was starting to ger nauseous. 

Sherlock began walking out the door, and then turned around suddenly, looking back at John. 

“One more thing, John,” said Sherlock. “I think you should go back to Ella. I know you said you’re trying to find someone better suited for your needs, but you’ve been procrastinating and it’s hurting you and everyone around you.” 

John let out a quiet huff of breath. “I don’t know, Sherlock,” he said. “Ella was really helpful to me once, but…”

“There’s no but.” interrupted Sherlock. “Don’t lie, John. Not to me. Have you forgotten who you’re talking to? I know the real reason you don’t want to see her again. You’re angry at her for not fixing you yet. You’re angry that you ended up back in the same place you were years ago, suicidal and depressed. You’re angry that your limp is coming back.”

John was momentarily shocked. He hadn’t realised that Sherlock had noticed the return of his limp. But, of course. This was Sherlock Holmes he was talking to.

“Well, that’s not how it works, John. I’ve only been in therapy for a few months and I can already tell you that. You need to stick with it. In fact, I believe it was you yourself that said ‘ Therapy sessions wouldn’t work if they didn’t take effort ’....that applies to you too, John.”

John nodded stiffly, ever the soldier. “You’re right.” he conceded. “You are, in fact, right.”

“Goodbye, John.” said Sherlock, calmly. “I wish you a speedy recovery. When you’re ready, I’ll be here for you. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

With that, he closed the front door behind him, and John was left alone in his flat.

It would be a couple of days before he realised that Sherlock had taken his gun.

Chapter Text

“So, remind me again, what was it about her nail polish? How did you deduce Milner hadn’t been paying his alimony?”

John was sitting in his old chair at 221B, with his laptop on his lap. Rosie was laying on her tummy on the ground in front of him, playing with a large blue rattle. John remembered Mary lecturing him on the importance of “tummy time”, which she had learned about from the new-moms group she had joined when Rosie was first born. John wasn’t a paediatrician, but he had spent enough time in medical school to know the benefits of “tummy time” to the muscle development of toddlers.

“The nail polish was a cheap dupe of a respected and expensive brand. You can tell by the way it reflects in the light.” Sherlock answered from across the room. “In many of the photographs around her home, she was clearly wearing the real high-end nail polish. Switching to a dupe shows that she recently had some sort of decline in her financial status. Seeing as she had not lost her job or had any major purchases recently, I deduced she was suffering from her ex-husband’s negligence.”

Brilliant, thought John, barely stopping himself from saying it out loud. He couldn’t do that anymore. He couldn’t mindlessly compliment Sherlock as if he were the most marvellous, intelligent, breathtaking human being that John had ever stumbled across. Even if it may be true.

Ever since their talk, John had dutifully tried to keep his word. He had allowed himself one week of feeling sorry for himself, drinking himself stupid every night and ignoring the calls of his worried friends (although Sherlock seemed to know better than to call) before finally calling Ella Thompson’s office and scheduling standing appointments for Tuesdays and Thursdays.

He had sent a single text to Sherlock to share the news:

Appointments with Ella scheduled Tuesdays and Thursdays at noon. Can you and Mrs. H watch Rosie? I can bring her over at 10:30 and we can work on the blog until my appt? JW

Of course. I’m proud of you, John. SH

John felt a funny lump in the back of his throat at reading those words, but did not respond.

This Tuesday, the day of John’s first appointment, Sherlock had been going over the details of his most recent high-profile case, which had involved the murder of a standup comedian’s wife. Sherlock had been right, it was a very interesting one.

“Okay, let me write that down,” said John, jotting down the details in his open Word Document. “This is a good case, I think this blog entry will bring you a lot of clients.”

Sherlock grunted noncommittally. John found it funny how even now, after declaring his love for John, he still pretended to hate the blog. John chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” asked Sherlock. John shook his head, and went back to writing.

The air between them was tense. Long gone were the days of joking and smiling and bickering. As John sat typing up Sherlock’s brilliance, it truly did feel like the two of them were nothing but colleagues. John felt like anything he said to try to lighten the mood would just feel forced, and that Sherlock would see through it immediately. It hurt, but John knew it was for the better.

John’s phone chimed, reminding him that his appointment was in 20 minutes and he should really, really get going soon. He picked up his daughter and gave her a hug and a kiss.

“I should get going,” he said, addressing Sherlock. “I’ve got to get to Ella’s office.”

“Of course,” said Sherlock, giving John an obviously fake smile.

“And you’ll be okay with Rosie?” asked John. He tried to hide the hesitancy in his voice, but there was no denying the fact that Sherlock wasn’t exactly good with children.

“Of course,” said Sherlock again, walking over to John and taking Rosie from his arms. Rosie went willingly, even smiling slightly and reaching for Sherlock.

John let out a huff of surprise. “I didn’t realise she likes you so much.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” said Sherlock, looking down at Rosie like she was a fascinating crime scene. The look on Sherlock’s face might scare most parents, but John knew that with Sherlock it meant that he would give his daughter nothing but his undivided attention for the next hour and a half. Still, he felt slightly uncomfortable at Sherlock’s unprecedented display of affection for his child. When did Sherlock begin to love Rosie so much? It baffled him, until he realised that he still had no idea when Sherlock began to love him so much.

“Well, that’s good isn’t it? I’ll be off now.” John said awkwardly, grabbing his coat. “I’ll write up the blog post later tonight. I’ll let you know when it’s up.”

“Perfect. Thank you, John.”

John nodded once, stiffly, and was on his way.

***

“It’s so nice to see you, John.” said Ella, giving John a genuine but knowing smile. “I’m so glad that you decided to resume sessions with me. As I hear it, things have not been easy for you this last year.”

John stiffened, already feeling defensive. “Did Sherlock tell you that?” he asked. He knew it. He knew that sharing a therapist with Sherlock was an absolutely terrible idea.

“He didn’t need to,” said Ella, with a smile. “I do own a telly, remember? You’re a public figure, John.”

John nodded, tensely. “I suppose,” he said. He hated this. He hated being here, it felt like an admission of defeat.

“Why don’t you start by telling me exactly how things have been going for you since your wife died?” Ella asked kindly.

John gulped. “Well. I was forced into a leave of absence from my job. I’ve been developing an unmanageable alcohol addiction that makes me worried that I won’t be able to care for my daughter at some crucial moment. And my best friend told me that he’s in love with me, which I had no idea about, and makes me feel crushingly guilty every time I spend time with him. So, yeah. That’s how things are going.”

Ella nodded, jotting something down in her notebook. John squinted, trying to make it out.

“You still read my writing upside down,” Ella remarked, with an air of amusement in her tone.

“Sorry,” said John. “I just…I’m not feeling great about needing to be back here.”

“It’s not a failure, John,” said Ella. “You need help. And you were brave enough to admit that you need help. I’m incredibly proud of you.”

There were those words again. I’m proud of you. That’s what Sherlock had said, too. The same words that John used to praise his toddler when she made a new babbling noise or lifted her head slightly higher than before. It made John feel like a child, like a damsel in distress in need of protection. Isn’t that what Magnussen had called John? A damsel in distress? And here John was again, in distress, needing help rather than being able to live through the pain like his father would have. Or like his army mates would have. Or like Sherlock would have. Sherlock Holmes had beaten addiction with nothing but a career change. And here John was, drowning in his.

John didn’t say any of this, however. John looked Ella in the face and said “Thanks, Ella.” If Ella knew what he was holding in, she didn’t say so.

“So, in order for me to help you, I’ll need to understand the degree to which you are suffering. Could you answer some questions for me?”

John nodded. “Sure.”

“How many drinks would you say you consume a day?”

John immediately recognised this questionnaire. Ella had asked him a similar series of questions when he first came to her seven years ago, when he had first returned to London. At the time, he had lied to her, feeling embarrassed about the alcohol dependency that he was developing. This time, he did not lie.

If John had learned anything over the last few years, it was that there were many types of bravery. John used to see bravery exclusively as the acts that he and his army mates had volunteered for, the act of dying for something important. When he joined the army, he thought proudly of himself as one of the bravest people he knew. Who else was willing to enlist and risk their life to keep the rest of the country safe? He would have gladly gone to his death for James Sholto, for Bill, for any of them. He wouldn’t even have blinked an eye.

It wasn’t until John met Sherlock that John became acquainted with a different type of courage. In fact, it had been Sherlock’s jump from the roof of Bart’s Hospital that had initially clued John in to the fact that dying was not the only way to show courage, and in fact was sometimes the cowardly option. Sometimes, living was harder. Yes, Sherlock was constantly risking his life and jumping into life-threatening situations without a care in the world, but it wasn’t out of courage or nobility. It was out of desperation. Sherlock was an addict, his every day haunted by dreams of a substance he could not trust himself to consume. Sherlock was brave not because he was willing to risk his life, but because he was willing to live it. In pain, deep in the depth of a recovery John had never quite reached, Sherlock persisted. If that wasn’t the most god damn courageous thing John had ever heard, he didn’t know what was. And if John was ever going to reach the level of recovery that Sherlock had sustained (albeit with a couple of slip ups), he had to learn how to live a different type of courage, something he had never been able to do. Recovery would take honesty and vulnerability. If John were to survive this current Hell, he would need to develop the courage it takes to tell the truth.

John pondered for a moment, trying to convert the amount of whiskey he consumed a day into the standard measure of a drink. “Roughly fifteen. Fifteen drinks a day. On a good day.”

If Ella was shocked, she didn’t say so. She jotted down his confession with the best poker face John had ever seen.

“Thank you, John.” Ella said. “How about on a bad day?”

“I don’t know.” John said, honestly. “I don’t keep track on the bad days.”

Ella nodded. “Alright, thank you John. As I remember from our previous sessions, you sometimes struggle with temptations of self-harm. Is that a temptation that has bothered you recently?”

John gulped. “Yes,” he said, feeling ashamed. “But I haven’t done anything. Not yet.” he clarified quickly.

“Do you think you are in danger of taking your own life?”

“No,” John said, shaking his head. “No, I wouldn’t do that.” This wasn’t a lie either, not really. Though John had definitely had thoughts of using his gun (before Sherlock had kindly confiscated it), he had never been truly worried of following through. He wanted to sometimes, late at night with a whiskey bottle in his hand, but he wasn’t yet so far gone that he would do that to Rosie.

Or to Sherlock.

“Alright, thank you John. And do your self-harm temptations get stronger when you are drinking?”

“Yes,” John said, nodding. “Absolutely.”

“Alright. So I think, as you might expect, our first goal together will be to get your drinking under control. Between now and our Thursday session, I’d like you to start thinking about and categorising your triggers. Can you think of events or feelings that make you want to drink?”

John thought carefully. “Thoughts of Mary,” he said. “That’s the main one. Mary was my wife, the one that died.”

“Yes John, I know.” said Ella, and John wondered how much Sherlock had told her about his relationship with Mary. Had Sherlock told her about Mary’s real occupation? About how she had given up her life for him? About John’s affair?

“I still live in the flat we shared together,” John continued. “I can’t bear to leave. But every time I see something that used to be hers, it makes me want to drink. I still can’t sleep in the bedroom we shared together, I sleep on the couch.”

Ella looked at him thoughtfully. “Have you thought about leaving the flat? Even temporarily? Is there somewhere else you can stay? With a friend, or family? Sherlock perhaps?”

John scoffed. “I don’t have much family to speak of.” he said. “And Sherlock is…not an option. Not anymore.”

“Because he loves you?”

John cringed. Maybe coming to Ella had been a bad idea. Ella was Sherlock’s therapist too, and had been the one to assign him those bloody letters in the first place. He must seem like the villain of the story to her. In her mind, Sherlock was the brilliant love-struck consulting detective whose heart was being broken by his fucked up, alcoholic best friend. How Ella must despise him.

“Yes. Because he loves me. I can’t be close to him right now. I told him as much last week. We’re still working on the blog together, and he’s watching my daughter right now. But moving in with him would cross a boundary that I’m not comfortable with.”

“Is that because his feelings for you make you uncomfortable?”

“No!” John responded, a little too insistently. “Not at all. It doesn’t bother me. I would just feel so guilty not being able to return his feelings. I’d have to see it in his eyes every day, the way he feels. Now that I’ve seen it I can’t unsee it. And I can’t feel the same way, so I would hurt him every day.”

“Forgive me, John, because talking about Sherlock does blur some ethical boundaries. However, I am aware that both of us have read Sherlock’s letters discussing his feelings for you. I am aware that those letters contain assurances that Sherlock is not looking for you to return his feelings, but rather just to have a rekindled friendship with you. Do you not believe him?”

John shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess he always said relationships weren’t his area. But everyone wants their feelings returned, don’t they?”

“John, there are no absolutes in situations like this. If Sherlock promises you that he does not mind that you can’t feel the same way towards him that he does for you, might you try believing him? I remember how much your friendship with Sherlock encouraged your healing when you first met him. I think that it could work similar miracles if you open your heart up to him again.”

John sighed. “It’s not just that,” he said, recalling the speech he gave Sherlock last week and wondering how much of it he had recounted to Ella. “I also can’t handle the intensity of how much he cares for me. When he faked his death, it almost killed me. I know you remember that. I can’t trust him to not throw his life away for me again. And after losing Mary, I can’t risk any more grief. Not at the moment.”

Ella looked at John, quizzically. “John. If Sherlock died today, would you grieve for him?”

What a ridiculous question. “Of course I would,” said John.

“Then I fail to see what good it does putting this distance between the two of you. Sherlock could still die for you, and you would still hurt. In fact, I reckon you would hurt even more knowing that in the last days of his life, you had kept him at an arm’s length.”

John shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. He knew on an intellectual level that Ella was correct. However, it did nothing to quell the panicked feeling he got whenever he considered spending time with Sherlock that wasn’t related to cases or to Rosie.

“I just can’t be around him. Seeing Sherlock, it’s…another one of those trigger things you mentioned.”

Ella nodded. “Okay. So seeing Sherlock triggers your desire to drink. Was it like this before your wife died?”

John shook his head. “No, never,” he said. “As I’m sure you’re aware, Sherlock has his own addiction issues. Before Mary died, spending time together helped both of us. In the eighteen months we lived together, he was able to wean himself off of nicotine patches, and my PTSD-induced limp went away. I stopped having nightmares. I cut down my drinking habit considerably, and only drank socially. Sherlock used to be my own personal medicine. Now I can’t see him for longer than 30 minutes without needing a drink.”

Ella smiled kindly. “John, as a doctor, I’m sure you know that a person cannot be anyone’s cure. Sherlock did not cure you, nor did you cure him. Your love and support for each other helped both of you to reach your recovery goals. All of the things you achieved with Sherlock, you achieved because you set your mind to them. No one deserves the credit for your recovery, except you. Do you understand that?”

John nodded on instinct, before actually thinking this over. He had truly never thought about it that way before. He had thought of Sherlock as his own personal miracle for so long, that he had never taken a moment to give himself credit for his progress.

“Is that allowed?” he asked stupidly. “Taking the credit for my recovery? Isn’t that a little…insensitive?”

“How would that be insensitive, John?”

“Well….not everyone recovers. If I deserve the credit for my recovery, does that mean they deserve the blame for their lack of recovery? And does that mean that no one is to blame for my backslide….except me?”

Ella shook her head. “Everyone’s situations are different, John.” she sat back in her chair, thinking for a while. When she finally spoke again, she said,

“Let me put this in a light you may understand a little better. You’re a doctor, yes? Well think of addiction and trauma as a chronic illness, because that’s exactly what they are. It is not your fault that you got sick, and it’s not your fault that your condition worsens or comes out of remission. But if you see results after following your doctor’s treatment plan, you are allowed to feel proud of that. You worked hard to achieve that. But chronic illnesses are chronic. They are always in danger of coming back, and even the strongest man in the world would have a hard time keeping his depression and addiction at bay in light of the death of a spouse. I do not see you as weak, John, and you shouldn’t see yourself that way either.”

John gulped. His eyes were wetter than he wanted them to be, and he fought back the impulse to hide his face from Ella.

“How do people live like this, Ella?” he asked, his voice breaking. “What’s the point of recovery at all, if someone I love could die at any moment and I’ll be right back where I started?”

Ella smiled kindly. “Life can still be beautiful, John.” she promised. “You will have many more beautiful moments with the people you love. I know it’s scary, facing life and love again after suffering loss the way that you have. But you will be able to love again. Humans are resilient. Incredibly so.”

“How long?” asked John, hiding his face in his hands. “How long until the grief goes away?”

John knew the answer. He had asked this question before, when Sherlock died. But he needed to hear Ella say it, one more time.

“It may never go away, John.” said Ella. “But that’s okay. The people you’ve lost will always be a part of you. The sadness you feel may never get smaller. However, your joy will get bigger, too. Your love for others will grow, until the sadness inside of you is overshadowed by your joy and your love. One day, you’ll realise an entire day has gone by without you thinking about your grief.”

John smiled. “Okay.” he said. “And how do I get there?”

Ella smiled at him, and her face was full of warmth. “That, John, is where I come in.”

***

By the end of the session, John had a clear assignment from Ella. Before Thursday, he was to make a list of all of his triggers. Any time he felt like he wanted a drink, he was to write it down in his notes app on his phone. Furthermore, he was to write down why he thought that thing was so triggering to him, and to try to name the feelings that were associated with the trigger. John thought the assignment was easy enough. At least Ella hadn’t asked him to cut down on his drinking, at least not yet.

John went to Baker Street to pick up Rosie, and if Sherlock noticed how wet and blotchy John’s face was, he didn’t mention it.

“Welcome back, John!” Sherlock said gleefully. He had Rosie bouncing on his knee, and a kid’s program was playing on the telly.

“Are you….actually watching that?” asked John, incredulous. Never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined that Sherlock would have willingly sat through an entire episode of the mind numbingly boring program where animals spoke and sang songs and talked to the audience. Even John had trouble getting through it, and he wasn’t chronically bored the way Sherlock seemed to be.

“Of course!” said Sherlock. “It’s absolutely fascinating.” He pulled a notebook from next to him on the couch and put it in John’s hand, and John flipped through pages and pages of nearly unreadable scribbles.

“What is this?”

“Notes, John! Notes about Rosie’s reactions to various scenes of the program. I have meticulously proved what I have long suspected. Your daughter is categorically far more intelligent than the average child of her age. She laughed at jokes that were far outside of what she should understand, and her biometrics increased at a rate that led me to believe she was actually following the plot! Her heart rate and respiration rate suggested that she was truly nervous during the tense parts of the story, and relieved during the falling action. Your daughter is an absolute genius!”

John couldn’t help but laugh. The laugh was hearty and far louder than it should be, given the context. But something about this picture, about coming home to watch his closest friend performing experiments in order to prove the intelligence of his daughter, was so beautiful that he couldn’t help but feel lighter somehow. Safer. Suddenly, he understood what Ella was trying to tell him. Maybe the sadness would never leave. But maybe someday, moments like this would be so large in his world that it wouldn’t sting quite as bad.

John’s laughter was starting to make him tear up ever so slightly, so he wiped his eyes on his sweater, still chuckling lightly.

Sherlock noticed the tears, and his mood grew slightly more sombre.

“How did it go today?” he asked.

John tried to smile encouragingly. “It was alright. Hard, of course. I don’t like talking about these things. But Ella’s a genius. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Yes. I truly believe Ella is one of the smartest people I’ve ever met.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Really? High praise, coming from you.”

“High praise indeed.” Sherlock agreed.

A couple beats of awkward silence passed between them, and then Sherlock stood up and handed Rosie to John, but not before giving her an affectionate kiss on the cheek.

“Bye bye, Watson.” Sherlock said cheerily. “I’ll see you Thursday.”

Then he looked up at John. “Goodbye, John,” he said.

“Bye, Sherlock.” John replied. “I’ll see you soon.”

With that, he and Rosie turned and walked out.

On the cab ride home, John held Rosie close to him, smothering his face in her curls and smelling her scent which reminded John of home. For the first time in what felt like forever, John felt the tiniest glimmer of something that reminded him an awful lot of hope.

When John got home, however, he felt the tiny spark of hope die as quickly as it had ignited. Everything in this flat reminded him of a life that he no longer had. He looked at the sofa, and remembered buying it at a furniture shop with Mary. Your couch is no good. If I’m going to live here, we’ll need to get another, Mary had said. Men never know how to buy proper furniture.

He opened his Notes App and wrote:

Things that trigger my drinking:

1. Looking at my couch. Reason: reminds me of living with Mary. Feelings: sad

He went to the cupboard and pulled out a new handle of whisky. He poured it into a glass and took a sip, immediately feeling better as his thoughts started to turn hazy.

He looked down at the glass in his hand, remembering the party that he and Mary had thrown at Baker Street to announce his engagement. Thanks to Sherlock’s interruption, most of John’s friends already knew that they were planning to marry. However, Mary thought it would be fun to all get together to celebrate. We can bring those fancy glasses that you never use, Mary had said excitedly.

John pulled out his phone.

2. My whiskey glasses. Reminds me of my engagement. Hopes for the future that didn’t pan out. Feelings: angry

This happened several more times over the course of the evening. It happened when he put Rosie to bed, remembering the nights that he and Mary would come up with bedtime stories together and laugh through them. It happened when John got in the shower, and remembered nights of passion when he and Mary had first met. It happened when he put on his pyjamas, remembering how Mary had always been extra cuddly right before bed.

Eventually, John came to the conclusion that he was shocked he hadn’t already realised. Just as Ella had suggested, John really needed to move out.

He pulled out his phone and texted the one person he knew would always be there for him, the one person he hadn’t already burdened enough with his problems. The one person he had been trying to avoid for years.

Hey Harry. Fancy a (temporary) flatmate? JW

Chapter Text

2012

John Watson’s phone was ringing. It had a tendency to do that, these days. John never answered, nor did he bother checking who was calling. It certainly wasn’t who he wanted to hear from, because the only person John wanted to hear from was Sherlock, and Sherlock was dead. This certainly didn’t stop him from texting Sherlock regularly, however. Every day, he sent Sherlock a text, each more desperate and depressing than the last. Texting Sherlock made him feel better, as if somewhere, somehow, it meant Sherlock could still hear him and then, maybe, just maybe, Sherlock would know how goddamn much John was hurting, and come back again. John knew better, but the texts were helping. Sort of. 

John silenced his phone, and lay down on the creaky bed of the hotel room, hoping for sleep to come to silence his thoughts. He had left Baker Street within a month of Sherlock’s death, not being able to handle existing in the same place that had meant so much to him once upon a time because of how much every inch of the place seemed to scream Sherlock’s name. 

Suddenly, there was a firm rap on the door. John groaned, rolling over and putting a pillow over his face. Probably some hotel guest who had the wrong room. He would wait until they left. 

The rapping didn’t stop, however, and in fact only got more loud and frantic. Eventually, John got out of bed reluctantly, putting on a dressing gown to cover the ratty pyjamas he had been wearing for the last four days. Maybe the hotel was on fire. John smiled despite himself at the idea. He had been thinking about death so much recently that the Sherlockian part of him revelled in the option of experiencing one that was at least interesting . It was an intrusive thought, but John didn’t care much to drown those out these days. 

He opened the door, ready to tell off whoever dared to be on the other side. He gasped in shock when he saw his older sister standing there, frowning at him. 

John hadn’t spoken to Harry in a few months. They had been getting along slightly better after she hit 6 months sober, but after Sherlock had (correctly) deduced that she was backsliding, John cut her out again. He desperately wanted Harry to get better, but there was only so much he could do when she was refusing rehab and therapy. Furthermore, it was rare when he had a conversation with drunk Harry where one of them didn’t end up shouting at the other. They brought out the worst in each other, it had always been like that. 

“Harry.” John said, from an inability to say anything else. 

“Johnny.” said Harry, her voice broken, and immediately wrapped her arms around him. She held him close to her, the way that she had when they were kids. John couldn’t remember the last time he’d been held like this, as if by a mother. 

“I’m so sorry.” she said, and John heard her voice cracking. 

“How did you find me?” asked John. He hadn’t told anyone where he was going, not even Mrs. Hudson. He had just told her the truth, that he couldn’t bear to live there right now, and took nothing but two small suitcases with him. He had no destination in mind when he left, just rode the tube until he felt he was far enough away, and then booked a room in the first hotel room he could find. He was sure Mycroft knew where he was, but he didn’t imagine that his older sister and Sherlock’s older brother were regular correspondents. 

“Your phone, you daft thing,” said Harry, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “It was mine first, you remember. I installed tracking software on it, but forgot to take it off when I gave it to you.” 

John couldn’t help but let out a huff of laughter. “Have you been tracking my location this whole time?” It amused him to think that Sherlock had probably deduced the existence of the tracking software from his first encounter with John, but had elected not to make John aware of its existence. Sherlock and Harry had only met a couple of brief times, but the two of them seemed to share a sort of camaraderie that John had never quite understood. Sherlock had been as rude and unwelcoming to Harry as he had with any of John’s other acquaintances, and Harry had treated Sherlock with a cold indifference that was typical of her when she drank. However, both of them would always refer to the other with a sort of unquestionable respect that John never quite understood. 

“Well, I forgot about it completely until recently, honestly.” answered Harry. “But Johnny, you weren’t answering your phone at all. I had to make sure you weren’t…well, I had to make sure you were okay.”

John met her eyes and knew they were both thinking about the same thing. He knew they were both picturing the cold autumn night in their teenage years when a police car had pulled up to their house and told them, in gruesome detail, exactly what actions their mother had taken to leave them forever. The same actions that Sherlock would commit, decades later.

“No, I’m fine, Harry.” John said, shuffling out of Harry’s arms. “I just needed to be alone.” 

“I can’t stand seeing you alone right now, John.” Harry begged. “Please come stay with me for a while. Let’s get through this together this time.” 

John immediately tensed. “ This time? You could have been there for me when mom died, Harry. I needed you. But you turned to booze and became just as bloody unapproachable as dad. I got through that on my own. I can do it this time, too.” 

Harry was having a hard time meeting John’s eyes. “I know, John, and I’m sorry. That was a hard time for me, and I was young, and I didn’t know how to cope. I’m sorry, I know you needed me. I’m sorry. But I’m here now.” 

John scoffed. “No, you’re not. I know you Harry. You like big gestures and empty words. You’ll tell me that you’re sober and that you’re here for me, and then within the week you’ll be so drunk and catatonic that you can barely make out full sentences. I’m not interested in dealing with that again. Not now.”

Harry cringed. “Please just give me a chance, John. I know how much you cared about Sherlock. I liked him. He was perfect for you. I can’t imagine what it must have felt like to watch him….do what he did.”

John hated the way Harry couldn’t say the words, that after all these years she was still so hesitant to engage with her own emotions enough to use the word for what Sherlock and their mother had both done. Twice, John’s life had been completely uprooted by a suicide, and Harry was still so emotionally naïve that she couldn’t look him in the eye and say the word for the very real act that had transpired. However, that wasn’t the most annoying thing in the sentence Harry had just said to him. 

“ Perfect for each other ?” asked John, scoffing. He hated the fact that even now, when Sherlock was cold and rotting in his grave, he still had such a visceral reaction to people assuming that he and Sherlock were a couple. But he couldn’t help it. It was so annoying. Why did everyone insist on seeing something that hadn’t been the truth of it? If it had been true, if he and Sherlock had been involved, then John had no idea how he would have been able to carry on. If this was his grief for a platonic friend, he didn’t know how he could handle the death of a romantic partner. 

Harry gave him a look. “Come on, John. It’s me. If anyone in your life is going to know exactly why this is devastating you so much, it’s me.” 

John sighed. “Goodbye, Harry.” he said, stepping back and trying to close the door. Harry pushed past him however, sitting down on his bed. 

“Come on, John.”

“I don’t want to fight with you about this, Harry. What does it matter? What does it matter how I felt about him? He’s dead.” 

“I know that, John.” Harry responded. “But the quicker you come to terms with how you really felt about him, the quicker you can start recovering. This denial of yours is doing nothing but stifling your feelings. You need to feel them.” 

“I have a therapist for this, Harry.” John sighed. 

“Sure, but a therapist won’t push you on this like I will. Because they don’t know you like I do.” 

John rolled his eyes. “We barely talk, Harry. We haven’t seen much of each other since I went to school. You don’t know me from Adam these days.” 

Harry’s voice got louder. “I know how dad treated you when I came out. Like you were his golden child, the only one who was good and right and straight . I know how important it was for you to never ever do anything to ruin that image he had of you. But I also saw how you looked at that one Rugby mate of yours, Matt. And I saw how you looked at Sherlock. So I know that you and I have more in common than you’d like to admit. And I know that you’re absolutely terrified of admitting this to anyone, but most of all yourself. I know these things, John, and I always have. And I still love you. And I know that you loved Sherlock more than anyone you’ve ever met. I know you wanted more from him. And I’m here to tell you that it’s okay, and that it’s okay to grieve for him like the love of your life because that’s what he was, whether or not it was acknowledged.”

John was getting angry. This was classic Harry, to come barging in during the worst time in John’s life and demand that they unleash all of the ghosts from their childhood. How dare she come to him when his life was falling apart and demand that John admit to her things that he couldn’t even admit to himself. Things that, if he acknowledged were true, just might break him even more than he had already been broken. John absolutely could not deal with having this conversation with his sister, now or ever. 

“You really need to leave, Harry.” John said, closing his eyes so he didn’t have to see her furious expression. “This conversation isn’t going to go the way that you want it to. I appreciate that you wanted to check on me, but I really will be okay. But please, for the love of God , just leave me alone.” 

For a while there was silence, and John began to wonder whether Harry was just going to sit there quietly until John deigned to play her little game. But finally, he heard the shuffling of Harry standing up and walking back towards the door. 

“Goodbye, John.” she said, and John could hear the sadness in her voice. “I’ll always be here for you. Never forget that.” 

John said nothing, and didn’t open his eyes until he heard the hotel door close behind him. 

2013

“Harry, meet my fiancé. This is Mary.” 

Harry sat in their sitting room, a glass of water in her hand, and looked up at Mary like she was a puzzle that Harry couldn’t quite solve. 

“Your fiancé?” she asked, quizzically. 

John felt only a little bad about not telling Harry that he was engaged sooner. Mary had been bugging him to introduce the two of them before they even got engaged. However, John didn’t fancy the idea of seeing Harry again after the last time they had seen each other. When Harry had come to his hotel room after Sherlock’s death, the two of them had gotten into a frankly childlike fight and John still regretted the way he had turned her away when she had offered her comfort to him so openly. But eventually, he had conceded Mary’s point. If Mary was to be part of the family then he needed to, at the very least, give them a shot to get along. He had a feeling it wasn’t going to go well, but at least he could get it over with. 

He had invited Harry over to his flat with very little explanation, and Harry had agreed to his invitation immediately.  Now, all three of them sat in the sitting room, drinking water (John knew better than to offer her a drink). John had found out when he invited Harry over that she was back with Clara, and had been for almost a year now. John felt guilty that he had no idea. She seemed healthy too, as if her sobriety had reached a new milestone. He knew better than to ask her how long it had been, however. Harry had a habit of lying about these things (as Sherlock had deduced when the two of them first met). 

“Yes, my fiancé.” asked John. “We’re getting married. Me and Mary.” 

Harry swallowed.

“Ah.” she said, quietly. “Nice to meet ya, Mary.” she gave Mary a smile that you didn’t have to be related to Harry to know was completely fake. 

“It’s so nice to meet you!” said Mary, with a wide and welcoming smile. “John’s told me so much about you. It seems like we’re both huge Cindy Lauper fans!” 

John wanted to laugh at that. That was probably the one thing in the entire world that Mary Morstan had in common with Harry Watson, and he loved Mary for finding the only topic in the world that could possibly lead to a pleasant conversation between the two of them. 

“Yeah, that’s right.” Harry said, with absolutely no emotion in her voice. “John, can I talk to you for a minute? In private?” 

John sighed. Here we go….. “No, we’re all three going to talk. As a family. Because that’s what Mary is going to be when we get married. Your sister-in-law.”

Mary immediately jumped in. “Oh no John, I completely understand! This must seem so sudden to Harry, I’m sure she has her questions. I’ll just go upstairs and hang up some laundry. You kids get talking.” 

She cheerily headed up the stairs, humming a tune that John vaguely recognised as Cindy Lauper. 

When Mary was out of earshot, John’s smile left his face and he looked at his sister sternly. “What was that? Why can’t you be nice to her?” 

“I heard that Sherlock was alive,” said Harry. 

“Yes, I got your text.” John said, cruelly. After Sherlock’s return had hit the news, he had gotten a text from his sister that made him grind his teeth in annoyance. 

I heard the news about Sherlock!!! I can’t tell you how happy I am for you. No one gets a second chance like this John, make the most of it!!! xxxx Harry

John never responded to that text, and had deleted it as soon as it came in. It was so Harry to assume that just because she was gay meant that everyone else also had to be. 

Harry gave him a knowing look, and said “And you’re getting married? To this….cheery woman?” 

“Cheery woman?” asked John, offended. “You’ve barely spoken to her. And you don’t get to hate my wife just because she’s happy .”

“I’ve seen enough. This life, this flat, Mary….it isn’t you , John.” chided Harry. “ Sherlock is you. Baker Stree t is you. Have you spoken to him?”

“Of course I’ve spoken to him,” said John. rolling his eyes. “He’s going to be my best man at the wedding.” 

“Poor bloke,” commented Harry, deadpan. 

John sighed. “Look, I’m glad you seem to like Sherlock so bloody much, god knows why, he was a complete prick to you. But Mary is my life now, and I love her, and you’re going to get along.” 

“Fine.” said Harry, “but just know I think you’re making a mistake.” 

The rest of the evening went about as well as John could have hoped. Mary and Harry talked about Cindy Lauper for an astounding half an hour, wherein Mary broke down her entire discography and her opinion on each album, and Harry gave occasional grunts of agreement. After that, Mary had told Harry the story of how she and John met in excruciating detail, and then told Harry every single funny anecdote from Mary’s move into John’s flat. Mary talked John into telling the story of how he and Sherlock had stopped the terrorist attack back in November, and Harry had reacted at all the right moments and even made the occasional comment. Then, Mary had asked Harry about her life, and Harry had been very terse. 

“Clara and I are buying a house.” Harry said. “Her job is going well, and my job helps too I suppose. I’m working as a secretary at a firm a bit north from here, and the pay is shit but the hours are good. I’ve been off the booze for a little over two years now.” 

“Two years!” Mary exclaimed. “That’s quite the feat. John and I are very proud of you, Harry.” 

John, however, couldn’t help but feel sceptical. “That’s great!” he responded, trying to put more astonishment into his voice than he really felt. 

“It’s true, you know,” said Harry. “I haven’t gotten a chance to tell you yet….. but it was actually you that encouraged it.”

This took John aback. “What do you mean?” asked John. “What did I do?”

“Before Sherlock died, I was in a right state. I wasn’t doing well at all. I wasn’t going to make it. I really wasn’t. But when I saw the way you looked after Sherlock died….and, well, I just knew that I couldn’t put Clara through that. As soon as I left your hotel room, I called her. We’ve been together ever since.” 

John didn’t know what to say to this. He didn’t quite believe it, but Harry’s voice had a tenor of honesty that she hadn’t displayed at any other point this evening. 

Mary, however, seemed to have quite a bit to say.

“That’s wonderful, Harry! That’s such a beautiful story. I’m so honoured that you felt comfortable enough to share that with us. And that you love John so much that seeing him hurt like that inspired such a lovely change in you. We couldn’t be happier.” 

John couldn’t quite place why Harry’s confession, and Mary’s reaction, made him feel so unreasonably angry, but he certainly couldn’t deny the feeling that was building in his chest. 

“So that’s it then?” he said (or, more accurately, shouted). “Sherlock fakes his death, and it inspires you to finally get your fucking shit together after decades of giving me heart attack after heart attack, and I’m supposed to be happy for you? Sherlock comes back from the dead, and you get back with your ex-wife, and everything’s bloody marvellous now?” 

Mary and Harry were both silent at this outburst, neither of them quite knowing where the sour turn in John’s mood had come from. 

Finally, Mary leaned in and whispered to Harry, “John’s still a bit sensitive about Sherlock’s jump. He always gets like that when someone brings it up.”

“Ah.” said Harry, looking at Mary as if some puzzle piece had just snapped into place. “Now things are starting to make a little more sense. You’re angry at Sherlock.”

“Of course I’m bloody angry at him!” John shouted. He had told Sherlock that he had forgiven him, and he wanted it to be the truth so badly; but every night, he still laid in bed looking at the ceiling, wondering how Sherlock could have done that to him. 

Harry sighed. “I get it. I really do. But don’t do this. Don’t marry someone else just because you can’t yet find it in yourself to fully forgive him for this.” 

John gaped at Harry, completely horrified that she had just said this in front of Mary . Insinuating that John had feelings for Sherlock was annoying enough when the two of them were alone, but he absolutely could not stand for her doing it in front of his fiancé.

Mary, to her credit, seemed unphased. She smiled understandingly at Harry. “Maybe I should give the two of you some privacy again.” she said kindly. 

“Unnecessary.” said John, cruelly. “Harry was just leaving.” 

Harry gave John an annoyed look, but began to gather up her things regardless. “Fine, John. Good luck with your wedding. When your marriage implodes, I won’t say I told you so. Lovely to meet you, Mary.”

And with that, she walked out the door. 

Present Day 

When John texted Harry, she called him almost immediately. 

“Johnny!”

“Hey, Harry.” said John, already trying to push away the part of him that was already regretting this decision. 

“I just got your text.” she said. “You want to move in with me?”

John sighed. “No, I just….want to stay with you for a while. Is that okay?”

“Of course!” Harry said immediately. “For how long?”

“I don’t know, Harry,” said John. “Just while I figure some things out. Can you come pick me up tonight?” John knew that asking Harry to come over now, when it was already so late, wasn’t exactly polite. He also knew that waking Rosie in the middle of the night to take her to some scary new place wasn’t about to win him any father of the year awards. But John couldn’t help it, now that the thought of leaving this flat had entered his mind, it was all that he wanted. The thought of laying down in some place that was not filled to the brim with dark memories and trauma seemed like such a relief that he needed it almost as badly as he needed a drink.

“Tonight.” repeated Harry, taking this in. “Alright, I can do that. It’s the same address as last time, right?” 

“Yep,” said John, cringing at the memory of the last time that Harry had been to his place. 

“Okay.” Harry said. “But Clara is coming with me. She worries for me when I leave the house all alone.”

John’s eyes widened at that. He had momentarily forgotten that his sister was once again in a loving, committed relationship. They had been back together for what, 4 or 5 years now? That was longer than the initial marriage had lasted. John couldn’t help but be impressed. 

He hadn’t seen Harry since the day she had met Mary. She simply ignored his wedding invitation, and hadn’t reached out once when Mary died. John couldn’t exactly blame her, after the way he treated her when she had come to him after Sherlock’s death. 

In the car to Camden, Clara had put on some music, and Harry was cooing over Rosie (who was reacting marvellously well to being woken up and placed in the arms of a stranger). John was glad that the excitement of meeting her niece for the first time was momentarily distracting Harry from giving John the third degree. He knew she was curious, he knew her well enough to know that she was bursting with a dozen questions that she was barely restraining herself from not asking. But John did not say anything, and at least for the time being, Harry seemed content marvelling over Rosie.

John held his bag close to his chest. He felt guilty about the two whiskey bottles he had stashed at the bottom. He knew that whatever he did, he absolutely could not let Harry see him drinking. He knew that Harry probably had a suspicion that he wasn’t sober, but at least for the time being had not mentioned it. 

Harry and Clara’s house was absolutely lovely. It was spacious and well-decorated, and the wall was adorned with an assortment of beautiful paintings and photographs. It did not escape John’s notice that there were no photographs of himself in the house, or of their parents. He tried not to let that offend him. The house must have cost more than John had ever been able to afford, and he felt a brief moment of jealousy for the beautiful life his sister had crafted. Here she was with a family and a loving home, everything John had been trying to build with Mary. It hurt him more than he cared to admit. 

They set up Rosie’s cot in Clara’s home office, and Harry helped John get settled in the guest bedroom. After John was mostly unpacked, Harry came into his room and sat on his bed. John immediately tensed. 

“Relax,” said Harry. “I’m not going to make you talk to me.” 

“Okay,” said John, wondering why she was here. 

“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. I’m sorry that she died, and I’m sorry that I wasn’t very nice to her.” 

John felt some of the tension leave his body. “Thank you, Harry,” he said. 

Harry looked up at him. “How’s Sherlock doing? Are the two of you still close?”

John sighed. He knew that he absolutely could not tell Harry the truth about what was going on between him and Sherlock. It would only encourage Harry’s insistence that John was repressing romantic feelings.

“Yes.” said John. 

Harry nodded. “That’s good.” she said, simply. She was silent for a few moments.

“Out with it, Harry. What is it you want to say?” John asked. Harry swallowed once. 

“It’s nothing. Only I just wondered….why you called me. Instead of him. If the two of you are still close.” 

John sighed. “Goodnight Harry,” he said. “Thank you, again, for picking us up. I appreciate it more than I can say.” 

Harry smiled up at him, walking out the room. 

“Of course, John.” Harry said. “And just know that when you are ready to talk, I’m here.” and with that, she walked out of the room.  

John settled into his bed, pulling out his laptop. He felt a sort of lightness in his chest at the new environment, as if it was a gasp of air after being underwater for too long. For the first time in a long time, he was interested in doing something other than collapsing on the couch in a drunken stupor.  It was time to finally post a new blog entry. 

***

The next morning, Sherlock was reading a book about the migration patterns of swallowtail butterflies when he got a text from John. 

Blog post is up. Let me know what you think. JW

Sherlock navigated to John’s blog (still his most visited website, even though it had been almost a year since the last blog entry). 

Hello again everyone! 

My apologies for not posting. As you may have heard in the news, my beloved wife Mary passed away a few months ago. This has obviously been an incredibly tough time for me and Sherlock both, but we’re finally working together again! Sherlock’s most recent case was in the news a few weeks back, but I’m here with the details on exactly how he solved it. 

John then went on to explain, in about 1000 words, how Sherlock had solved the murder of the comedian’s wife. Sherlock was, to his chagrin, actually quite impressed. John got almost all of the details correct, and explained Sherlock’s deductive reasoning process in a way that even Anderson could have understood. He also steered mostly clear of the romanticization of Sherlock, which would normally have made Sherlock proud but this time made him feel a little disappointed. He didn’t realise how much he cherished each one of those little compliments until they were no longer there. However, Sherlock did get some satisfaction from John’s final paragraph:

Well that’s it, then. Another case solved. Sorry again for our absence, but I promise from now on you'll be getting regular updates from us about the many, many cases that Sherlock embarks on. Thanks so much for reading, and thanks everyone for the kind messages you’ve left over the last few weeks. I absolutely could not have survived this last year without Sherlock, so thank you for letting me share a small part of his brilliance here with you all. 

-Dr. John H. Watson

Sherlock swallowed. Did John really feel that way? Did he really believe that, had it not been for Sherlock, he wouldn’t have made it through this year? Sherlock supposed that it was a hyperbole. People tended to use devices like that in situations such as these. 

He responded to John’s text:

Read it. Better than usual. SH

John responded immediately: 

High praise!! JW

Your writing still leaves much to be desired, but at least you got the facts of the case right this time. SH

Well, that’s something. JW

By the way, Rosie and I are staying at Harry’s for the time being. Long story. Just FYI in case you were looking for us. JW

Why would I be looking for you? SH

I don’t know, Sherlock. Glad you liked the blog. JW

Sherlock frowned. He immediately had a dozen questions. What had happened to make John make such a drastic, unprecedented decision so quickly? 

He closed his eyes, entering his mind palace. Clearly, the decision was spurred by something said in his therapy session with Ella yesterday. John had been purposely avoiding Harry ever since she had relapsed spectacularly a few years back, and his animosity towards her had only grown when she refused to show up to the wedding.

To be fair, the act of reaching out to his family wasn’t much of a surprise. Sherlock had long been thinking that John desperately needed to get out of that flat. He still wouldn’t sleep in his old bed, and even Sherlock wasn’t emotionally obtuse enough to not know the reason why. Sherlock had been working up the courage to ask John to move back, but he knew that in their current state, the question would not exactly be welcomed. Truth be told, he was glad John had someone other than him looking out for him. John had many people in his life that loved him, but very few that John was willing to let take responsibility for him. Sherlock had gotten used to being that person for Sherlock, but he supposed it was time for Harry Watson to get another chance at taking care of her little brother. With Sherlock and John’s relationship strained as it was, it was good that John was finally willing to turn to his estranged sister. Truth be told, Sherlock was pleased. John and Harry reconciling could only be a good thing. He had always liked Harry. She understood John in a way few people did, and Sherlock could tell that she hated the way her addiction had hurt John. 

Sherlock then noticed that he had quite a few Twitter notifications. Sherlock hadn’t used his Twitter in a while (it wasn’t fun when he wasn’t live tweeting cases), but now his account seemed to be blowing up. A cursory glance through his feed told Sherlock the reason: his fans were excited that a new blog post was finally out. 

@ronda_sikes: They’re finally back!! I told you guys the hiatus wouldn’t last forever

@marcie_tipton: Did you lot hear the news, then? About Mary Watson???

@sh+jw_forever: Yes! Do you think they’ll finally get together now?

@ronda_sikes: Finally get together?? Girl, they’ve been sleeping together this whole time. 

@marcie_tipton: But what about Mary???

@sh+jw_together: Maybe a beard? Maybe John was mad at Sherlock for faking his death? 

@studyindeductions: Who cares, the point is they’re in love!!!!

Sherlock squirmed a little at the idea that John probably also had read these threads, or at the very least some threads like it. As Sherlock continued to scroll through Twitter, he saw nothing but speculations about his and John’s personal life. Some of them were graphic:

@notanotherunicorn: Who do you think likes to be on top? It’s gotta be Sherlock, just look how tall and manly he is!!!

@consulting_detective_in_training: nahhhh john’s a soldier, look at that face, that’s a man who likes to be dominant

@carlyclenda: Why are we conflating penetration with dominant/masculinity? Bit problematic imo 

@starsinthesky: I agree, whatever they’re into is only their business! I don’t care as long as they’re both satisfied ;)

And some were actually rather sweet:

@james_betty: I love john’s blog, you can really tell that he’s the only one who really gets sherlock. 

@ronda_sikes: I agree! And the way Sherlock looks at John….priceless!

Sherlock wondered briefly how John would feel after reading these comments, now that he knew the truth about Sherlock’s feelings. Would it bother him more, knowing that there was truth behind the rumours? Or would it bother him less, being able to assume that the rumours were only due to their recognition of Sherlock’s obvious feelings, and not due to anything John was doing that made him appear not-quite-heterosexual. Sherlock wished he could deduce it, but every time it tried he just came up blank. For a while now, Sherlock had been a little too close to John to properly deduce him. Being too close to a subject made it hard to see the forest for the trees. It was absolutely hateful. 

But right now, Sherlock had another problem. Reading all of these threads speculating on his imaginary sex life with John was forcing Sherlock to consider fantasies that he often tried to push deep down, tried to ignore at all costs. Thinking these things about John could lead nowhere productive, Sherlock was a scientist, he knew this. The oxytocin produced after a sexual release strengthened emotional attachments and made people behave in illogical, ill-advised ways. However, there was no world where Sherlock could read an entire thread of strangers speculating about which position he and John both preferred without getting an erection. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to enter his mind palace to block out these thoughts. He knew, logically, it could only do more harm to imagine these things. These events would never, could never come to pass. John had made it quite clear where he stood on the possibility of them as a couple. However, sometimes Sherlock found that he simply had no other choice. Sherlock once, long ago, had deduced that John preferred to be dominant in bed. The combination of his training as a soldier and his insecurity about his height combined to make a man who was surely confident of himself, desperate to please, and insistent on impressing. Sherlock had very little experience in sexual matters, but he knew that if he were ever to take on a regular sexual partner, he would want one exactly like that: willing to take charge and fiercely competent. 

Sherlock moved to his bedroom, deciding that it was best to deal with this quickly and efficiently rather than spend hours trying to clear his mind and ultimately get nowhere. He slipped out of his dressing gown.

Sherlock did not keep lube by his bedside table. With a landlady, brother, detective inspector, and best friend who were all constantly checking up on his sobriety, it didn’t do well to have private belongings in a place where they could easily be found. Sherlock kept his lubricant under a loose floorboard under his bed. No one had been clever enough to stumble upon it yet (he supposed Mycroft might have been, if Sherlock ever allowed him into his room). Sherlock shimmied the loose floorboard out of its position, and tried to grab the lubricant without looking at the other things he kept there. His heart skipped a beat, however, when he saw the tourniquet. It would be so easy, Sherlock thought to himself. He still had Bill Wiggins’ number. He could call him up, so easily, and get back to numbing the pain. Just once. John would never know. Mrs. Hudson would never know. Mycroft might know, but Sherlock found he didn’t much care what Mycroft thought these days. 

Sherlock took a deep breath. He was suddenly quite thankful for his erection, as it provided some much-needed distraction from the siren call of his currently controlled addiction. He placed the cover back on the loose floorboard, securing it quite tightly into place, and moved to his bed. 

He placed some lube in his hand and slowly started spreading it on his cock. The first touch of his hand made him shiver, and he thrust up into it eagerly. It had been several months since he had done this. This was not going to last long. He thought longingly of John above him, with that firm and determined soldier expression on his face. In his fantasy, John was telling him exactly what to do with his hand, exactly how to pleasure himself. John was telling him how beautiful he looked like that, hard and a little shy about how much he was enjoying this. At the instruction of an imaginary John, Sherlock sped up his strokes, wanting this to last longer but simultaneously wanting to reach his release. In his fantasy, John pushed his hand out of the way and replaced it with his own hand, telling him that he could not wait to touch Sherlock himself, that he was just too gorgeous, that he was making John so hard. At this, Sherlock reached his peak, coming over his hand and onto his stomach, Sherlock lay there for a few moments, catching his breath, feeling the dread start to seep in. John would never tell him how beautiful he looked when he came, because John was not attracted to him. If John had seen him, just now, he probably would have been disgusted and unable to look at Sherlock for the next couple of days. Sherlock sighed and rushed out of his bedroom and into the shower, leaving the lubricant on the nightstand so he wouldn’t be tempted to lessen the pain in a far more dangerous way. 

***

After his shower, Sherlock sat at the table, looking determinedly at Ella’s assignment. He had his next appointment with her in a couple of hours, and he was determined to make some progress. Ten Things That Make Sherlock Happy. They can’t be the work, and they can’t be John. This shouldn’t be so hard. Why was this so hard? 

Because it’s stupid , thought Sherlock, then immediately retreated. No, it wasn’t stupid. There was a time when he would have considered the idea of chasing happiness to be futile and essentially a means of obtaining a coping mechanism for the banality and ultimate meaninglessness of life. But not anymore. His cynicism died with Mary. 

There was one thing Ella had said to him in his last session that kept replaying in his mind like an earworm that he couldn’t quite shake. “This will help you to learn and appreciate yourself.” Ella had said. “I worry that you struggle with self worth, and are willing to sacrifice too much for John and for your work. I’m trying to give you exercises to help you learn who the real you is, outside of all of that. You are more than your value to other people.”

That had shocked Sherlock. He had never considered himself as someone who struggled with self worth. He considered himself to be one of the top 5 most intelligent people he had ever come into contact with. He also knew he was nice to look at, and was often the subject of many lustful glances. These two things combined made him consider himself to be remarkably self-assured. However, when Ella had called him on it, he knew he couldn’t exactly disagree. She certainly had a point. Sherlock had never really thought about his own happiness to be something worthy of striving for.  

He thought back to his shameful wank earlier that day. He knew that some people could do that kind of thing without drowning in self-hatred afterwards. He knew that some people (and Ella was probably one of them) would argue that it was alright and even healthy to let his mind go to those places occasionally. He knew they would say that being human is okay. Sherlock had no idea at what point in his life he had started to cut himself off from joy and pleasure, and there was a part of him that didn’t know who he was without his single-minded focus on all things logical and passionless. 

He took out the list he had started on in Ella’s office (haphazardly typed in his Notes app).

Things That Make Sherlock Happy 

• Playing the violin

• Drinking tea

• Well-tailored, fashionable suits and coats

• Dancing 

He already knew one thing he wanted to add to the list. Mrs. Hudson. Try as he might, he never could help but love her. His relationship with his own mother had always been tenuous, but Mrs. Hudson had none of the same expectations or criticisms. Mrs. Hudson only wanted him to be kind and to tidy every once in a while (neither of which Sherlock ever actually did, but he took pleasure in knowing that he could win her favour quite easily). Before he had even met John, Mrs. Hudson was there for him, loving him and protecting him. 

He supposed he ought to add Molly to the list as well. He remembered the way she had hugged him tightly when he had admitted his feelings for John to her. Molly may have started as a tool to use for the work, but she had evolved into a steady cornerstone Sherlock never thought he would be lucky enough to be able to rely on.

Alright, that was six. The tricky thing about this assignment was how hard it was to separate the things he loved from the two forbidden topics: John and The Work. For instance, Sherlock immediately thought of putting “James Bond Marathons” on the list, but then almost immediately realised that the only reason he enjoyed those were due to the proximity to John, getting to see John happy and invested in something, making him laugh by guessing the ending….

Sherlock thought long and hard about what movies he had seen that he actually enjoyed, and would watch completely alone, but the only thing he thought of was a documentary on honey bees he had watched a couple of years ago, and that was almost certainly too close to the work. However, thinking of the documentary made Sherlock think of another dusty memory. He had been 16, and his parents had sent him to his great uncle’s estate in the south of France for a summer. He had been astonished to learn that his uncle kept bees, and spent his spare time taking care of them and studying them. Sherlock had spent the summer learning how to extract the honey, how to use the bee smoker to calm a particularly ferocious hive, and how to locate the queen in any situation. Sherlock, to his surprise, had quite liked it. To this day, thinking of honey bees made him feel happy and excited. He added it to the list. 

He thought some more about movies, certain that he had seen one that he had enjoyed in the last decade. He remembered one Halloween with John, seeing a movie that was quite ridiculous but made Sherlock feel a type of way that he hadn’t expected. It was called Rocky Horror Picture Show, which John had thought was far too odd and silly to be enjoyable. Sherlock had pretended to feel the same, but couldn’t help but feel hopeful at the free and open display of homosexual attraction. At that point in time, Sherlock had been first coming to terms with the idea of himself as a gay man, and seeing other gay people in media had a surprisingly positive effect on his mood. Sherlock added to the list: Media with LGBT characters/themes. 

Sherlock thought hard. He only needed two more points. 

Things That Make Sherlock Happy 

• Playing the violin

• Drinking tea

• Well-tailored, fashionable suits and coats

• Dancing 

• Mrs. Hudson

• Molly Hooper

• Honey bees

• Media with LGBT characters/themes

Sherlock thought back to his childhood. Before he had become this cold and aloof consulting detective, what had he enjoyed? 

The answer came to him in a jolt. Redbeard. His dog, who had been his childhood best friend and playmate when all of the other children had called him a freak day after day. He thought fondly of Toby, the dog that occasionally helped him with cases. 

• Dogs

One more point to go. Thinking about his childhood had been a good jumping off point, so he thought again about his younger days.

Ah, yes. 

Sherlock remembered days of pretend adventures and costumes and the same three films and books over and over, the one obsession that had made him excited beyond all else. 

• Pirates

Sherlock knew this was a rather silly point to add to the list, but he also supposed that he never really got over his obsession. His childhood obsession with adventure had translated into an adulthood filled with dangerous antics and vigilante escapades. Sherlock smiled fondly. 

He looked down at his list, and admired it. There it was, ten whole things that made him happy. He felt rather proud of himself, and hoped Ella would be proud of him. 

When Sherlock left his flat to see Ell he was feeling remarkably light, and feeling like maybe, just maybe, he could someday get to a point where doing things just because they made him happy didn’t seem like such a pointless endeavour. 

Chapter Text

John was sitting in Harry’s surprisingly fancy armchair re-reading one of his favourite crime novels, when he got a text from Sherlock. 

Psychic correctly predicted the murder of her last client, and now she’s been found dead. Interested? SH

John stared at his phone. He hadn’t heard from Sherlock since he had told him about the blog entry, which had been almost a week ago. Staying with Harry had been going remarkably well. Harry and Clara both worked during the day, which gave him and Rosie the place to themselves. In the evenings, Harry insisted on spending time as a “family”, and seemed to adore every moment she spent with Rosie. 

“We’ve been trying to have a baby for a while, so Harry is just loving having little Rosie around.” Clara had whispered to him one night, when Harry was in the shower. “It hasn’t been going well. None of the IVF rounds we’ve attempted have been successful. Harry’s still hopeful, though. The girl’s a dreamer.” John felt a burst of shame at hearing Clara refer to his sister that way. He certainly didn’t think of Harry as a dreamer, but he supposed he’d never taken time to get to know her as an adult. Maybe the sceptical, hard-edged girl he had grown up knowing had grown into an optimistic adult. That was a rather harrowing thought.

The family nights were often slightly awkward, and more for Rosie’s sake than any of the adults. Clara and Harry doted on Rosie as often as they could, which made John feel like an absolute rubbish father. He loved Rosie, and cuddled her, and tried to play with her, but he still felt remarkably out of his depth when it came to babies. John sometimes felt like he talked to Rosie as if she was a little adult who couldn’t speak English, rather than as a child, his child. 

In John’s defence, it’s not like he ever wanted children. He thought about it some in university, but after joining the army he figured that it was an experience he would probably never have. After meeting Sherlock, he decided that was probably a good thing. The life he shared with Sherlock was not compatible with children, and John wouldn’t have had it any other way.

He and Mary had always used protection, but he never really thought they needed to. She, in his medical opinion, was probably too old to get pregnant. How surprised he had been to find out that he was wrong. 

He sighed, watching Clara hold Rosie close to her chest and whisper sweet nothings into her ear and longed for that type of easy parenthood. How cruel the world was, to give a child to someone like him who clearly didn’t deserve it, but to not bless one upon Harry and Clara, who would make great mothers and wanted nothing more in the world. 

He picked up his phone and reread the text from Sherlock. Truth be told, nothing sounded better right now than throwing himself head-on into a mystery. Knowing that Rosie would be not only safe and cared for, but loved , in John’s absence made the decision to leave a little easier. 

That sounds perfect. I’m on my way. JW

“Hey Clara,” said John. “Do you mind watching Rosie for the evening? Sherlock has a new case on, and would like my help.”

Clara smiled brightly, an excited expression hidden just behind her eyes that made John wonder exactly how much of Harry’s theory about his relationship with Sherlock had been conveyed to Harry’s fiancé. 

“Of course John!” said Clara. “Harry and I would be honoured. Does she have any specific bedtime routines?”

“Not really,” said John, once again feeling shame at the inadequacy of his parenting. “I read her bedtime stories, sometimes”

“Oh how lovely!” remarked Clara. “Which are her favourites?”

John felt his face heat up. “Oh I uh…I often just read her stories from my blog.”

Clara burst into laughter, and it was a remarkable sound. Clara laughed the way some people danced, as if completely unembarrassed to express her joy with the rest of the world. John found himself wondering how his grouchy, sceptical older sister had ended up with someone so joyful and kind. 

“That’s adorable.” said Clara. “I love that you do that. It’s a great way to get Rosie indoctrinated into the family business.” she elbowed him teasingly. 

John forced a chuckle. “I guess so,” he responded, trying not to let visions of Rosie face to face with a dangerous criminal enter his mind. 

John went back to the guest room and packed his bag. He knew he’d need his laptop, for taking notes, and an extra pair of clothes, in case their adventure lasted the full night. He would normally take his gun, but Sherlock had taken that away quite recently…

He found his collection of alcohol that he had haphazardly shoved under the bed. He considered taking it with him, so that it would be on hand no matter what the night could bring. He eventually decided against it, however, if only because he didn’t want to see the disappointed look in Sherlock’s eyes when he deduced what John had brought with him. He did, however, take a few shots of whisky in order to numb his senses a little upon seeing Sherlock.

He arrived at Baker Street just after sunset, and bounded up the stairs with a little more spring in his step than usual. He opened the door to find Sherlock with a wall covered in photos and newspaper clippings. 

“Bloody hell. How long have you been at this, then?” asked John, looking at the expansive array of notes Sherlock had stapled to each of the photos.

“Since this morning,” said Sherlock, ever focused on the task at hand. “This is a very, very interesting case John. At least an 8.”

“Care to talk me through it?” asked John. 

“Sure,” said Sherlock. “This case was brought to me this morning by Phillip Gardener, a reporter from a little town called Fendry. His brother was found dead last week, only a few days after calling the whole family in terror after a psychic appointment had informed him that he was to be murdered in a car accident. Sure enough, Levi Gardener perished later that week in a headfirst collision with a lorry.” 

“Coincidence?” asked John. 

Sherlock shrugged. “The universe is rarely so lazy,” he started, reciting a familiar adage. “In this circumstance, however….could be. Thousands of people die from car accidents every year. A coincidence is not, statistically speaking, impossible. Improbable, sure. Particularly since he died so soon after the prediction.”

“But?” asked John. “You wouldn’t have called me here if this were a case of happenstance.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Right you are, John. I certainly wouldn’t have. So what can you deduce?”

John straightened up. He always secretly loved this part, when Sherlock would challenge him to come to his own conclusions about their cases. It gave John an opportunity to practise his own deductive reasoning, and it also gave him a chance to impress Sherlock. Sherlock was not generous with his compliments, and usually told John quite unkindly that he had come to an erroneous conclusion, but those rare moments of success were worth all of the rude moments combined. John didn’t have quite the experience with drugs that Sherlock had, but he imagined the feeling of Sherlock’s compliments was similar to the initial hit of a desired substance. Dopamine, chimed in the medical part of his brain. 

“Well,” started John. “It means that you must have seen something that confirmed to you that the psychic’s prediction was not a coincidence. Since that’s not something that’s possible to prove without determining her method of prediction, and thus solving the case, then I can deduce that you must have determined that the psychic’s predictions were part of a larger pattern. You must have found other people who have also had their lives successfully predicted by the psychic.”

“Excellent, John.” said Sherlock, smiling brightly. John preened. Addictive, indeed.

“I looked up the obituary from the psychic’s town. 15 people have died in car accidents in the last month, which is quite a lot considering that the town has a population of 3000 people. Out of those 15, 10 of them posted on social media about visiting the carnival that the psychic works at. Out of those 10, 5 of them explicitly tweeted about visiting this psychic. Look, here.”

Sherlock took out his phone and showed it to John. John got close enough to Sherlock to look over his shoulder, trying not to let the lovely sandalwood smell of Sherlock’s shampoo distract him from the information being presented. 

“This is the twitter page of Hannah McMillan, or @ bts_boss_bitch on Twitter.” explained Sherlock. “This is her last tweet before she died.”

@ bts_boss_bitch: 

Just had some quack psychic at Fendry’s Carnival tell me I was going to die young. As if my Wednesday could get any worse!

“And….she died?” asked John. 

“Look.” said Sherlock, switching tabs on his phone and bringing up an obituary site. 

Hannah McMillan, 25, tragically passed away last Sunday after being hit by a lorry going South from London. Hannah is survived by her husband Phil, mother Giselle, and sister Ana. Hannah was an accomplished car salesman, and was dearly loved by her coworkers and customers. Hannah will be missed by everyone who was lucky enough to know her. 

“Same cause of death…” said John. “The lorry and everything. Yeah, that’s….that’s odd. And you said in your text that she died? The psychic died?”

Sherlock nodded, and pulled up another obituary. 

“Carla Stern. 58 years old. Died last Friday from a collision. With a lorry.”

“Jesus Christ.” said John. “Are we sure there’s not just some rogue lorry driver in Fendry?”

Sherlock laughed. “It’s possible, I suppose, though unlikely.”

Sherlock was oddly quiet for a moment, and John once again was reminded of how close he was standing to Sherlock. He could hear Sherlock’s small breaths, and feel the warmth coming from his body. 

 “I need your help, John,” Sherlock said. 

“What do you need me for?” asked John. “Harry and Clara have Rosie for the night, I’m up for anything.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “I’m going to Fendry. Tonight. I’d like you to come with me.”

John’s eyes widened. It had been quite a while since he and Sherlock had travelled for a case. He pulled out his phone and searched for Fendry on his GPS.

When John found it, he felt his heart sink. “To Fendry? That’s what, 3 hours away? We’ll never get back in time for me to wake up Rosie in the morning.”

Sherlock nodded. “I know. We would have to be gone for a few days.”

“What do you intend on doing there?” asked John. 

“We need to interview the victims’ families. Find out exactly how and when they died, and see if we can find any patterns. We also need to search Cara Stern’s old carnival setup, see if we can find any clues as to how or why she’s doing this.” 

“Do you really need ME?” asked John. “What would I even do there?”

Sherlock turned to look at John intently, which felt oddly intimate given the lack of space between them. “John. You KNOW I need you by my side. You KNOW how valuable you are to my work. After all this time, you have to know that.”

John sighed. “I have a daughter, Sherlock. And don’t you remember our conversation a couple weeks ago? When I mentioned that I needed some….space.”

“You said,” started Sherlock, “that you considered us colleagues first and friends second . This trip would be for work . I’m not asking you to come for…..friendship. This isn’t some sort of holiday, John. People’s lives are at stake.”

“Oh yeah?” asked John. “People’s lives are at stake? When have you ever cared about that, Sherlock?”

John had a sudden flashback to a moment many years ago, in this same sitting room. Will caring about them help me save them? He almost expected Sherlock to recite that same phrase again, word for word.

“You know I care,” said Sherlock, unexpectedly. “ You of all people have to know that I do care, despite how much I try not to.”

The intensity in Sherlock’s gaze was causing John to go unsteady. It had been a long time since John had seen Sherlock like this, needing something so desperately from John. It reminded John of a simpler time, before Sherlock had jumped and had strained this delicate thing between them. 

“I still have a daughter.” said John, looking back up at Sherlock and trying not to break his gaze. “I can’t leave her here, and I certainly won’t take her with me.”

“Can’t Harry and Clara look after her?”

John sighed. In truth, he knew that his sister would love to look after Rosie for a few days, and would probably be nothing but encouraging about the idea of John taking a few days off to go on a trip with Sherlock. They would be convinced that it was proof of a burgeoning relationship between the two. This was part of the problem. John needed to create distance between the two of them in order to stay sane, and not jump headfirst into his old patterns. It was the only thing he felt certain about. 

“Stay here for tonight.” John pleaded. “Stay here and walk me through everything you know about the case. We’ll go together tomorrow morning, after I’ve gone through Rosie’s morning routine. And then, tomorrow night, I’ll come home. I’m not ready for a multi-day trip, Sherlock. You know that.” 

Sherlock seemed to be barely even trying to conceal the hurt behind his eyes. “Fine,” said Sherlock. “Fine.” 

***

It was a little past midnight when John finally went home for the night. All things considered, thought Sherlock, it had been a nice night. They had spent the evening digging through news articles about Fendry’s monthly carnival, and going through the social media accounts of Fendry residents who had visited. They also went through the news articles of all of the deathly collisions that had happened in Fendry in the last year.

At the end of the day, John’s suggestion had actually been a good one, much to Sherlock’s chagrin. Sherlock’s instincts had been to run off to the crime scene, but digging through data with John had given him six more theories and several other ideas of people to interview. Damn, John, for always being right. Damn John for his methodical approach to life that actually did end up helping Sherlock in his work. He wished that John were more of an idiot, like every other person he had ever met. Maybe then he could love John a little less. It was infuriating how he insisted on being amazing all of the time. Almost as if he was doing it on purpose, just to taunt Sherlock with everything he couldn’t have. Look at me Sherlock , John seemed to say. Look at how wonderful a life with me could be, the thing I will never ever give you . 

Sherlock sighed, and pulled out his phone. He supposed he should book a hotel in Fendry, though this time he would only need a single room with a single bed. He booked the cheapest room he could find. There was certainly no need to splurge, considering how little he would probably be sleeping. He had hoped that John would be amenable to coming. It would have been just like old times, going on long overnight trips to solve cases. 

Somehow, their cases away from Baker Street had always seemed to get them closer to being….something. It had always been in the dark of the night, sleeping next to each other in a hotel room (with separate beds of course), that Sherlock had looked at John and almost felt like he saw something in John’s returned gaze, as if he were almost considering it. 

Sherlock knew he was imagining it, of course. He knew now (and had always known, but recently had it confirmed) that John did not see him in that light and never could. Sherlock had always been okay with it, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to recreate that hope.

People who talked about how having hope was more painful than unambiguous rejection were correct, but that didn’t stop Sherlock from irrationally wanting to recreate that hope all the same. It was dopamine, of course, the scientific part of Sherlock’s brain reminded him. Sherlock was well aware of the research that showed that dopamine levels were highest at the anticipation of a reward, rather than receipt of the reward itself. Any drug addict was familiar with that feeling, the intoxicating feeling of hope. Sherlock had wanted, more than anything, to recreate that hope. 

And of course, the idea of spending a week with John was never anything but wonderful. Sherlock sighed. Of course John declined. He had known it was a long shot. Even so, he also knew that John intended to spend the day in Fendry with him. It was to be just the one day, but it was something. They would make progress on the case, and maybe they would make a little progress with each other. Maybe they would lay the foundation for the friendship they were tentatively starting to rebuild.

Ella had been proud of him in their last session, when she had seen the list he made of things that made him happy. 

“Focus on those things, Sherlock.” Ella had said. “Focus on building a life that centres joy, with or without John. To depend on another person for one’s joy is one of the most parasitic things we can do to the people we love.”

To depend on another person for one’s joy is one of the most parasitic things we can do to the people we love, Sherlock repeated to himself now, alone in his sitting room. 

Sherlock was trying to remember this and apply it to his life. In the past, he would have sulked at the idea of John not coming with him on a case, regardless of John’s reasoning. Sherlock intended to not do that this time around. He would enjoy the company John provided, for the one day he was there, and then he would focus on solving the case. He would appreciate what John was willing to offer, and not ask for anything more.

That didn’t stop him from craving hope, however. 

Sherlock picked up his violin, and turned to one of his favourite pieces from his university years. Tonight, he would play a piece that he liked, just because he liked it. Building a life that centred on joy. He was certainly trying.

***

Phillip Gardener was first on their list of interviewees. Sherlock had questioned him a little when Phillip first brought the case to Sherlock, but at that point he had still not been in possession of all the facts. Phillip lived in a small little cottage by the river, and it was nicely surrounded by hedges and greenery. 

“It looks nice here,” said John. “I’ve always wanted to retire to the countryside. I love London, but when I’m old…”

Sherlock fleetingly let himself imagine a future where he and John lived side by side in cottages in a small town such as this. The idea was rather lovely. He imagined playing his violin outside, where the hum of insects could join him and the wind could breeze through his hair. He imagined reading academic texts by the firelight while John sat next to him reading his recent favourite crime novel. A silly fantasy, but something about it called to Sherlock strongly.

“Yes that would be…nice.” said Sherlock, softly. 

The car ride from London had been nice. They took John’s car, but Sherlock had driven, which both men always preferred. It gave Sherlock something to focus his mind on during long car drives. John had entertained himself by alternating between music and audiobooks, but Sherlock hadn’t been able to focus on either of those things. The only things his brain wanted to focus on were the case, but the driving forced him to stay somewhat present and to not completely retreat into his Mind Palace. This way, he could think about the case while still being able to notice John. Sherlock liked noticing John in situations like these. He was able to collect small pieces of data, such as what music John was enjoying these days, and how his mood was affected when he was idle. It had been a long time since Sherlock had observed John being idle.

As it happened, John was listening to nothing but the most upbeat of rock songs. Sherlock knew that was not his regular taste, but he also knew why it was his preferred soundtrack these days. John could not bring himself to listen to anything with any sort of emotion or sadness or longing. He had just lost his wife. Emotions were not something that John was keen on experiencing. 

When they arrived at Phillip Gardener’s cottage, they knocked on the door. Sherlock had sent him an email that he was coming, so hopefully Phillip would be prepared. 

Phillip opened the door and smiled warmly. “Sherlock!” he exclaimed, grasping Sherlock’s hand and shaking it firmly. 

He turned towards John and smiled again, though with slightly less warmth. “You must be John Watson. The legendary blogger.”

John smiled back and took Phillip’s hand. “And you must be Phillip,” said John. “It’s a pleasure.”

Phillip was a tall, fit man who looked to be in his mid to late thirties. He had sleek, jet black hair and a thin beard. His eyes were warm and almond shaped. He was relatively attractive, all things considered, and Sherlock felt a stab of pity as he thought about the fact that this man had just lost his brother. 

“Come on in, make yourself at home.”  said Phillip, waving them in. Sherlock led the way, and John was not far behind. 

Inside, Sherlock was immediately assaulted by a barrage of observations, and his deductive brain took over. 

Tidy, but not overly so. There were a few unwashed dishes that looked to be a couple days old, and a few bags of detritus on the table. This suggested that Phillip was not a person who particularly cared about cleaning, but still made sure to do it with some amount of regularity, suggesting he occasionally had people over. Active social life, then. The pictures on the mantel were of Phillip himself, a man who looked quite a bit like him (Sherlock assumed it was the late Levi Gardener), and a woman who had Phillip’s exact facial shape, likely a mother. He must be close to his family. There were no other pictures on the mantel, but there was one other item of decoration, a flag with a rainbow pattern that was -

Oh. 

Sherlock stared at the flag a fraction of a second longer than was socially acceptable, and Phillip noticed. He gave Sherlock a small smile, suggesting he was making a few deductions of his own.

“So how do you like living in Fendry?” asked John. Of course Sherlock could count on John to be oblivious to things like this. 

Phillip seemed to reluctantly avert his eyes from Sherlock to look back at John. 

“Oh you know,” said Phillip. “You have to live somewhere.” 

Sherlock found himself laughing out loud before he was able to catch himself. “I suppose that’s true,” he said. 

“So, you have some questions for me?” asked Phillip. “Ask away.”

Over the course of the next hour, John and Sherlock asked Phillip as many questions as they could. They learned that Levi Gardener was not in the habit of seeing a psychic, but had done so on a dare from his friends.

“He wasn’t superstitious in any way,” said Phillip. “He never did that sort of thing, Levi. He wasn’t into any of that astrology stuff, he was never religious, he was a very practical man. His friends said he just went into that booth for a laugh. He came out of it in tears, and called me and mom on his way home. He was near hysterical, I could barely make head or tails of what he was saying. We thought he was just drunk off his tits or something. The next week he was gone. I’ve never been able to understand it.”

“I’ll get to the bottom of it,” Sherlock assured him. 

“I’m sure you will, smart thing like you.” Phillip said, teasingly, giving Sherlock a small little wink. 

John cleared his throat loudly and narrowed his eyes almost imperceptibly. 

Phillip broke eye contact with Sherlock, and smirked slightly, leaning back into his chair. 

After they had finished questioning Phillip, Sherlock and John stood up, and Sherlock went to shake Phillip’s hand again. 

“We’ll be in touch.” Sherlock promised. “We have a few more interviews to conduct this afternoon, but we’ll get back to you as soon as we know anything.”

“I appreciate it,” said Phillip. “Forgive me, but could I ask you lads a personal question? I’m terribly curious.”

“We should really be getting going” said John, at the same time that Sherlock said “I can’t see why not.”

Phillip smirked again, which Sherlock began to assume was his favourite facial expression.

“There are quite a few rumours circling online, you know, about you chaps. Are the two of you, you know…..together?”

“No.” said Sherlock, quickly. He was used to John vigorously denying it any time anyone asked if they were romantically involved, and Sherlock was not keen on hearing that today. Better to quiet the rumours himself. “Not at all. Just stupid internet rumours is all. John is straight as a doornail.”

Phillip laughed heartily, giving John a once over. John looked ready to strangle something. “I can believe it. Well I’m glad to hear that you’re…available.”

Sherlock had erroneously chosen to take a large sip of his tea at that exact moment, which caused him to choke on his sip very unattractively. He hadn’t been expecting that. He was used to being flirted with on cases, but it was often by young women, who had nothing of interest to offer him. He was not used to being flirted with by men, and certainly not men that were so….attractive. Sherlock found that for once, he couldn’t think of anything to say. 

“We’ll be leaving now,” said John, a little too aggressively, grabbing Sherlock’s arm roughly and walking them both out the door. 

***

John couldn’t remember the last time he had been this angry, and this unable to get drunk at the same time. He hadn’t had a drink since this morning back at Harry’s place, and hadn’t wanted to do so while in the car with Sherlock. Now, he was tragically sober, and tragically furious. He couldn’t even tell who he was most furious at. 

He was certainly furious at Phillip. For a man who was supposed to be grieving his recently deceased brother, he certainly had no issues with being playful and flirtatious. John would have suggested to Sherlock that Phillip might be behind the murders, if he didn’t also think Phillip was far too stupid to pull anything like that off. 

He also found himself inexplicably angry at Sherlock. Sherlock always rejected the advances of his clients. Always. It was one of John’s favourite things to witness, personally. He always felt a little bit chuffed when Sherlock would insult the women that would come on to him. Oh, he would lecture Sherlock on tact and kindness, but he would feel secretly pleased all the same. No one impressed Sherlock. No one caused him to stumble like that. John’s anger reminded him slightly of the anger he felt when they spent time with The Woman, but somehow this was worse. Sherlock’s feelings towards The Woman had always been a mystery, because John always wondered if Sherlock ever actually Did That. 

Now, however, John knew that Sherlock was gay. He knew that Phillip was gay. He knew that Phillip was interested, and he knew that Sherlock had decidedly not turned Phillip down. 

And finally, inexplicably, John was furious at himself. John had no idea why, except that he sort of did , and he hated himself for not being able to put words to the thoughts that were swimming around in his head.

He knew it had something to do with the fact that there was currently a stain covered Belstaff hidden in his closet. He knew it had something to do with the two years he spent feeling like he was torn apart after Sherlock’s jump. He knew it had something to do with the fact that being in Sherlock’s presence these days made him feel so conflicted and confused and furious but also so bloody happy…..

Yes, the person John was the most furious at was definitely himself. How had he made such a mess of things? Why did Sherlock even bother putting up with him when he was this stupid, so unable to understand the simplest of things, this confused about every single thing? 

John spent a good part of their walk fuming, until he realised that Sherlock was talking to him. 

“John? Are you alright?”

John forced himself to snap out of it. They had a job to do after all. 

“Sorry,” said John, feeling guilty. “I was a bit distracted. What were you saying?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes almost imperceptibly, but John still caught it. 

“I think we should interview a few other family members of the victims. It’ll be interesting to see if their account of the events matches with Phillip’s. After that, I have contacted a few of the other carnival acts to see what they can tell us about Carla.”

“Does Carla have any family we can talk to?” asked John. 

Sherlock nodded. “I was able to contact her mother. I set up an interview with her, but she’s not available until tomorrow.”

“Ah.” said John. “Right.” John still hadn’t decided if he would be back tomorrow.

“But first,” said Sherlock. “I’m rather peckish. Breakfast?”

“Starving,” said John.

***

They spent the rest of the day interviewing the other victim’s family members. They didn’t learn anything particularly interesting or useful, at least not as far as John could tell. For the most part, the other victims’ had stories remarkably similar to that of Levi Gardener. They visited a psychic at a carnival, all for different reasons. Some, like Levi, had done it as part of a bet or a joke, not expecting to hear anything interesting. Others had been slightly more superstitious, and had gone in expecting to hear genuine news about themselves. One of the victims, Abigail Andrews, had even been a regular of the carnival, and had gotten readings from the same psychic several times. 

“Did Abigail ever mention what type of information she had gotten from Carla’s booth in prior visits?” Sherlock asked her inconsolable mother.

“A few times,” Mrs. Andrews responded. “I certainly wish I could remember now. I never paid much attention. They all seemed like such trivial things.” 

“Such as?” prompted Sherlock, sounding impatient.

“Well, she was convinced she was about to come into some money. That certainly never happened. But she certainly started spending her money a lot more recklessly after hearing that. It got quite frustrating.”

“Spending her money how?” Sherlock asked, clearly curious. 

Mrs. Andrews shrugged. “Oh, nothing major. She just started getting take-out a little more regularly, buying more clothes every now and then. She really believed that she would have a lucky break. None of us ever expected….this.” 

At that, Mrs. Andrews erupted in a bout of sobs and it had taken them the rest of the interview to console her. 

Another of the victims had exhibited even stranger behaviour. After getting his reading from Carla, Samuel Davidson had updated his will, given his beloved dog to his sister, and stopped showing up to work. Samuel Davidson’s sister had been convinced that her brother was just overreacting, and was horrified when she found out the way he had died. 

There seemed to be no obvious connections between the victims. All of them were adults, but some had been as young as their early 20s and others had been as old as their late 60s. The victims made up a fairly representative sample of the demographic of Fendry. None of them seemed to work together or know each other. 

After the interviews, Sherlock and John sat on a picnic bench, eating mediocre hot dogs.

“There’s something going on in this town.” said Sherlock suddenly, after a long bout of comfortable silence. 

“Yeah. A murderous psychic.” said John. 

Sherlock huffed impatiently. “Something else. Something bigger.” 

“Such as?”

“Think about it,” said Sherlock. “What’s one thing every single one of the victims had in common?”

“Well. That they’re dead?” said John. 

Sherlock chuckled in spite of himself. 

“Apart from that. They were all CONVINCED they were going to die, John. The sceptics, the jokesters, the devout regulars. They all believed without a shadow of a doubt that they were going to die. What does that tell us?”

John thought about this for a moment. “It tells us that whatever happened in that psychic tent, it wasn’t just a normal reading.” 

Sherlock nodded. “Precisely. I’m inclined to believe that they were threatened somehow.” 

John thought about this for a moment. “Why would that imply that anything odd is going on in this town?”

“Think about it!” said Sherlock, jumping up off of the bench and starting to pace excitedly in front of John. “These victims seem to have nothing in common. Nothing. But they have to , don’t you see?”

John shook his head. “That’s what everyone said about the Jefferson Hope case. Remember, the taxi driver? A Study in Pink? Everyone thought that the victims had to be connected, but it turned out that the cabbie just picked random victims to slaughter.”

Sherlock turned to face John, intensity in his gaze. “But you see, John, those victims all DID have plenty in common. They all chose to take a cab. They were all travelling alone, from different parts of the country. Don’t you find it odd that all of the victims we’ve talked to today were all from Fendry? Do you know how many people come here for the carnival? Hundreds! Possibly thousands! ALL of the victims lived here . That can’t be a coincidence!”

“But what if it is?” asked John. “And besides. What if there are victims from other towns? We may just not have found them yet. There have to be other lorry accidents in the country. We compiled our list of victims from the ones who died near Fendry.”

Sherlock shook his head again, pulling out his phone. 

“I got this email from Phillip a few hours ago. It’s the list of all of the people who have bought tickets to the carnival in the last month. Phillip’s ex-boyfriend worked in the ticket booth, he was able to smooth-talk him into giving him the data. I cross referenced all the names with obituaries from around the country. No one else who has visited the carnival in the last month has died, except for a few that died of natural causes.”

“When did you have time to do that?” asked John, stiffening at the mention of Phillip. 

“When you were consoling Mrs. Andrews,” said Sherlock. “I appreciate it, John, truly. I never was good at…that part of the work.” 

“Well, that’s certainly true,” said John, clenching his fists at the idea of Sherlock and Phillip continuing to communicate over email while John had been tasked with calming an extremely emotional old woman.

“Phillip’s been rather helpful, has he?” asked John, trying to keep the ice out of his voice. “Does he have any other brilliant insights?”

“He’s invited us to join him at a pub a ways north from here.” said Sherlock. “We should go. I want to observe some of the other residents. Phillip might also have some insights about the other things we’ve learned today.”

“Phillip wants both of us to meet him at the pub, does he?” asked John. “Not…just you?”

Sherlock made eye contact with John, and tilted his head slightly in an expression that almost looked like confusion. 

“Of course he wants both of us,” said Sherlock. “Oh. Did you want to leave already?”

John looked at his phone. He really should be leaving soon, if he wanted to make it in time to tell Rosie goodnight. However, the idea of leaving Sherlock and Phillip alone in a pub was causing him to reconsider. Also, John had to admit he was excited about the idea of another drink.

“I suppose I can stay for a few drinks,” said John. 

“Excellent!” said Sherlock, turning on his heels. “It’s just a few blocks away.”

John leapt up off the bench, hurrying to follow behind an excited Sherlock and throwing his trash in the bin. 

“This case, John!” exclaimed Sherlock. “It’s truly marvellous. I haven’t had anything this exciting since….” but his words trailed off, as if he couldn’t remember the last case that had made him feel like this. Or perhaps he did remember, and just didn’t want to talk about it. 

***

John really, really hated Phillip Gardener. 

Sherlock and Phillip stood at the bar, chatting animatedly. John sat at a booth at the back, sipping hard whisky. 

He shouldn’t be drinking. He really shouldn’t be drinking. He had to drive home to Rosie, and he had to face Harry and Clara, who would see the signs of drunkenness from a mile away.

But Sherlock Holmes was being flirted with by a tall, attractive, gay man and John absolutely couldn’t understand why he cared so much. 

When they first arrived, John had tried to insert himself into the conversation as much as he possibly could. Sherlock debriefed Phillip on everything they had learned throughout the day, and Phillip hung on every word. Eventually, John had started to feel like a third wheel, as if neither of the other men even remembered he was there. He had taken his drink to the back of the bar and watched in ire, waiting for the moment when Sherlock would either realise he had left, or just throw caution to the wind and start snogging Phillip in public. It was hateful to watch.

The worst part is that this is what John thought he had wanted. He wanted Sherlock to stop putting him on a pedestal, to stop adoring John so deeply that he would give up his life for John just as Mary had, and in doing so leave John alone and break his heart forever.

This seemed like a perfect solution: set Sherlock up with a smart attractive man who was emotionally available, and ready to give him back the love he was so clearly willing to offer. This, hypothetically speaking, could solve all of their problems. He and Sherlock could go on being friends without John feeling so much guilt. Sherlock would have something to live for other than John and Rosie, which would hopefully make him far more careful with his own life. This should have made John happy. 

Then why was he so angry? 

Unless…..oh.

John took a deep breath, feeling his heart pounding in his rib cage. This was not good.

He was happy to play the fool for Sherlock, if that’s what he needed, but at the end of the day he wasn’t actually a fool. He may be slow, but he always got there eventually. He may not be able to make the brilliant deductions that Sherlock could, but at the end of the day, this wasn’t even that difficult of a deduction was it? 

John’s all-consuming love for his best friend. The illicit and secret sexual fantasies about that same friend that he had been trying not to think about for years. Add that all together with a mind-numbing anger (or, John supposed, maybe it was jealousy?) at Sherlock being flirtatious with another man. You didn’t need to be the only consulting detective in the world to figure out what that pointed to. 

Oh no.  This was not good.

Because if John Watson was in love with Sherlock Holmes, had in fact been in love with him for a very long time, then that had some implications that John was absolutely not in the right headspace to deal with. 

Breathe, thought John, trying to slow his heart and stop his shaking hands. Breathe in. Breathe through. Breathe deep. Breathe out.

John looked once more at Sherlock, and felt his pulse start to quicken again. He had to get out of here, he had to go somewhere where he could sit and think .

John ran out of the bar, being careful that Sherlock was not watching him, and ran out into the night.

Chapter Text

Molly Hooper had a date tonight. She didn’t often schedule dates for weekday evenings, because she never knew when she would need to work late. In her early days working for Barts, she had more than a few experiences with having to cancel dates at the last minute, much to the chagrin of her partners. With her friends, Molly liked to blame her long work hours for her perpetual singleness, and they humoured her by going along with it. 

They’d say things like “Molly, love, why don’t you take some leave for a bit? Go meet a nice man, fall in love. You have your whole life to work.” and “Oh, our Molly here is such a little go-getter. She works so hard she hasn’t been properly laid in years!”

However, none of Molly’s friends actually believed any of that. They knew she was a hard worker, of course she was, how could she not be with her multiple graduate degrees and endless stream of promotions? They also knew that this was not why someone as lovely and kind and accomplished as Molly Hooper had not fallen in love yet. That blame lay solely and entirely with Sherlock Holmes. 

Molly knew it, too. She’d seen therapists about it, and it was always the same tune. They talked about how ever since Molly was a young girl, she was inexplicably attracted to the men who were the least interested in her (probably because of her absent father, who gave her and her mother very little attention). They’d talk about how Molly, overachiever as she always was, would see these difficult, friendless, and often cruel men as a challenge; something to fix, something to strive for. They’d talk about how Molly spent much of her youth pursuing men who never had the remotest chance of actually falling in love with her. Never was this more true than with Sherlock Holmes, a man who was emotionally unavailable, undeniably cruel to her, and above all: gay. 

To Molly, however, the challenge with Sherlock Holmes came from more than just making him love her. It also came from making him realise that he was, in fact, capable of love to begin with. Everytime Molly would look at Sherlock, she would feel a deep sense of sadness. Here was a man who did so much for his community and for his friends, but insisted on blocking his heart off to everyone he knew. It took Molly longer than she was proud of to learn the truth about Sherlock about who he really loved. 

It was when he came to her right before he faked his death that she figured it out. The complexities of the scheme he was designing, all to keep John safe and protected, were more than anyone would do for anyone that was just a friend. Molly felt foolish. That didn’t stop her from hoping, however. Even then, there had been a part of her, no matter how small, that still hoped she could make Sherlock feel for her what he felt for John. Anyone would long to be loved, adored, and cherished in such a way. 

Then there was Tom. Molly always felt bad when she thought about him. He had been kind, loving, patient, and fun. He was everything Molly knew she should want in a partner. She dated him, cared for him, almost married him - all before realising that he was not in any way what she wanted. He reminded her just enough of what she still secretly wanted that she was willing to put up with all of the many, many ways why they weren’t compatible and would never work. When she eventually ended it, she felt awful. Was this what she was doomed to always repeat? Loving men who could never love her back, and leading on men who loved her who she could never love in return?

Everything changed for Molly when Mary Watson died. 

Molly had never liked Mary. She was condescending, self obsessed, and irritating. Any time Molly had a conversation with Mary, she felt like she was nothing but a sounding board so that Mary Watson could hear herself speak. 

Molly didn’t blame John for falling in love with her. When she first met Mary, she saw what he saw in her instantly. She saw how Mary was almost like a ghost of Sherlock’s features. She saw how grieving, heart broken John could look at Mary’s condescension and see Sherlock’s well-earned arrogance. She saw how Mary’s irritating habits could remind someone ever so slightly of Sherlock’s high maintenance. She saw how Mary’s loquaciousness could be confused for Sherlock’s intelligence. 

What confounded Molly was how John had stayed with Mary even after Sherlock returned. That being said, if anyone was stubborn to a fault it was John Watson. 

One would expect that the existence of a wife in John Watson’s life would forever put an end to the possibility of Sherlock and John . Somehow, however, it seemed to enhance the possibility. If there had been nothing but friendship between Sherlock and John, then the presence of Mary would not change the way they acted around each other. In reality, however, it changed everything. John’s adoring compliments to Sherlock ceased almost entirely. The intense eye contact they always used to make with each other was quickly cut off by one or the other as soon as they noticed they were doing it. In short, the existence of Mary proved to Molly that the two men were as smitten with each other as it was possible to be. 

So when Mary Watson died, finally opening up that possibility for Sherlock again, Molly decided that she would not get in the way. She was, after all, a hopeless romantic; and Sherlock and John were her friends. She would help, in any way that she could, with their happily after. She had gone to John’s home after she learned about the letters that John had accidentally read and demanded that John stop cutting out his friend. She was determined that eventually those two incredibly brilliant idiots would be happy together, no matter what it took from Molly.

Also, she would find someone for herself. She would find someone who was available, and loving and kind; but not unintelligent or uninteresting like Tom. She knew there had to be men out there who were interesting and unselfish, intelligent and caring. She knew these men existed, and she would find one. 

Most of her dates so far had led to nothing, but this one seemed promising. This date was with a man who was well-intentioned and intelligent, hard working and interesting, and kind to all who met him. Molly was excited to spend some time with him one on one, and to really get to know him. 

She was just hanging up her smock for the night when she got a call from John Watson. 

Oh no , she thought to herself. She loved looking after baby Rosie, generally, but she had been so excited about this date….

“Hi, John!” she said as she answered her phone, trying her best to sound chipper. 

“Molly.” said John, and she was shocked by the tentative edge to his voice.

“What’s going on? Do you need me to watch Rosie? You know I’d be happy to do it, generally, but tonight I-”

“No no no.” said John, immediately reassuring her. “Nothing like that. Rosie’s with my sister actually. Doing very well as I understand it. I’m calling to ask for….advice.”

"Advice?" asked Molly, feeling nervous. “Advice” probably meant advice dealing with Sherlock in some way. Molly knew how delicate and rocky their friendship was in the wake of Sherlock's heartfelt accidental confession to John, and took a deep breath. 

"Yeah, advice. Molly….I think I might be in love with Sherlock, and I'm having a panic attack about it."

Sure enough, Molly could tell even from over the phone that John's respiration rate had increased, and his voice had an anxious edge to it. All the same, Molly felt genuine relief. Talking to John was always so complicated, as she always had to dance around his feelings for Sherlock as to not overwhelm him. Maybe now she could finally speak to him directly.

She laughed in spite of herself. "I think you might be, yeah."

John was silent for a moment. "You knew?" He asked finally. Molly thought back to the time she visited his home, and had tried her hardest to imply, as delicately as she could, that John might have feelings for Sherlock. It looks like he had finally gotten the hint. 

"Of course I knew, John. I know what it's like to be in love with Sherlock Holmes."

"Right." Said John, seeming to have just remembered that information. "Right. I…I guess it's weird for me to be talking to you about this at all, huh?"

Molly smiled fondly. "I don't mind, John, really! I've let all that go ages ago. In fact I…I have a date tonight."

"Oh!" said John, truly startled by this. "Well, congratulations. I don't mean to keep you if you need to be going." 

"No, I've still got a few minutes until I have to meet him!" Said Molly. "I'm already dressed and ready. You know how it is, nerves and all."

"Yeah, I've certainly been there," said John. "Good luck tonight Molly, I'm sure he'll love you."

"I'm sure he will too," said Molly, with confidence she didn't feel but was trying to grow into. "So now back to you! What made you finally realise you loved Sherlock?" 

John groaned into the receiver. "The stupidest of things. There's a client, a male client, flirting with him as we speak and it's making me absolutely murderous."

"Ah." said Molly, understanding immediately. "I remember how you got when he was investigating that dominatrix woman." 

John made an annoyed grunt. "Irene," said John. "and yes, but it's so much worse now that it's a man. It makes me think about everything he and I could be. It makes me think that Sherlock might actually return his feelings. I don't know what I'll do if they get together."

"You don't actually think he'd date anyone else, do you, John?" Asked Molly, kindly. "He loves you. We both know that."

"Yeah, and I rejected him several times, Molly," said John. "I haven't exactly been subtle about my lack of interest. I wouldn't blame him if he wanted to…. try something else." 

"Well, if you're so concerned about it, have you considered telling him how you feel?" 

"I can't," said John, and it almost sounded like a whine. "I'm in absolutely no place to start a relationship right now. My wife is dead. I have an infant daughter. I have a crippling alcohol addiction, insomnia, and depression. If I told him how I feel now, I'd be dooming us before we've even started."

Molly contemplated that for a while. It was true that John was a complete mess. The amount of times she'd had to intervene in Rosie's care since Mary had died was frankly alarming, and John's flat stank of alcohol and a general sense of uncleanliness. John had not been kind to Sherlock in the weeks following the reveal of Sherlock's feelings, and had ignored him and pushed him away. If it were anyone else, Molly would tell them they had missed their chance…but this was John and Sherlock. Molly, a practical woman of science, didn't believe in much; but she believed in them.

"I agree that you have a lot of healing to do before you and Sherlock can be together romantically," said Molly. "But might it do to give him some hint of your change of heart?" 

"Like what, waltz up to him at the bar with Phillip and tell him 'sorry to interrupt, but please don’t sleep with this man, because I'm in love with you?'" 

Molly chuckled. "Maybe not so dramatic as all that. You could pull him aside. Tell him that seeing him with this other man makes you feel uncomfortable because of feelings that you are starting to realise you've always had, but that you're not ready to begin anything with him. I am sure that Sherlock will be over the moon to hear that you feel the same way. I can't imagine him being upset that he'll have to wait for you. He's been waiting for you for a few years now, after all." 

"I suppose that's true." Said John. "God. I'm a mess. Do you think anyone else knows? How I feel about him?" 

"No." Said Molly, although secretly she imagined that couple other people probably had their suspicions. John didn’t need to know that, though. "You were very subtle about it. I'm just incredibly perceptive."

"That you are." Said John. "You're the most brilliant of all of us, Molly Hooper." 

"Thank you John."

There was silence on the line for a few moments, and when John finally spoke up his voice was soft and hesitant. 

“Am I a horrible person?” asked John, and it sounded like he was genuinely concerned that it might be true. 

“Why would you be horrible, John?” 

“I was married ,” said John. “To a woman who died less than a year ago. I shouldn’t be thinking about anyone this way. In fact, I think I might have loved him long before I met Mary. How could I have done that to her?” 

“Oh, John,” said Molly, affectionately. “You’re not a terrible person. Sherlock has put you through a lot. I’m not surprised that your feelings for him came out confused. And don’t forget, Mary was there for you at a time when no one else was. I’m not surprised that you fell for her as strongly as you did.” Molly tried as hard as she could to keep her own personal ire at Mary under control. It wasn’t on to speak ill of the dead, after all. 

“I should be grieving,” said John. “She was my wife. We were married. I shouldn’t be drinking myself stupid all because Sherlock bloody Holmes might be getting off with some other bloke.”

“You have been grieving, John.” Molly reminded him. “Do you remember all those times I came to your house in the middle of the night to take care of Rosie? Do you remember how sad and broken you were? That was grief.”

“But it’s only been a few months!” shouted John. “And I’m here pining over Sherlock!”

Molly sighed. “John, I think you might have forgotten that you and Mary were not actually together for very long. Your marriage hadn’t even lasted a year. Your entire relationship was shorter than the amount of time you knew Sherlock before he faked his death. She may have been your wife, but you didn’t actually know her very well.”

“Hmm,” said John, and his tone sounded surprised, as if Molly had touched on something that went far deeper than Molly knew. 

“You’re right,” said John, suddenly icy. “I didn’t know her very well. I barely knew her at all.”

“Exactly,” said Molly. “I know that you cared for her. I know that you’re sad that she’s gone. But I also think it’s okay that you’re having feelings for someone else. Especially since this particular someone else has been in your life long before you ever knew Mary. You may not have known Mary very well, but you know Sherlock. Better than anyone.”

John sighed. “You’re right, Molly. You’re right. I’m being stupid.”

“Not stupid,” said Molly. “The reason this bothers you so much is because you’re a good and loyal person.”

John chuckled in lieu of responding to this.

"Now go on." Said John. “I don't want you to be late for your special man. Good luck, not that you'll need it."

"Good luck to you too John. Not that you’ll need it." Said Molly, hanging up the phone and feeling a strong sense of kinship with her friend. They were both making dramatic leaps today. 

She pulled out her phone. 

On my way! -molls 

Great! I can't wait! -GL

***

John Watson was walking around Fendry, sipping a bottle of whisky that he had picked up from a nearby liquor store. The ship had sailed on going home to Rosie tonight, and he had already texted Harry to let her know. 

Case is more complicated than we thought. Staying here tonight if that’s all right? JW

Of course Johnny! Have fun ;)

John thought back on Harry’s insistence that he and Sherlock were in love, and felt rather foolish; of course Harry Watson of all people would understand what it was like to have repressed homosexual feelings. Harry Watson would even understand why John was so scared to face them. She understood where his shame and terror came from, why they were so difficult to deny even now, almost 30 years later. 

John’s conversation with Molly had been helpful. If nothing else, it had been nice to finally say the words out loud and know that the world would keep turning. The world did not end just because John admitted how he felt for Sherlock Holmes. 

This new knowledge was terrifying, and it seemed to reframe everything John thought he knew about the last 5 years of his life. It reminded him of how he had felt when he learned that Sherlock loved him; but it was more personal this time, more guilt-racking. 

If John Watson loved Sherlock Holmes, it explained why there had always been an inexplicable distance between John and Mary. John had loved Mary, at least in part, but there had always been something holding him back from her. He thought it was just his lingering confusion over Sherlock’s death, and the manner in which it had (not) occurred, combined with angry feelings over Sherlock’s gunshot wound and Mary’s true identity. Now, he wondered if maybe he felt distant from her because she had never been what he really wanted. 

If John Watson loved Sherlock Holmes, it explained why John was happier than he had ever been when he and Sherlock solved cases together. He had attributed this feeling to his love of danger and his PTSD inspired desire for action, but maybe it had all been rather a bit simpler. 

If John Watson loved Sherlock Holmes, it explained why being around him felt so complicated these days. It explained why he still couldn’t think about Sherlock’s faked death without needing a drink. It explained why thinking about Sherlock’s feelings for him made him feel as if his insides were being turned inside out. 

The alcohol was starting to enter his bloodstream, and he felt the painful edges of his emotions get fuzzier and easier to navigate. He thought about Phillip and Sherlock huddled together at that bar; the way Phillip looked at Sherlock like he was something to devour. The thought made John want to vomit, and the amount of alcohol in his system meant that he was in danger of actually vomiting. 

John took a breath. He wasn’t in the right headspace to deal with this today. He needed to get some sleep. Tomorrow, he would face Sherlock.

He thought briefly of Molly’s suggestion, to take Sherlock aside and inform him of his feelings. However, John couldn’t bear to mess this up. He might only have one chance with Sherlock, and rushing in to confess feelings that John had only just come to terms with didn’t seem like the best course of action. 

He thought of Phillip, and he was suddenly full of anger and jealousy. If he didn’t confront Sherlock now, there was a very real chance that Phillip would do…something. He couldn’t let himself think too hard about the things Phillip might be hoping to do with Sherlock. 

John sighed. He supposed he just had to trust that Sherlock would not suddenly change his habit of being uninterested in romance. 

John looked around him. There was nowhere to stay, and Sherlock had only booked a single room. In his current headspace, he knew that sharing a hotel room with Sherlock would only complicate things. He supposed it wasn’t too late to book a room for himself. 

He took out his phone and sent Sherlock a text. 

Hey, Sherlock. I’m a little too tired and tipsy to drive home tonight. Going to book a room for tonight. JW

***

Sherlock wondered vaguely where John had gone. It was possible that John had already left town without telling Sherlock goodbye, but it wouldn’t be like John to do that. John’s military habits meant that he always felt the need to inform people of his whereabouts and his plans. Sherlock remembered many moments throughout their cohabitation where John would inform Sherlock he was going “out’ and Sherlock would completely ignore him, completely engrossed by some scientific experiment or another. 

He didn’t have much time to wonder about John’s whereabouts, however, because Phillip Gardener was a very insistent conversation partner. He had started by asking Sherlock questions about the interviews he and John had conducted throughout the day. Sherlock was impressed at the intelligence of Phillip’s questions. 

“If Carla Stern wanted to kill any of these people, why would she warn them first? Doesn’t that just draw attention to the crime?”

Sherlock nodded. He had considered that too. It was the type of question John would have asked; not brilliant, but considered enough to show a logical thought process. It was a rare quality. 

“I’m not sure,” said Sherlock. “There are two angles I’m considering. The first is that Carla knew she was warning the victims of their deaths. The other is that Carla didn’t know; that something about her words or her manner of delivering the predictions tipped off the victims, but that it wasn’t her intention.”

Phillip pondered this for a moment. “Do you think it’s possible that Carla wasn’t involved at all? That someone else was using Carla’s psychic booth in some way to warn the victims of something?”

Sherlock couldn’t help but be mildly impressed that Phillip had posited a theory that Sherlock himself had considered. 

“It’s possible,” said Sherlock. “Could your ex boyfriend give us security footage data for the carnival? It would be helpful if I could see if anyone had access to her booth, and to see the victims coming and going. Maybe we’ll learn something.”

Phillip shrugged. “I can try,” he said. “But things are tense between Aaron and I. I’m afraid I might have used up the last of the favours he owes me by getting the list of carnival-goers.” 

Sherlock scooted a little closer, bringing his face an inch or so closer to Philip’s, and widening his eyes in a way that he hoped would be seductive (he was usually right about these things). 

“Surely he’d be willing to help, if it’s for a good cause,” said Sherlock. 

Phillip flushed, his eyes dropping to the ground rather than meeting Sherlock’s gaze. “I can try,” said Phillip. “Let me shoot him a text, right now.” 

He took out his phone and drafted a message:

Aaron - sorry, I know I’ve already asked for a lot today - but Sherlock Holmes is making great progress with this case and would love to see some video footage of the carnival. Hope you’re well. 

“He’s going to say no,” said Phillip. 

“What makes you so sure?” 

“Well I don’t know if you’ve looked in the mirror lately, Sherlock, but you’re rather fit. Aaron was always rather jealous when he and I were together. A fit bloke like you would have caused an awful argument.”

“You're not bad yourself,” said Sherlock, brushing his hand gently against Phillip’s. He wasn’t sure why he was going so far with this. Phillip had already agreed to help him as much as he could. Sherlock didn’t know what good it would do to lay it on this thick, but he was enjoying himself immensely. Phillip was extremely receptive to his teasing, and his cheeks flushed in a rather adorable way. 

“How is an attractive man like you still single?” asked Phillip, moving his hand closer and grabbing Sherlock’s fingers gently. Sherlock felt his heart rate increase. 

“I-it’s my work,” sputtered out Sherlock, with less finesse than he was used to displaying. “I need to focus on my work. Romantic partners are…. a distraction.”

“Hmm,” said Phillip, thoughtfully. “Distractions can be fun, though.” to emphasize his point, he scooted closer to Sherlock, so that their thighs were touching. Sherlock looked around the room, thankful that John had left the room. He didn’t want John to see this. For some reason, Sherlock wanted to keep whatever was happening here with Phillip as far away from the complications and heartbreak surrounding John as possible. 

Phillip was sitting so close. Sherlock could smell his cologne (Bleu de Chanel), see the contrasting colours of eyes (mostly green, but with specs of hazel and grey). 

Sherlock’s deductive brain took over. There were bags under Phillip’s eyes, suggesting that he wasn’t used to getting more than a few hours of sleep at a time. This combined with the ink-stains on his sleeve and the callouses on the tips of his thumb and forefinger caused Sherlock to deduce that he often stayed up late for work, writing frantically to get his stories finished before deadlines. His face was far smoother than it should be for his age group, suggesting a meticulous skin care routine that started when he was rather young. This suggested that Phillip had long been aware of the potential power of his attractiveness, and that he had worked hard to cultivate it. 

“Distractions are a complication,” said Sherlock, using his thumb to stroke the back of Phillip’s hand gently. His hand was soft. Sherlock imagined that he used a high end lotion, most likely twice daily. 

All of a sudden, Sherlock’s phone buzzed. He detached his hand from Phillip’s and scooted back, as if snapped out of his attraction-fueled haze. It was a text from John. 

Hey, Sherlock. I’m a little too tired and tipsy to drive home tonight. Going to book a room for tonight. JW

Sherlock immediately responded. 

Don’t be ridiculous, you can share mine. SH

It’s a single, though, isn’t it? JW

Sherlock looked up, to where Phillip was standing and reading over his shoulder. Phillip gently slid his hand to Sherlock’s hip. “Let him have the room,” whispered Phillip. “Stay with me tonight.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. He should absolutely say no. Spending the night with Phillip would undeniably prove to be a distraction from the case. However, Sherlock didn’t want to stop feeling the comfortable weight of Phillip’s arm on his hip. Sherlock didn’t think he had ever been touched so gently, with such intention.

“I shouldn’t.” said Sherlock, with a finality he didn't really feel.

“Why not?” asked Phillip. “Is it because of that John Watson fellow? Because I don’t know if you noticed, Sherlock, but he left a while ago. He clearly doesn’t care too much what we get up to.”

“No,” said Sherlock. “I told you. John and I aren’t like that. Never have been.”

“Then what’s holding you back?” asked Phillip.

Sherlock sighed. He knew he should say no, but for once, he wanted it too much to resist. Against his best instincts, he responded to John:

You take the room. Staying with Phillip tonight. SH

Chapter Text

John stared at his phone. He had to stare at the symbols for a while before they morphed into meaningful words, and once they did it took a while before he was able to process the truth of the words he was reading. 

You take the room. Staying with Phillip tonight. SH

John stared into the darkness for a while, blinking, trying to gather his thoughts. 

Part of John felt like it was an unfair trick of the universe that the same day he finally came to terms with how he felt about Sherlock, Sherlock finally broke his pattern and had a romantic encounter. A much larger part of John, however, felt like it was the most fair thing that had ever happened to him. It was what he deserved. After pushing Sherlock away time and time again, he could think of nothing he deserved more than having to watch him date someone else. 

John sat down on the pavement, putting his head in his hands. He had made a mess of so many things. 

He was surprised to find that tears were pooling in his eyes, and he blinked several times, letting them escape down his nose. 

He wished there was someone he could call. The one person who had been there for him through everything, whenever he needed it, was Sherlock. Molly was there too, but now she was on her date. John couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so alone. Even in his hardest moments over the last year he had always had Sherlock, despite how hard John tried to push him away. Tonight he felt like he had no one in the world. He longed for his daughter, just so that he could feel someone in his arms. 

He technically had his sister, but she had been out of his life for so long at this point that there was no way John would turn to her now. Despite all the times she had tried to ease that barrier between them, and tried to get up to open up about this specifically, the truth of the matter was that John and Harry Watson just didn’t get on.

There was only one other person in John’s life that he felt comfortable coming to with these feelings; a woman who was not actually John’s mother, but for all intents and purposes might as well be. Mrs. Hudson. That being said, it was far past her bedtime. Even if she did answer the phone, John didn’t much fancy talking to her about Sherlock’s sex life. 

Alone it was, then. 

John Watson was used to being alone. He had been alone in his childhood, alone when he was invalided from the army, alone after Sherlock died….this wasn’t anything new. 

John stood up. He didn’t know what he would be doing tonight, but he knew he sure as hell wouldn’t be able to sleep. 

His mind briefly considered the possibility that Sherlock was not staying over at Phillip’s for sex after all. Perhaps this was all for the case, just as Sherlock’s “relationship” with Janine had been. Perhaps Sherlock was trying to get Phillip to open up to him about something, and was getting close to him to achieve that end. 

John responded to Sherlock’s text. 

Vatican cameos?

It had been their code phrase for so long, even before Sherlock had died. He hoped that Sherlock would see the question mark and understand what John was trying to ask. Is this part of the case, or is this real?

Sherlock’s response was almost immediate.

Not this time. SH

***

Sherlock and Phillip walked back from the bar side by side, barely speaking. Sherlock felt like his nervousness was radiating off of him in waves, and he wasn’t used to feeling this self-conscious. 

Agreeing to go home with Phillip had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, encouraged by lust and alcohol. However, the crisp evening air was sobering. Sherlock felt out of his depth in more ways than one, and found himself wondering if he would end up regretting this decision. 

Sherlock was a virgin only by the strictest definition of the term. When he was in Serbia, the loneliness had occasionally gotten too much, and Sherlock had found some respite in anonymous and short-lived sexual encounters with men which had satisfied him only in the literal sense. When he came back to London, he had found that he no longer needed that particular outlet. Somehow, being back in the presence of John Watson (even a married John Watson) seemed to satisfy that particular craving. Tonight, however, Sherlock wondered if this might help relieve some of the tension that had been boiling under the surface ever since John had read his letters. 

Phillip was attractive; unbearably so. He was as tall as Sherlock was, and far more muscular. He had a dimpled smile that Sherlock could find no other word for than adorable. His eyes had a rare kindness in them that reminded Sherlock of John, but that was the end of their physical similarities.

He thought of John’s text (Vatican Cameos?) inquiring whether Sherlock’s stay with Phillip was part of a grander plan. He had considered lying to John and telling him that he was staying with Phillip for purely investigative purposes. John would have liked that answer. John often criticised him for playing with people’s hearts for cases, but Sherlock knew that was far closer to what he actually expected of Sherlock. He expected Sherlock to be the version of him he presented to the public: the sociopath; a brain who would stop at nothing to reach its objective. He rarely expected Sherlock to be a man capable of love and hurt, desires and impulses. He hoped he was not letting John down by giving in to his baser instincts for this one night.  

“You alright?” Phillip asked, startling Sherlock out of his reverie. Phillip was giving Sherlock a knowing smile. Sherlock looked up and realised they had arrived at the front door of Phillip’s home. 

“It’s not too late to back out, Sherlock,” said Phillip kindly. “It’s never too late to back out.”

Sherlock forced himself to meet Phillip’s eyes. “I’m not backing out,” he said with a confidence he didn’t quite feel. He smiled, choosing the particular smile that always used to make John’s gaze linger a little longer. It seemed to have its desired effect, because Phillip’s eyes fluttered back and forth between his lips and his eyes. 

“Come on in then,” said Phillip, taking Sherlock’s hand with one hand and using the other to open the door. He led them in, still making eye contact with Sherlock, and shut the door behind them. 

“Here we are,” he whispered, taking Sherlock’s other hand in his free hand and pulling him closer. 

“Here we are.” Sherlock repeated softly. He wondered briefly how to signify to Phillip that he would prefer it if Phillip were to take the lead, but he needn’t have worried. Before he had even finished the thought, Phillip had pulled Sherlock closer and pressed their lips together. 

It was awkward for the briefest of moments. Their teeth clashed together and Sherlock momentarily froze, readjusting to their new relative positions and the feeling of having Phillip’s lips against his own. 

Sherlock recovered quickly however, and began to return the kiss. 

Kissing was one area where Sherlock did have a vast array of experiences. He had kissed many people, many times, mostly for cases. He had trained himself to recognise the signs of pleasure and enjoyment in such situations, and became (if his deductions were correct) a rather adept kisser. 

Sherlock never much cared for kissing, however. It seemed more like a formality in situations such as these. Phillip, however, was as talented in the area as anyone Sherlock had ever kissed. He let himself relax into the sensation, and adjusted his arms so that both his hands were on Phillip’s waist. 

Phillip broke this kiss, looking down at Sherlock with a mischievous grin. “Would you like a drink?” he asked, disentangling himself from Sherlock and heading towards the kitchen. 

Sherlock nodded emphatically. 

“What’s your drink?” 

“Whiskey, neat.” lied Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t drink much, but that had always been John’s drink. The drink reminded him of John, of home, and was thus a comfort to him.

“Copy.” said Phillip, pouring himself and Sherlock a drink. Sherlock noticed that he served himself scotch. Scotch had always been Mycroft’s drink. This similarity did nothing to soften Sherlock’s nerves. 

“Drink,” said Phillip, passing Sherlock the whiskey. Sherlock took a few sips and eagerly awaited the sensation of his nerves being dampened. 

There was a momentary silence as both men drank.  Sherlock thought suddenly of John, and had the irrational feeling that he was cheating on him. Somehow, being here with Phillip felt like a betrayal. He didn’t know how to reconcile that feeling. He knew logically that John was not his and would not care who Sherlock kissed or who he fucked. The emotional part of Sherlock’s brain, however, still considered itself to be John’s through and through. That part of his brain was screaming at him to leave now, to go find John and stay far away from this strange man who did not have a gunshot wound from Afghanistan and did not wear ugly jumpers. 

“I’m not stupid, you know.” said Phillip suddenly. 

“Pardon?” asked Sherlock. 

“I know you’re in love with him. That buddy of yours. James Wilson, or whatever.” 

“ Doctor John Watson.” said Sherlock, defensively, before realising that his correction had rather proved Phillip’s point. 

“Right. That one.” said Phillip knowingly. “I know what you said, earlier. That the two of you aren’t like that. I believe you. But that doesn’t mean you don’t want to be.” 

Sherlock momentarily considered arguing, denying this, but eventually decided it was a moot point. What good did it do to argue this point to someone who so clearly knew the truth? 

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” said Sherlock. “He isn’t interested. It can’t be like that with us. It’s alright. I don’t need that, with him. I’m more than happy with the way things are right now.” 

Of course, in reality there were a lot of things that Sherlock would change about the way things were with John. However, their romantic status was not one of those things that Sherlock needed to change to be happy. Sherlock would be a whole lot happier if he could reverse the damage he did by faking his death, by the death of John’s wife, by accidentally letting John read his therapeutic letters….

“I’ve been there.” said Phillip. "I’m sure every gay man on Earth has been there. Loving a mate who’s straight as an arrow.” 

“That’s John,” said Sherlock. 

“But I know how heartbreaking it can be. I see it on your face every time you look at him, Sherlock. I know how that feels.” 

“Yeah.” Sherlock could think of nothing else to say. After a while, he added “I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable. Being with me like this…knowing how I feel about him.”

Phillip chuckled. “It doesn’t bother me, actually. In fact…I guess you could say I still haven’t completely gotten over Aaron. I think this thing with you is as much a distraction for me as it is for you. You know I haven’t been with anyone else since we broke up?”

“I deduced.” said Sherlock, before realising that it might be misconstrued as a criticism of Phillip’s kissing abilities. “I only mean, I deduced it when you told me about Aaron. That you loved him. Love him, I mean.”

“Yeah,” said Phillip, wistfully. “He was really something, you know? We dated for 6 years. Aside from him, I’ve never been with anyone longer than six months. I really thought he was the one. We had so much in common, at the beginning. We both enjoyed working out and watching the same dumb movies. We both had similar…family issues.” 

“Where did it go wrong?” asked Sherlock.

Phillip shrugged. “The usual way, I suppose. One day we woke up and realised that we would always love each other, but we couldn’t give each other what we needed. Not a new story. But it was hard to come to terms with. We both wanted it to work so badly.” 

“I’m sorry to hear it.” said Sherlock, and found that he really meant it. 

“Tell me about you and John,” said Phillip. 

“He was my flatmate,” started Sherlock. “That’s how we met. Mutual friend introduced us. We became….fast friends. Which is really saying something, because I don’t make friends easily. Or ever. But John was different. He was impressed by my abilities, not disturbed by them. He understood more than anyone else why I needed the work. It took me longer than I’m proud of to realise that I was in love with him. And then I went and wrecked everything by jumping off of a building in front of him.”

“Oh. Right.” said Phillip. “I almost forgot. The world thought you were dead for a while there, didn’t they? I had no idea that included John.”

“It did,” said Sherlock. “And he has never forgiven me for it. But I came back. And he got married.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. That must have been hard.”

“It was alright. I was just happy to be back with him again. Like I said, I really never needed romance from him. His friendship has always been enough. I do mean that. And I liked his wife… at least I did at first. After a while, her past came back to haunt her. She had some skeletons in her closet that neither myself or John were ready to deal with. And one thing led to another, and she died on a case. John blamed me.”

“Was it your fault?” Phillip asked. Sherlock was shocked by Phillip’s bluntness. 

“No,” said Sherlock. He had never admitted this out loud before. “It wasn’t my fault. John had no reason to blame me.”

“Then why did he?”

“It was easier than blaming her. She was dead. It’s always easier to put the dead on a pedestal. Far less complicated that way.” 

“I understand that,” said Phillip. “My brother, Levi, and I….well we always had a complicated relationship. I loved him more than anything, except maybe Aaron. But he was a little shit sometimes.” 

Sherlock laughed, and raised his glass. “To the dead little shits in our life.”

“I’ll cheers to that,” said Phillip. They clinked their glasses together. 

Sherlock felt the familiar sensation of the alcohol starting to cloud his judgement, making him feel more at ease. His worries about betraying John seemed to grow dimmer and dimmer with every sip. He smiled at Phillip. 

“I can help you forget,” said Sherlock. “Forget Aaron. Forget Levi. Forget everything except the feeling of you and I together.” 

Phillip smiled and kissed Sherlock again, chastely. 

“Sounds perfect. And I can help you forget John.”

“Who?” asked Sherlock, pulling Phillip against him. 

***

They made their way into the bedroom. It all felt rather formulaic at first; what with the clean test results exchanged and the quick removal of clothes. Neither of them seemed in the mood to draw this out. They knew what they wanted from each other. No more, no less. 

Phillip finished removing his clothes before Sherlock did (what with the lack of a three piece suit) and Sherlock could not help but admire his body. He was well-toned and had a soft sprinkle of body hair. His cock was still soft, but it was firming up with every item of clothing that Sherlock removed. Phillip’s gaze followed the reveal of Sherlock’s body hungrily, and the attention flattered Sherlock so much that he felt his own cock begin to harden. Sherlock removed his black pants and the two men stood there for a moment, looking each other over. 

Sherlock had never been in this position before; looking at a naked and aroused man in person. His previous dalliances had always happened while at least partially clothed. Sherlock was thankful for the alcohol in his system that eased some of the embarrassment and strengthened his arousal. It felt so intimate to be able to reveal himself in this way and to be accepted and admired. He felt like he finally understood why John craved this so much from all of the daft women he had dated when they lived together. The anticipation of bolder acts was almost euphoric. 

“You’re fucking gorgeous.” said Phillip, approaching Sherlock and placing his hand reverently on his bare waist. “John has no idea what he’s missing out on.” 

“Don’t mention John.” said Sherlock firmly, and he closed the distance between himself and Phillip, placing their mouths together. 

Kissing felt different naked. After a few seconds of their mouths exploring each other, Sherlock felt himself reach full hardness. Phillip palmed his erection gently, and Sherlock whimpered softly. He didn’t know he was capable of making that sound. Phillip’s hand was calloused and large, and Sherlock couldn’t help but push against him, leaning into the touch. Phillip broke off the kiss, placing his head in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, kissing and sucking. 

“Don't,” said Sherlock suddenly. “You’ll leave a mark.” 

“Don’t you want that?” asked Phillip. “Don’t you want him to see evidence of what you and I do together? It could make him jealous.”

“It really couldn’t.” said Sherlock. “It would make him uncomfortable. I’m not doing this to make him jealous, Phillip. I’m doing this to forget.” 

“Fine.” said Phillip, in between soft neck kisses. “Then I guess I’d better make you forget.” and with that, he dropped to his knees. 

Nothing could have prepared Sherlock for the rush of pleasure that came over him when Phillip put his lips gently around the head of his cock. He immediately put his hands to Phillip’s hair, gripping it firmly just to give himself something to hold on to. Phillip let out a groan, and Sherlock immediately let go, feeling bashful. However, Phillip shook his head and grabbed Sherlock’s hands, placing them back in his hair. 

Phillip started to move his mouth back and forth, taking an impressive amount of Sherlock into his mouth. Sherlock watched in wonder, gripping Phillip’s hair tightly and slowly pumping into him. 

Sherlock groaned lightly, unable to resist expressing his pleasure. 

Phillip was excellent at this. The few blowjobs Sherlock had experienced were from men who liked it quick and rough. Phillip, however, seemed to care about drawing it out; using his tongue for extra sensation, slowing down when it looked like Sherlock was getting too overwhelmed. 

After a while, Sherlock noticed that the hand that wasn’t currently massaging the base of Sherlock’s cock was between Phillip’s legs, as Phillip was using it to gently stroke himself. The knowledge that Phillip was getting off to having Sherlock in his mouth was incredibly arousing, and Sherlock felt a spark of desire surge through him. He grabbed Phillip’s hair tighter and began pumping harder. 

“Ah, I’m going to come.” said Sherlock, fucking Phillip’s face hard and fast. Three more thrusts and Sherlock was coming, feeling the sensation start in his lower belly and radiate outward as he shot hot loads down Phillip’s throat. 

Sherlock expected Phillip to pull off, but he sank down even farther as Sherlock began to come, swallowing every drop. 

Eventually, Phillip eased himself off of Sherlock, and resumed fucking his own fist. 

“That was gorgeous, Sherlock,” said Phillip, looking up hungrily at Sherlock’s spent face. 

“Come here,” said Sherlock, taking Phillip’s hand and pulling him up, guiding him to the bed. Phillip fell on his back and Sherlock crouched between his legs, putting his mouth around Phillip. 

Sherlock loved to suck cock. It was by far his favourite of the few sex acts he had experienced, and he often found himself fantasising about it when he touched himself. He loved the salty taste of precome, the stiff feeling of an erect cock pumping between his lips, the erratic motions of a hard cock desperate to come. 

Phillip was clearly close, as he immediately began fucking Sherlock’s face with urgency. Sherlock tried desperately not to think about John, not to imagine that this was John’s cock, John’s desperate cries, John’s hands tangled in his curls; but ultimately he failed. He wondered if John would like his mouth as much as Phillip seemed to, if John would fuck him this relentlessly or if he would be more generous; offering Sherlock words of encouragement and sweet nothings. He figured John probably would be a bit more romantic about receiving oral sex. He felt regretful that he would never get to experience it.

Phillip came without any warning, groaning as he emptied himself into Sherlock’s mouth with three small jerks. 

Sherlock swallowed, pulling off and wiping his mouth. Phillip’s eyes were closed, and it looked like he was just minutes from falling asleep. 

Sherlock collapsed next to him, furious at himself for allowing thoughts of John, but far too sleepy to think about it too much. Before long, he was drifting into a dreamless sleep. 

***

After a half hour of walking aimlessly, John found himself at the carnival. It was not active right now, and the tents were dark and empty. There was no one around, but there was a locked gate preventing people from getting in. However, one did not travel with Sherlock Holmes without learning how to get into locked spaces. John looked for a gap in the security camera coverage and hopped the fence. 

John had no idea what he was doing here. Sherlock wasn’t here, and it wasn’t like John had ever been very good at interpreting evidence without Sherlock there to guide him through his deductions. However, John couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. There was no way he could sleep, knowing that Sherlock was off doing who-knows-what with some other guy. 

John walked around the carnival aimlessly, seeing the empty tents and rides without thinking much about them. He tried to find something suspicious or intriguing, but he came up flat. He knew that if Sherlock were here, he would instantly find a dozen idiosyncrasies to investigate, hundreds of tiny details that would paint a map in Sherlock’s head of exactly what this carnival was like on the days that the victims were threatened. However, John found no such insights. Instead, he wondered bitterly what Sherlock was like as a lover. 

It’s not as if the thought had never occurred to him. John often found himself fantasising about Sherlock; his impressive body, his confident persona, his intense eye contact. However, he had no idea what Sherlock was like with a partner. Did he take control? Did he submit? Was he vocal, or was he quiet and efficient? John found he had no idea what the answer to any of those questions could be. 

If anyone had asked John 24 hours ago, John would have supposed that Sherlock had no sexual experience whatsoever. He always seemed to be uncomfortable when the conversation around sex came up, and he certainly had never brought any lovers home when John and Sherlock had lived together. 

However, now John wondered whether that had been due to celibacy (as John had assumed) or due to a hope on Sherlock’s part that he and John might progress from friends to something more. The thought made John feel like an ignorant arse. 

He wondered what he would have done back then, if Sherlock had propositioned him for sex. John’s first instinct would probably have been to say no, what with John’s insistence to deny his long-standing homosexual feelings. However, John couldn’t imagine that he would have been able to resist for long if gorgeous, fascinating Sherlock had offered to touch him. John figured he probably would have agreed pretty quickly. 

Thinking back on it, John felt like a complete moron for insisting that he had been straight his whole life. Now that John had accepted his attraction to Sherlock, it made some other things in his past make a little more sense. It explained his love and attachment to Sholto, his strong feelings for some of his rugby mates, and his regular homosexual porn-viewing habits. 

The feeling resembled the feeling one has when reaching a particularly well-executed plot twist in a book or film. Once the last key bit of information has been revealed, the audience looks back on the entire story and all of a sudden everything falls into place, and the real story is evident. The audience feels like a complete moron for missing the parts of the story that now feel as obvious as ever. 

Eventually, John noticed hushed voices coming from one of the tents at the far end of the carnival. The voices were deep and male, and one of them seemed to be quite agitated. John approached slowly, stepping quietly to mask his footsteps. Eventually, he got close enough to overhear. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be dealing with this? There are cops and detectives all over my carnival. It’s not a good look for us.” 

“I told you, dad, that bringing this stuff into the carnival would be dangerous.”

“I made one bad decision, son. One! I thought we could trust Carla. She owed me her entire career.”

“Well, maybe you’re not as good of a judge of character as you thought.”

“How about you, hmm? That boyfriend of yours, hanging around that detective all the time. Have you seen that detective in the news? He’s absolutely brilliant, and solves loads of impossible mysteries. What’s that lover boy of yours doing bringing him around here?”

“Phillip thinks he’s helping.” said the softer voice, sounding exasperated. “Levi was his brother, dad. He wants to know who killed him.” 

“Well then tell him some lie and get him and that detective to lay off!” 

“I have been,” said Aaron. “Phillip asked for a list of carnival visitors and I edited the list for him, not including you or Damien or Charles in this list of visitors. They can’t be considered suspects if they were never here! But he also asked for video footage. I’m not sure how much longer I can play the resentful ex-boyfriend angle and ignore his requests.”

John drew in a sharp breath. From the sound of it, he was listening to a conversation between Phillip’s ex-boyfriend and his ex-boyfriend’s father, both of whom seemed to be in on whatever was going on at this carnival. 

He took out his phone and dialled Sherlock, hoping that Sherlock still had his phone near him. The phone rang and rang, but Sherlock didn’t pick up. John felt a surge of annoyance that he recognized was inappropriate. Sherlock always answered his phone on cases, no matter the hour. John let himself wonder jealously what he was currently doing with Phillip that caused him to be so distracted that he wouldn’t answer his phone at such an important moment. 

Broke into the carnival , typed John quickly. Overhearing conversation between Phillip’s ex and his father, they seem to be in on it. Aaron is purposefully giving you incorrect information. Vatican Cameos, get here quickly!

He hit send. 

He waited for a few moments, hoping Sherlock would immediately respond. He had no such luck. He sighed and walked a few steps closer to the tent, hoping he could hear more useful information. Aaron and his father seemed to have stopped talking. John got even closer. 

“Why hello there. Who might you be?” a voice asked, and John tensed once he realised that the voice was coming from immediately behind him. 

Fuck , John thought to himself. He was far too rusty at all of this sneaking around business. 

He started to turn around, but before he had a chance he felt a dull pressure against his head and everything went dark. John collapsed. 

***

John opened his eyes, and it took him a while to adjust to his surroundings. His back was killing him, and John realised it must be because of the hard Earth under his back. He must be lying on the ground. His head was killing him. That would be the hangover. 

He looked around him. It seemed like he was in one of the tents from the carnival, but he couldn’t tell if it was the same tent he had been eavesdropping outside. There were no decorations or furniture in the tent aside from a single table and a few chairs, where three men were sitting and staring at him. 

John sat up at once. He considered making a run for it until he realised that one of the men was holding a pistol. 

“Who are you?” asked one of the men, who looked like he was the oldest one. From his voice, John could tell that he was Aaron’s father. 

John tried to think of a convincing lie. 

“Greg,” he said, trying to sound sure of himself. “Greg Morstan.”

“Then why does your driver’s licence say John Watson?”

John almost chucked. That was a fairly obvious trick, he supposed. “Why are you going through my things?” he asked, annoyed. 

“I googled you.” one of the other men said (Aaron, from the sound of his voice). “John Watson is the blogger of that Sherlock Holmes fellow. The bloke that Phillip hired to poke around. Is that what you’re doing? Poking around?"

“Trespassing is more like it,” interjected the father. "Why are you trespassing on my property?”

“We have a warrant. Sherlock and I.” John lied, relying on the confidence of a military captain. “And I’ve found some pretty damning evidence. I suggest letting me go, if you don’t want to be arrested.”

“Liar.” said the father with a sneer. “You haven’t found shit. You know how I know that? Because there’s no shit to find here.”

“If that were true,” said John cooly, “then you wouldn’t have knocked me unconscious and gone through my wallet just because you caught me on your property. And now you’re pointing a gun to me. Sorry to say, boys, but you’re certainly not the picture of innocence right now.” 

John felt his courage returning to him. If Aaron and his father were still trying to claim they had nothing to hide, that certainly made it seem less likely that they were planning on shooting him. In John’s experience, criminals were much more honest when they saw you as a dead man walking. 

Aaron gulped. “What do you know?” he asked. 

“Not enough to incriminate you. Not yet.” said John. “But I’d advise you to let me go. Kidnapping doesn’t look good to a Jury.”

At this, Aaron and his father turned to each other, sharing exasperated looks. The third man cleared his throat. 

“This could be what we’ve been looking for,” said the man in a gruff voice. “A way to make that detective lay off.”

Aaron and his father looked up at the third man, curious. 

“When Sherlock figures out that his blogger has gone missing, he’ll come looking for him,” the man said. “That’s an easy way to get both of them in the same place. Once Sherlock Holmes is here, we can….take care of him.” 

The meaningful look that Aaron gave his father had John reevaluating the earlier conclusion he had drawn about these men not having murderous intentions. He gulped. This was not the first time he had been kidnapped as blackmail for Sherlock Holmes. 

John wished now that he hadn’t texted Sherlock about the conversation he had heard. If Sherlock had woken up and noticed that John was gone, his first assumption would probably be to think that John had gone home to Rosie. Then he would probably go on with the case like normal, instead of dropping everything to find him. However, John had texted Sherlock the exact place of his kidnapping, and given him the exact names of his kidnappers. He wished Sherlock would have the sense to come with some backup, but knowing Sherlock that likely wasn’t the case. 

If Sherlock got killed due to John’s idiocy, John would never forgive himself. 

***

When Sherlock woke up, there were several sensations that were unfamiliar to him. The first was the sunlight creeping in through the blinds. Sherlock almost never slept long enough to see the sunrise. The second was the hard cock pressed firmly against his backside. 

Phillip was sleepily dragging his erection across Sherlock’s arse, leaving a trail of precome on Sherlock’s back. 

Sherlock was instantly hard. He pushed his arse back against Phillip, encouraging his thrusts, and put his hand to his cock, stroking himself firmly. 

Phillip let out a groan that sounded almost pained, and then grabbed Sherlock’s waist firmly, grinding against him firmly. 

“I love your arse,” whispered Phillip. “I wish I had given it a bit more attention last night.” Sherlock whimpered in response, fisting himself harder. 

“I’ll take care of that, thank you.” said Phillip, snaking his hand around Sherlock’s waist and batting away his hand to replace it with his own. 

Phillip’s hand on him felt marvellous, and Sherlock let himself bask in the sensation for a little while. He pistoned his hips back and forth, forward to meet Phillip’s firm strokes and backwards to feel the rough glide of Phillip’s erection against him. 

However, the friction was starting to get uncomfortable. 

“Do you have…” Sherlock started to ask, but Phillip seemed to be one step ahead of him. He leaned away for a brief second, opening the drawer on his left and pulling out a small bottle of lubricant. Phillip coated his hand with it, and Sherlock heard the slick sounds of him fisting himself for a while, covering his cock in lube. Phillip lay back down next to him and resumed his motions, grinding against Sherlock’s arse while reaching around to fist him.

“Do you want to…like this?” asked Phillip breathlessly, and the implicit question was clear. Is this how Sherlock wanted to come? Or did he want more? 

Sherlock let himself fantasise for the briefest moment of how it would feel to have Phillip lube up his fingers and enter him slowly and gently, preparing him for Phillip’s cock. The thought was incredibly arousing, and caused Sherlock to buck up against Phillip’s hand. However, Sherlock knew that as turned on as he was, he still didn’t want to go that far with Phillip. 

Phillip was nice. Phillip was reasonably clever. Phillip was safe. Phillip was not, however, someone Sherlock could love. For that reason, he wanted to keep this to the slightly less intimate acts. At least for today.

“Like this,” said Sherlock, turning around and placing himself on top of Phillip. He placed his cock carefully on top of Phillip’s, and started to thrust against him. 

Both men groaned at the slick friction of their cocks rubbing together. Sherlock had never felt a hard cock against his own, and the feeling was rather indescribable. He placed his hands on Phillip’s waist for leverage and thrust against him with abandon. 

Phillip was panting, digging his hands into Sherlock’s arse, squeezing and kneading. 

“I’m not going to last,” breathed Phillip and Sherlock had barely enough time to whisper “neither am I” before Phillip was spurting all over his own stomach. 

The feelings of Phillip’s cock erupting under him pushed Sherlock over the edge, and he came, watching with wonder as his cum splayed all over Phillip’s stomach and cock. 

Phillip covered in cum was a delightful sight, and Sherlock filed away the sight in his mind palace for future wank sessions. 

“Thank you,” said Phillip, softly, leaning over the bed to pick up a blanket that he used to wipe both of them off. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, repeating the sentiment. "That was....nice." 

In the harsh morning light, and the afterglow of their orgasms, Sherlock felt awkward. In the haze of alcohol, this had all felt so natural. Now, Sherlock couldn't quite think of what to say. 

Sherlock looked at the clock on the side of Phillip’s head. 6 AM. He had been asleep for about 4 hours, which was far longer than he usually slept on cases. He looked around for his phone, but he must have left it in his jacket pocket. He sighed, and got out of bed and started to put on his clothes. He transitioned his thoughts back to the case, and started thinking about all of the investigative work he needed to complete. 

“What’s the plan for today?” asked Phillip. 

“Did Aaron respond?” asked Sherlock, ignoring Phillip’s inquiry. “Did he send you the video footage?”

Phillip checked his phone. 

“No,” said Phillip, frowning. “He never responded.” 

Sherlock could tell by Phillip’s expression that this was difficult for him, being shut out by Aaron. Sherlock could relate. After Mary died and John had shut him out, Sherlock had felt unmoored, like his heart no longer had anything tethered to it. 

“I’m going to go find John,” said Sherlock. “He and I have some interviews to conduct today. You should find Aaron. Text me if you convince him to help us. Maybe lay it on thick, offer to suck him off. You’re quite good at it.” Sherlock winked. 

Phillip preened, straightening his back and smirking from the bed. 

“See you later, Sherlock,” he said, as Sherlock put on his phone and walked out the door. 

He took out his phone. 

One missed call, one missed text. Both from John. 

Broke into the carnival . Overhearing conversation between Aaron and his father, they seem to be in on it. Aaron is purposefully giving you incorrect information. Vatican Cameos, get here quickly!

The text was from four hours ago, around the time that he and Phillip had fallen asleep. Sherlock immediately called John back, and was unsurprised when John didn’t respond. 

He broke into a run. Maybe John had gone back to the hotel room, he thought to himself, barely daring to hope. 

As he expected, the hotel room was empty. There was no sign that John had even been here at all, no wet towels or toothbrushes, no mussed sheets. Sherlock hated himself. How could he have let himself get so distracted on a case? This was why he didn't do these things. This was why he shut himself off from food, from drink, from sex while he was working. He should have known better. 

Sherlock broke into a run towards the carnival. He had to find John. 

Chapter Text

Sherlock refused to let fear paralyse him at this moment. John was gone. John was, in all likelihood, in trouble. John would need Sherlock at his most cunning, his most unshakeable. Sherlock had already finished dialling Phillip’s mobile before the hotel disappeared from his peripheral vision. 

“Sherlock?” Phillip asked after only three rings, his voice careful and hesitant. He must think that Sherlock was calling about them, about what had happened between them last night. Idiot , thought Sherlock, unkindly, before remembering himself. He needed Phillip, today.

 “I was just about to get ready for work.” Phillip said. “What is it?”

“Can you be a little late today?” asked Sherlock, fully aware of the unsteadiness in his voice. He cleared his throat. “I have….I have a lead on the case. I need your help.”

Phillip sighed. “I…I suppose I could. Meet me back here?”

“I’m on my way.” said Sherlock, hanging up and sprinting back to Phillip’s.  

Five minutes later, Sherlock was back in Phillip’s house. Sherlock’s urgency was able to mask the awkwardness at being back in each other’s presence in the judgemental light of day. 

“John’s gone.” Sherlock said simply, taking a seat on Phillip’s couch and putting his head in his hands. He rubbed his temples gently, thinking. 

“Gone?” asked Phillip. “He left?” 

“I don’t think so.” said Sherlock, and showed Phillip the text from John. 

Broke into the carnival . Overhearing conversation between Aaron and his father, they seem to be in on it. Aaron is purposefully giving you incorrect information. Vatican Cameos, get here quickly!

“He sent this last night while we were sleeping. I tried to call him this morning, and there was no response. He’s not in our hotel room either. No sign that he was ever there. I’m worried that Aaron hurt him.” 

Phillip swallowed, his eyes narrowed. “Aaron can’t be involved in this, Sherlock. He just can’t.”

“You’re speaking out of sentiment .” derided Sherlock, louder than he intended to, realising a moment too late that Phillip was wincing at his tone. Sherlock took a deep breath, trying to calm his voice. 

 “As of now, all the evidence points to the fact that Aaron is very much involved in this. I need your help. You know how I feel about John. I can not let him get hurt. Now. Tell me everything you know about Aaron and his father. Make it quick.” 

Phillip shook his head, still wincing slightly at the anger in Sherlock’s voice. Sherlock was fully aware of the whiplash Phillip must be feeling at the contrast between Sherlock last night: unsure, shy, vulnerable, lonely….to the Sherlock of this moment: cold, focused, unfeeling. He had put on the mask that he often returned to in order to do what he needed to do; to puzzle solve, to keep himself occupied, to keep himself safe….but now he returned to it because there was no other way to find the man who made living seem like more than just a chore.

“I’m sorry Sherlock, but… Levi was one of the victims. Levi . My brother. Aaron and Levi always got on well. In fact… Levi always seemed to like him even better than he liked me . I can’t imagine Phillip being involved in my brother’s death. I just can’t.”

Sherlock sighed. “What about his father? He owns the carnival, yes?”

Phillip nodded. “His father. Nathan Garrideb. He and Aaron always had a…rather tense relationship. Nathan didn’t like that Aaron dropped out of film school, but he gave him a job at the carnival and that seemed to…ease tensions a little.” 

Sherlock nodded, standing up and pacing back and forth while resting the tips of his fingertips on his chin. “And what was their financial situation? The Garridebs?”

Phillip shrugged. “Not great. The carnival makes a good amount of money, but you know how it is with things like that. It's seasonal. So Nate has a hard time pulling in money during the off-season. His wife passed away a while back, and so it’s just Nate and Aaron running things. And Aaron has a sister, Bridget. She was doing alright on her own for a while, she owns a car parts shop. But then she got a divorce and almost lost her shop, and Nate had to help out. Ever since then, they’ve been struggling. That was a real strain on my relationship, if I’m being honest. I’m doing alright for myself and I think Aaron was….well, I think he was jealous.” 

“Okay.” said Sherlock, getting up and starting to pace around the room. “Think. Think! Carnival owners struggling with money. Mysterious threats to carnival goers via a psychic…Phillip, does anyone in the Garrideb family drive a lorry by any chance?”

“No.” said Phillip at first, and then tilted his head slightly. “Well, actually, Aaron’s cousin Damien does,” said Phillip. “Quiet bloke. I’ve never really spoken to him, but he seems nice enough. He used to be a security guard at a local pub, but he went to prison for a few years and hasn’t been able to get any other work except as a supply driver for a supermarket. But he doesn’t work at the carnival…and you can’t seriously think that Damien was the one who killed those people?” 

“I don’t know. It’s just a theory,” said Sherlock. “I have several theories, and I am so far not convinced of any of them. But I need to understand as much as I can about this family and their connections to this case before I try to find John. No tidbit of information you give me could be too much. Why did Damien go to prison?”

Phillip sighed. “It wasn’t a big deal. He was a bit of a kleptomaniac as I understand it. But he wouldn’t hurt anyone, Sherlock.”

“I never said he would.” snapped Sherlock. “Now tell me about the rest of the family. Aaron. Any problems with the law?” 

“Aaron didn’t take John.” said Phillip, firmer this time. “He could never hurt anyone. He’s kind, Aaron is. Gentle.” 

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, begging Phillip to shut up. He had a profound sense of longing for John, who never questioned Sherlock’s thought process, even if it meant that someone he loved was guilty of something terrible. He remembered calling John the night that Mary had shot him. 

***

Sherlock was already in Leinster Gardens, the morphine by his side slowly starting to wear off, but not yet dull enough for the pain to be distracting. He had ignored dozens of phone calls, most of them from Mycroft, but everyone from Molly Hooper to Mrs. Hudson had been ringing. John had only rang once. He seemed to understand, unlike everyone else, that if Sherlock wasn’t responding to their attempts to contact them that must mean he didn’t want to be found. Clever John. 

Now, however, he had his plan all set in motion (a projector was placed strategically in a window across the street, ready to display Mary’s face on the wall the moment that it became necessary). Which meant it was time to call John. 

John didn’t pick up on the first ring. That was unexpected. Sherlock expected John to be as anxious to hear from him as everyone else in his life seemed to be. When he did finally pick up the phone, his voice was hesitant. 

“...Sherlock?”

It made Sherlock wonder whether John had started to suspect the truth himself. Sherlock wouldn’t put it past him. He was, after all, not always an idiot. Not to mention the conveniently placed bottle of Clair de la Lune that he hoped John had noticed by now. 

“John.” said Sherlock, careful to keep any emotion from his voice. “Where are you right now? Who are you with?”

“I’m at Baker Street,” said John. “With Mrs. Hudson. Where the hell are you?”

“Is Mary with you?” Sherlock asked. 

More hesitation. 

“....No.”

Ah. Yes. John did know, then. Or at least suspect. 

“I need you to come here at once, John.” said Sherlock, after giving John the address. “I need to tell you something. And it’s not going to be pleasant to hear.”

“It was her who shot you, then?” asked John. His voice was the firm and unflinching voice of Captain Watson. Sherlock imagined him standing with his chin at attention, body braced for combat. 

“Yes.” said Sherlock. “But I don’t expect you to believe me. Meet me here and I’ll prove it to you.” 

“Alright,” said John, simply. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” 

***

Now, sitting in Phillip’s home, Sherlock wondered how he had messed up so much that John no longer trusted him without question. He had made so many mistakes with John, and John had forgiven so much. Sherlock supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that John eventually reached his breaking point. 

Suddenly, Phillip’s mobile rang. Phillip made eye contact with Sherlock for a moment before picking it up and looking at the caller ID.

Aaron Garrideb. 

***

John sat on the ground, staring at his captors. Aaron still had a gun vaguely pointed at him, but he seemed wrapped up in his discussion with his father. 

“Maybe we should just start to accept the fact that he’s not coming.” said the third man, who John had since learned was called Damien, who had a remarkable resemblance to Aaron, though slightly more muscular. “It’s been three hours.”

“He’ll come,” said Aaron firmly. “Don’t you read the papers? The whole world is convinced that these two blokes,” he used the gun to gesture vaguely towards John “are shagging. There’s no way he’d just let him go missing.”

“He might have a hard time finding us,” said Aaron’s father. 

“Isn’t he supposed to be brilliant?” asked Damien. “I think that if he wanted to find us, we’d be found. I think it might be time to accept the fact that Sherlock doesn’t care as much about this bloke as we thought.” 

John rolled his eyes. He had come to realise that these three men were, as criminals went, quite stupid. They clearly didn’t have much of a plan. 

“Maybe you should call that lover boy of yours.” Aaron’s father said, gruffly, to his son. “Find out if he knows where Sherlock is.”

“I’m not calling Phillip,” said Aaron, firmly. “I don’t want to talk to him.”

“Please be reasonable, son,” said his father. “Do you see how precarious of a situation this is? We have a hostage , Aaron. Get over your hurt feelings and give him a ring.”

Aaron sighed dramatically, and picked up his phone. 

“Aaron.” John heard Phillip’s voice through the speakers. 

“Phillip. You…you asked me about getting video surveillance footage? Of the carnival? For that detective fellow?”

“Oh. Yes. Sherlock.” said Phillip. 

John’s stomach churned, thinking about the way Sherlock’s name sounded in Phillip’s voice. He hated thinking about the two of them together. He hated the fact that Sherlock’s (hopefully) one night stand was bothering him at a moment when he was being held hostage. 

“I was thinking ....maybe you could have Sherlock meet me at the carnival this morning. I can give him everything I have?” 

“Right.” said Phillip. “Right! Sherlock and I can head over there right now.” 

“No!” said Aaron, a panicked edge to his voice. “No! Just Sherlock.” 

Phillip was silent for a moment, during which time Aaron’s father and Damien rolled their eyes and nudged Aaron, annoyed. 

“You really don’t wanna see me, huh?” Phillip said, his voice cross. “Even for this? Attempting to solve the crime that took place around your father’s carnival?”

John watched Aaron close his eyes and take a slow breath, trying to calm his voice. “I’m just not ready to see you yet.” Phillip said, trying to sound flippant. “Just send Sherlock. I won’t help him if you come.”

Phillip sighed dramatically on the other end of the line. 

“Fine. I’ll send just Sherlock.” said Phillip. “Although you should know…he and I are sort of….seeing each other. I just…thought you should know. Before the two of you work together. Because anything you tell him, he’ll just turn around and tell me anyway.” 

Aaron clenched the phone tight in his fist and closed his eyes. 

“Ah.” he said. “Fine. good. Well I’ll….see him later, I suppose. Still just him. I don’t care if he tells you afterwards, I still don’t want to see you.”

Aaron hung up the phone forcefully, and his face was white. 

Damien gestured to John. “So I guess we were wrong about those two.” he said. “Seems like Sherlock’s taste is rather similar to yours, Aaron.” 

“Fuck off, Damien.” said Aaron, snarling. 

John blanched. Sort of seeing each other? He hated the way Phillip had phrased it, as if his connection to Sherlock was as commonplace and unremarkable as any grade school romance or casual connection. Didn’t he realise he was in a privileged position that many men and women had coveted? Didn’t he realise that the man in his bed was Sherlock Holmes, the most remarkable man in the world, the first thing John thought about every morning, the last face he pictured before falling asleep? 

John thought, bitterly, about Phillip. In many ways, he was actually quite similar to John. They were both writers, only Phillip’s writing was more professional and polished whereas John’s writing was a poorly written, overly romanticised blog. They were both able to deal with Sherlock, and they both took a liking to him right away. They even looked somewhat similar. When John thought about Phillip, it was as if he was thinking of a better, more polished version of himself. He was not used to that feeling. 

He pictured a life where Sherlock and Phillip lived together in Baker Street, running off to solve crimes together and fighting about who did the shopping. In this life, he pictured himself, living alone with Rosie and only visiting a couple times a month. The thought made him want to throw up in his mouth. 

***

Sherlock looked pointedly at Phillip. “Do you believe me now?” asked Sherlock. “Aaron wants me to come, alone , to see him at the carnival. After completely ignoring your requests for help over the last 24 hours. Clearly, he has John and he wants me to come so that he can finish off the both of us.”

Phillip put his head in his hands. “I just don’t understand,” said Phillip. “Why would Aaron be so determined that I should stay here?”

“He probably wants to protect you,” said Sherlock, impatient. “I reckon he plans to kill me when I arrive. Keeping you away keeps you ignorant of his role in all of this, keeps you from becoming an accomplice.” 

Phillip shook his head. “I don’t believe you.”

“Come with me, then,” said Sherlock. “Come with me and we’ll see how innocent this ex-boyfriend of yours really is.” 

He was losing patience with Phillip. This is why he didn’t get involved in situations such as these. Men often seemed clever and interesting upon first interaction, and then lost all appeal as soon as an interesting case made them fall apart. All except for John. 

“Alright. Let’s go.” said Phillip. 

“And why did you tell him we were…seeing each other?” scoffed Sherlock. “We both know that’s not the truth of it.” 

Phillip sighed. “I just didn’t want him to make it awkward by talking to you about the way things ended between us. He’s not always the most tactful bloke. I figured, if he thought you and I were together, he might be a little more careful about what he says about me.”

“Of course. And you wanted to make him jealous.” Sherlock accused. 

“Alright, fine,” said Phillip. “I wanted to make him jealous. But can you blame me?”

“You should be less worried about whether your ex-boyfriend gets jealous at the idea of the two of us spending time together, and more worried about whether Aaron intends to murder us.” breathed Sherlock. 

“He won’t murder us.” said Phillip, exasperated, and went to get his coat. “Come on, let’s go. I have a feeling I know where they are.”

***

John sat with his arms crossed, waiting for Sherlock, trying to ignore his complicated feelings about Sherlock and Phillip and was trying to focus on looking for weaknesses in his captor’s defences. They only had one gun between the three of them, and based on the way Damien was holding it, John was pretty sure he had very little experience with guns. Aaron was pacing back and forth, clearly anxious about something. John wondered whether he was anxious about the murder he was threatening to commit, or the fact that his boyfriend seemed to be seeing someone else. John would put his money on the latter, especially since John’s own feelings seemed to be hung up on that exact same concept. The alcohol was feeding his irritation like gasoline to a flame, and every moment he spent thinking about it made him more and more unhappy.

John was still lost in thoughts of what Phillip and Sherlock could have possibly done together when the flap to the tent suddenly burst open, and Phillip and Sherlock came sprawling in. 

It happened almost too fast to see. Sherlock confidently strolled right to Damien and put him in a headlock, effortlessly wrestling the gun from his hands. Phillip stood behind them awkwardly, clearly not knowing what exactly his role should be in all of this. John's irritation evaporated, and couldn’t help but grin stupidly, seeing the sheer competency of the man he now realised he was in love with. 

Sherlock made eye contact with him and momentarily looked confused at the dopey look on John’s face, before returning to business. 

“So. You must be Nathan Garrideb?” he asked impatiently, pointing the gun at the oldest of the three men, Aaron’s father. 

“What’s it to you?” asked Aaron’s father, but John noticed that his tone was a lot less confident than it had been only minutes ago, before a gun had been pointed at him. 

“I must admit, this case has certainly been enjoyable.” said Sherlock, pompously. “I do applaud you for that. And thank you. It has been getting dreadfully boring.”

“What are you on about?” asked Aaron, his eyes narrowed. He turned to Phillip. “What are you doing here? I thought I told you to stay away.” 

If Aaron was trying to maintain an icy exterior, he was failing horribly. His eyes softened almost immediately when he looked at Phillip, with an expression that John recognised all too well. Aaron was looking at Phillip the way John himself looked at Sherlock anytime Sherlock got himself into a dangerous situation (which was, frankly, all the time). 

“I had to see what was going on.” said Phillip, his voice equally soft. It made a part of John smug to see the contrast between the way Phillip spoke to Aaron and the way he spoke to Sherlock. Phillip clearly was still gone on his ex-boyfriend. If John had been a slightly kinder man, he would feel bad for Sherlock for dating someone who so clearly preferred someone else.  

“Nothing is going on,” said Aaron, but his face was pale. 

“I’ll tell you what’s going on.” said Sherlock, smugly. “It took me a while to find all the missing pieces, but I’ve finally cracked it. Mostly.” He turned to John. 

John met Sherlock’s eyes and smiled lightly. He knew this dance well. The push and pull of the two of them; Sherlock explaining, John questioning. It was part performance, part love language, part intimacy. Here, in these moments, it seemed easy to ignore everything else driving a wedge between them; the lies, the secrets, the deaths both real and fake. Here they were the legends of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Nothing more, nothing less. 

“Allow me to explain, John. This is Nate Garrideb. He owns this carnival, has for a long time. But it hasn’t been making as much money as he was hoping it would. He and his family have been struggling, financially, for years. Nate had a brilliant idea to diversify their business ventures by opening up their carnival for a large scale crime operation. I’m partial to the idea that they used it for drug smuggling, but I’m not counting out the possibility of sex trafficking. A carnival! Full of mysterious acts, such that a passerby watching seedy behaviour wouldn’t think to question them. Contraband could be snuck in disguised as a special herb for the psychic tent, or a special new concession for the snack cart. Drugs could be distributed in large quantities in disguise as souvenirs. It was the perfect idea to make some extra cash! So Nate here called up his nephew, Damien, who he knew had a history with drugs. Damien recruited some of his former contacts to come work in the carnival with him. It was your standard crime ring. But where everything went wrong was Carla. She was a bit too smart for her own good.”

“Carla?” asked John. “You mean the psychic?”

“Precisely, John.” said Sherlock, with a twinkle in his eye (did Sherlock’s eyes twinkle like that with Phillip? Naked? John felt sick).

“I heard him,” started John, gesturing vaguely to Nate, “say that he made a mistake trusting Carla. Do you think she was in on it?”

 Sherlock shrugged.  “Possibly. Looking at public records, it seems Carla has worked with Nate for over three decades. It’s possible that he requested her help for something, assuming her loyalty to him was unwavering. Or, perhaps, she began to notice little things here and there. We may never know for sure, as she’s dead, but we can speculate. Maybe she noticed a nice new car that her colleagues absolutely should not have been able to afford. Maybe she noticed, as Mrs. Andrews did, that certain colleagues were spending more money on every day expenses like take-out, clothes, drinks at the pub. Or perhaps that some of them who seemed to have nothing else in common had started to become rather chummy.”

“Alright.” said John, following. “So Carla realises that the carnival workers were involved in…something illegal. So does she…threaten the criminals then?” 

“Hard to say,” said Sherlock. “But I think she at the very least made them aware that she knew what they were doing.” 

John nodded. “Alright, so these drug smugglers…people smugglers….whatever they are… come to the carnival to get their regular pickup of supplies, they go into Carla’s tent just for fun, she tells them that she’s very aware of what they’re doing and threatens to….I don’t know, tell the police or something? Then the drug smugglers freak out, but when their loved ones ask them what’s wrong they can’t say anything. So instead, they say that they’re upset because the psychic predicted something horrible about them. Namely, their death.”

“Precisely, John.” said Sherlock, a familiar glint in his eye. 

“Well that still doesn’t answer all the questions, now, does it?” asked John. “How did they die?”

Sherlock tips his head to the side, pointing at Damien. 

“This guy here.” said Sherlock. “I recognised him as soon as I came into this tent. Damien Kent. One of the only licensed lorry drivers in Fendry. I got Lestrade to send me a list of all of the registered lorry drivers in the area, I had a feeling it would come in handy…and sure enough, it has. Not only is Damien Kent licensed to drive a lorry, but he also is the nephew of one Nathan Garrideb.”

“Brilliant!” said John, and he felt a flush come to his cheeks. He felt as if he were wearing his heart on his sleeve. Is this what everyone else saw, all of those times that he praised Sherlock in front of all of those people? He wondered if it was as clear to Sherlock as it had been to everyone else.  

Damien, Aaron, and Nate were all standing in the corner, glaring at Sherlock. None of them seemed to know what to say. Damien’s eyes flitted back and forth from the gun to Sherlock, as if trying to find a way to trick Sherlock into releasing it. 

Phillip was staring at Sherlock with something that seemed to tow the line between disgust and deep sadness. 

“So what are you saying?” asked Phillip. “That Damien….killed these people? Each of them?”

Sherlock turned to Damien. “Might as well let him explain,” he said to Damien. 

Damien glared. “You know nothing!” he said to Sherlock, his voice deep. If he was afraid, he didn’t show it. “What a quack. This is the guy you hired, Phillip? He’s accusing me of murder just because I drive a lorry? It’s classist, if you ask me. Driving is my job . I do it to provide for my family. Not because I’m some…con man.” 

“You’re right.” said Sherlock, softly. “You’re right, Damien. You didn’t kill these people. Why would you? You had nothing on the line. You didn’t work at the carnival, so it was unlikely that Carla even knew you. Thus, she provided very little threat to you. You were part of Nate’s scheme, sure, but what harm would befall you if it was found out? You’ve been to prison. You likely aren’t too scared of going back there.” 

Damien’s eyes widened, he relaxed slightly. He was looking at Sherlock as if he were both impressed and horrified that Sherlock was seeing through him so easily. 

Sherlock seemed to take Damien’s silence as confirmation. He continued. 

“No. The person who killed all of the victims was someone who was not, in fact, a licensed lorry driver…but looked enough like a well known one that he wouldn’t be stopped before he accomplished what he needed to do. Someone whose world would crash and burn if he were put in prison, perhaps because he had unfinished business here in Fendry…such as a relationship that ended before both members found closure, or the dream of a yet-unpursued film career. Someone who would panic when he found out what Carla was doing, and would kill all of the people she suspected just to get rid of weak links. Who then would turn around and kill Carla, to finally end it forever and be able to go back to his normal life.” 

John looked at Phillip, whose eyes had become wide, face turned pale, a look of deep distrust on his features. 

“You think Aaron killed all of those people?”

“All of these murders were classified as hit-and-runs,” said Sherlock. “All happened in the middle of the night, with no witnesses, and all of them occurred on streets too small to be monitored by CCTV. The drivers have never been found. Which isn’t that unusual for a small town like this. Hit-and-runs are quite common. It’s hard to hide a crime like this, however. Often, deadly head-on-collisions will also do significant damage to the offending vehicle. It’s quite hard to hide damage to a company-owned, 18 tonne vehicle. Quite hard to get away with. But it just so happens that Aaron’s sister is a mechanic. Unless I am very much mistaken, Aaron stole Damien’s vehicle night after night, committed a murder, returned to his sister’s practice where she would make the vehicle look good as new, and then return it to Damien. Your guess is as good as mine as far as how much Damien actually knew about what Aaron was getting up to.”

Aaron spoke up from the corner. “Don’t listen to him, Phillip!” said Aaron. “What does this guy know? He has no proof!”

Sherlock sighed. “No.” he said. “No proof. Congratulations, the three of you successfully apprehended my investigation by kidnapping John. But I’m sufficiently convinced. I’ve already called my good friend Greg Lestrade from Scotland Yard and he’s on his way. I suspect that if he were to pull the CCTV footage, he would see multiple occasions in which young Aaron Garrideb here steals Damien’s lorry within hours of the time the collisions were supposed to have occurred. I also believe that if you look at the inventory of Bridget Garrideb’s shop, you would see quite a few unaccounted for replacement parts that have disappeared. Greg Lestrade is on his way. It shouldn’t be hard to prove my story.”

Phillip’s eyes were narrowed at Aaron. 

“You killed my brother.” he said, his voice sounding empty. “I loved you. And you killed Levi.” 

“Levi was a mess, Phil!” Aaron shouted, suddenly. “He was a hopeless addict. He swore to you time and time again that he would clean up his act, and then he started smuggling drugs for my father! He was so hopeless at it that he clued in one of our most law-abiding patrons, who then took it upon herself to personally threaten him and all of our other clients! None of this would have happened if it weren’t for Levi.” 

“So you killed him?” asked Phillip. “You t-boned him at 4 in the morning and then just drove off?” 

Aaron sighed. “I had to,” he said. “If I didn’t, I would be in prison right now. As would dad. As would Damien. As would you, for that matter. You bought some cocaine off of Levi the night we broke up, which would have been exposed if Levi had been arrested. Don’t you see? I did this for you. ” 

Phillip was looking at Aaron like he had never seen him before. “We slept together after the funeral, Aaron.” 

Aaron scowled, and then squirmed, as if the memory was uncomfortable for him. “Well, maybe that will help you learn to keep it in your pants. You fuck your ex at your brother’s funeral, and then fuck the detective you hire to solve his murder? You realise Sherlock never would have been able to figure any of this out if you hadn’t told him so much about me.”

“That is, in fact, untrue. This was not a particularly difficult case.” said Sherlock, his voice light-hearted. “But he certainly sped up the process quite a bit. I owe you a great deal, Phillip.”

Phillip scowled at Sherlock. “Fuck off.” he said, coldly, and then jumped at Sherlock. 

John barely had time to shout a warning before Phillip had wrestled the gun out of Sherlock’s hands. John jumped to his feet, running to Sherlock’s side. 

Phillip had the gun pointing at Sherlock, but his hands were shaking. “I can kill you right now,” said Phillip. “What’s stopping me from shooting you right now? I can put a bullet through your head and no one will ever know what you’ve said today.”

John approached Phillip carefully. 

“Phillip,” he said calmly, trying to channel his doctor voice. “Aaron killed your brother. Don’t you want him to be brought to justice?”

“Fuck justice!” said Phillip, his eyes gleaming dangerously. “Will it bring Levi back?” 

“No.” said John, calmly. “It won’t. But hurting Sherlock will only make things worse for all of you. Inspector Lestrade is on his way.”

Phillip laughed, and it sounded like a bark. “No he isn’t.” he said. “Sherlock is bluffing. I was with him all night and all morning. He didn’t call any inspector. No one is coming.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” said John, trying to hide the panic from his voice. Had Sherlock really not called anyone? Were they really all alone?

“Precisely, John.” said Sherlock. “Do be serious, Phillip. I slept with you with the sole purpose of learning information about the Garridebs. Do you not think that Lestrade knew exactly where I’d be, and who I was with?”

Phillip shook his head. “I don’t think that’s why you fucked me.” said Phillip, and John winced at the crass language that inspired images that he really did not want to be thinking about. “You think you’re so clever. Well, no one can fake…getting it up that quickly. No one can fake cumming that hard, that quickly, just from a few moments of my mouth on you. You wanted me. I know that much.” 

Sherlock’s mouth twitched up in what was almost a half-smile, and John momentarily hated him for being so cavalier in the face of his own death. Sherlock was enjoying this, the way he always enjoyed losing the upper hand every once in a while. 

“Just because I had an ulterior motive to sleep with you does not mean that I didn’t enjoy myself.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” said John, not able to take it anymore. “Sherlock sleeping with you was all just part of the case. He told me he was going to do it. Why do you think I left the pub so early?” 

Phillip scoffed, his finger tightening slightly on the trigger. “Please,” said Phillip. “Sherlock spent the whole night whining about how in love with you he is. He didn’t fake that.” 

John felt his stomach give a little flip. Was that true? Had Sherlock really spent the whole night pining over him? If that were true, it certainly helped to abate John’s jealousy. 

“No.” said John, an idea coming to him suddenly. “Sherlock and I are in love. We’re together. We’re a couple. This whole love-sick horny virgin angle that Sherlock showed you was planned between us.”

Phillip chuckled. “Prove it.” said Phillip. 

John took a deep breath. He looked up at Sherlock beside him, who was looking at him curiously. 

They had faced death before, the two of them. More times than John could count, he had stood by Sherlock’s side without knowing if he would wake up in the morning. In some ways, this was where their relationship felt the most solid, the most familiar. Surely, there was no better opportunity to do this for the first time. Danger and near-death experiences were their roses and chocolates. John gave him a little smile, and then leaned in, pressing his lips against Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock’s response was so enthusiastic that it almost knocked John off the ground. Sherlock put his hands in John’s hair, kissing him back. John sighed into the kiss, placing his hands on Sherlock’s hips and opening his mouth slightly. Sherlock took the hint and opened his mouth as well, and soon they were kissing, really kissing, the way John had only ever dreamt about in a place so deep in his imagination that he often pretended it hadn’t existed. 

We can’t make this look like our first kiss , thought John, and he intensified the kiss, hoping beyond hope that Phillip would be convinced at the sincerity of the moment that this was not, in fact, the first time they had done this. He knew that it was a long shot, a desperate and ill-founded attempt at convincing an incompetent but not completely idiotic criminal of their bluff. Truth be told, he had spent too much time over the last 24 hours desperate for Sherlock that he would take almost any opportunity to be close to him, even if it was the last thing he did. 

John was the one who broke off the kiss, thinking to himself that if they went on for too long they would come across as two men long lost in a desert finally reaching a river. 

He met Sherlock’s eyes as they fell apart, and they were twinkling. Sherlock smiled shyly at him, and John returned the smile. I love you , he tried to make his eyes say. I love you, and this was real. This was all real. 

Phillip chuckled. “I bet that’s everything you ever wanted huh, Sherlock?” 

John looked back at him, trying not to betray the novelty in his features. 

“Oh please,” said Phillip. “The pining man that was in my bed last night was not a man who gets it on the regular. A single kiss is not going to convince me.”

John sighed. “Sherlock is just a good actor.” 

Phillip laughed. “Fine. Describe his cock to me.”

“What?” asked John, his face paling. 

“You heard me. Describe his cock. Length, girth, any noticeable features? Does it slant to the left or to the right? What does it look like flaccid? I know these things. If you and Sherlock were a couple, you would know those things too. Off you pop.”

John sighed, admitting defeat with his silence. 

“Thought so,” said Phillip. “And because you tried to lie to me, I think I’ll kill you first.” He moved his arms so that the gun was facing John squarely in the forehead, his fingers tightening on the trigger. John closed his eyes, thinking inexplicably of Sherlock’s mouth, the soft feeling of their lips against each other….

John heard a loud thud, and then the bang of a gun going off. Surprisingly, he didn’t seem to be dead. He opened his eyes. Phillip and Sherlock were both on the ground, wrestling. Sherlock must have thrown himself against Phillip, and caused the gun to go off aiming at the ground. 

“Aaron! Help!” said Phillip, and Aaron ran towards them. However, he was too late. Sherlock grabbed the hun from Phillip and whipped it across his face, causing Phillip to go unconscious. 

“Take that as a warning.” said Sherlock, pointing at Aaron. “If he had hurt John Watson, if he had laid a single finger on him, Phillip would not be alive right now.” 

John tried to hide his smug smile behind his hands. Maybe he didn’t have so much to be jealous of after all. 

Aaron, Damien, and Nate backed up, all three of them raising their hands in surrender. Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and together they ran out of the tent. 

***

“So did you call Lestrade?” asked John, once they were safely in a train heading back to Fendry (Sherlock had been adamantly opposed to driving back. Do you think I’m stupid? Sherlock had asked. After the way they killed Clara? We’ll send Lestrade to pick up the car later ). 

“No.” said Sherlock. “Phillip was right. I was bluffing.”

John laughed. Brilliant. 

“They’ll get away,” said John. “After we left, I’m sure the three of them just packed up their things and left town.”

Sherlock sighed. “I don’t care,” he said. “I’ll tell Lestrade everything that happened once we get back. For now, I’m just glad that you’re safe. That we’re both safe.” 

John sighed. The adrenaline was still in his veins, but he could feel it fading. He knew that as soon as they got home, the high would wear off and they would have to face the reality of what had happened to them. Sherlock had been almost killed by a man he had made love to. John had finally come to terms with his love for the man, and it had almost killed them both. He was desperate for a drink.

For now, however, it was nice to just sit back and enjoy the aftermath of the case. Just like old times.

*** 

John fell asleep about a half hour into their trip. Sherlock watched the sleeping lines of his face and tried to make the noise in his head make sense. 

John had kissed him. 

Try as he might, Sherlock couldn’t make sense of the gesture. John had been trying to convince Phillip of a relationship between them, in order to convince Phillip that Sherlock’s time with him had been a part of a scheme that he and John had been in on together in order to confuse Phillip into thinking that perhaps they had backup on the way. 

But that didn’t make sense. Not really. 

It had been such a weak story. Of course, a single kiss couldn’t convince anyone of a long standing romantic relationship between the two of them. John wasn’t an idiot, he wouldn’t have thought otherwise. 

There were two explanations that Sherlock could think of. The first one was that John was so frightened for his life that he took the only action that had even the smallest, most remote chance of saving their lives. That was possible. But it wasn’t John . John didn’t lose his head in stressful situations. He never did. John wasn’t afraid of death. He never had been. 

Sherlock wondered if the birth of his daughter had changed things for John, slightly. Maybe John’s fear of leaving his daughter alone had driven him to a desperate action. 

It was one possible explanation. It didn’t fully explain what the kiss had felt like, however. John Watson was many things, but he was a terrible actor. The kiss had felt….real.

Sherlock hadn’t kissed many people in his life, but he could categorise the kisses he had experienced in three rough categories. 

The first one was perfunctory kisses, kisses that were for a purpose and to the point. His kisses with Janine had been like this. These were kisses that you did out of habit or obligation, kisses with a long-term spouse with whom the flame of passion had died, goodnight kisses when one of the parties was distracted with something else. His kiss with John hadn’t been like this. 

The second category was kisses with a clear sexual edge. These kisses were messy, sloppy, unfocused, rushed. His kisses with Phillip had been like this. His kisses with all of his previous sexual encounters had been like this. But his kiss with John hadn’t been like this. 

The third category of kiss that Sherlock had experienced was the type that he had experienced most often, and the one he most expected this kiss with John to be like. This kiss was a kiss for the sake of performance. Sherlock experienced this type of kiss when he kissed Janine in front of John, wanting John to see and wonder and want it for himself. Sherlock experienced this type of kiss each of the other times he had kissed people for a case, in order to trick them into thinking his feelings were genuine so that they would betray information to him. His kiss with John hadn’t been like that either. 

His kiss with John had been a category all its own. It had been a performance, but it hadn’t been performative. It had been gentle and careful, slow and sweet, but tinged with desperation all the same. The tenderest parts of the kiss had been the slow and almost imperceptible stroke of John’s thumb against his nape, the smallest of smiles and the flush on his cheeks as he pulled away. 

Sherlock had trained himself to see what others couldn’t see, what others wouldn’t notice. That kiss with John had been overflowing with signs and signals that only one as perceptive as Sherlock would ever be able to untangle. If it had been nothing but a performance, it was almost as if it was a performance designed for Sherlock himself. 

Against his best interest, a new theory started to take hold in Sherlock’s mind. 

Rather than being so desperate to survive that he would kiss Sherlock to make it out alive, maybe he had been so desperate to kiss Sherlock that he would do so under the guise of just trying to survive. 

Out of all the theories, it fit best with what Sherlock knew about John. But it couldn’t be true. John had rejected him, time and time again, made it clear that his feelings for Sherlock were nothing but platonic. Sherlock had made it perfectly clear that a kiss between them would not be unwelcome. If John wanted to kiss him, why would he wait until they were dying to do so? All under the safe disguise of the case? 

Sherlock watched John sleep, and watched his abdomen expand and contract as he breathed. John Watson, the one mystery Sherlock never seemed to be able to fully solve. He both loved and hated this about John. 

Sherlock spent the rest of the train ride trying to make the conflicting facts all make sense at once, but he couldn’t make sense of any of it. When they arrived at the train station, John had woken up at the hustle and bustle of the other passengers gathering their luggage. He had looked up at Sherlock and smiled slightly, a soft twinkle in his eyes that Sherlock hadn’t seen since before he had fallen off that damned roof. Sherlock returned the smile for a moment, before the intensity of their gaze became too much for him and he flicked his eyes to the ground. When he looked back up John was no longer looking at him. 

Sherlock and John parted ways at the train station, John heading home to see his daughter and Sherlock heading to NSY. They exchanged terse and slightly awkward goodbyes, neither of them quite knowing what to say. 

Sherlock faithfully related as much as he knew, suspected, and observed to Lestrade, and Lestrade promised that he would send a team up to Fendry immediately. 

“You could have gotten killed,” said Lestrade. “You could have gotten John killed. You could have left his child an orphan .”

Sherlock scoffed at this, and found four new things to insult about Lestrade (his tie, his stubble, the fact that he had clearly had a date the night before, and the fact that he was clearly absolutely smitten with her), and headed back to Baker Street. However, he couldn’t stop thinking about what Lestrade said. Had Sherlock put John in danger? 

When Sherlock got back to Baker Street, he slept for 10 hours. This wasn’t unusual for him after solving a case. He often would get back home after a near-death experience and finally indulge in all of the human impulses he had been neglecting while on the job. However, what was unusual for Sherlock was the fact that he still felt the need to indulge his human impulses after a case where he had not denied himself at all. In Fendry; Sherlock had slept, he had eaten, he had even had sex. And John had almost gotten killed because of it. 

Sherlock ordered enough Chinese take-away to feed five men, and ate it all while watching crap telly. He longed for the days when he and John would savour the end of a challenging case together, and would spend the evenings indulging in their most human impulses (well, most of them) by each other’s side. 

Finally, Sherlock could not put it off any longer. He moved to his bed, not tired enough to sleep, but desperate for the one human impulse that he had been avoiding for as long as he could. 

He lay back, wrapped his long fingers around his already stiff erection, and thought about the kiss. 

***

When John got back to Harry’s, he was exhausted. I feel as if I’ve been hit by a truck, thought John, and he gave himself a half second to laugh before hating himself for the crude, distasteful joke. 

Harry and Clara were relieved to see him, and both burst into tears. 

“We hadn’t heard from you all day!” Clara lectured. “We didn’t know if you were coming home tonight. We didn’t know if you were coming home at all.” 

John felt like snapping at Clara, and telling her that he had been kidnapped thank-you-very-much, before thinking better of it and deciding to just apologise. He didn’t think Harry and Clara would much appreciate him leaving them alone with his infant child while engaging in such dangerous case-work with Sherlock. 

He hugged his daughter tight, feeling relief at being able to hold her again. Rosie, to her credit, seemed to barely notice that her father had been gone. She babbled happily at seeing his face, but then promptly fell asleep, as children are wont to do. 

Once Rosie was safely in bed, and Clara and Harry had retired to their bedroom for the night, John finally snuck himself another bottle of whiskey. Due to the kidnapping and the return journey with Sherlock, it had been so long since he had had a proper drink. His body was screaming at him. He had a horrible headache, was so nauseous he could barely stand. He went into the living room, chugging gulp after gulp, feeling complete and utter relief as he felt the substance dull his senses. 

“Gotcha.” He heard a voice say, smugly. He whipped around. Clara stood behind him, her brown hair unkept and messy, her expensive pyjamas hanging around her body. 

“Clara.” said John, his voice filled with dread. 

“You’re drinking. You can’t drink here. Not around her.”

“I know,” said John. “She’ll never know. I’ll never let her see.”

“But yet, you allowed me to see. It could have been her. What would you have done if it had been her climbing out of bed for a midnight snack instead of me? What would you have done if you triggered her back into all of that ?”

“I’m sorry.” said John, not knowing what to say. 

“You can’t stay here,” said Clara. “Not anymore. I know Harry has been thrilled to have you here, and I’m thrilled that the two of you are finally getting on. But you left us with your infant daughter for two days while you played detective with your friend that you’re too daft to know you’re in love with, and then come back and chug a bottle of whiskey in our living room?”

“It won’t happen again,” said John. “Not the whiskey. I’ll keep it in my room. Harry won’t see. And the Sherlock stuff, I’m sorry. It was never supposed to be that big of a case.” 

Clara shook her head. “No.” she said. “I’m sorry, but no. She’ll be able to tell when you’re drunk. I think she already suspects that you’ve been drinking.”

John sighed, looking in Clara’s eyes, determining that she must be serious. 

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” he said. 

“She loves you,” said Clara. “She’ll never forgive me if she knows I kicked you out. But I love her. And I have to keep her safe from potential triggers. So you have to leave.” 

John sighed. “I know. I’ll leave in the morning. I’ll tell Harry that I….that I decided to go to Sherlock’s.”

“Thank you, John.” 

John finished up his bottle and fell asleep. As his military habits dictated, he woke up before sunrise. He cleaned up, and made the place cleaner than he left it, and then took his daughter and left. All before Harry and Clara woke up. He left a single note for Harry. 

Gone to Sherlock’s. Love you. 

John took the tube to Baker Street, a fussy Rosie in his arms. He reached the front door, excited about staying with Sherlock, thinking about their kiss and wondering if it might happen again. 

Right before he knocked, however, he remembered Phillip. 

How selfish could he possibly be? The fact that Phillip had tried to kill them made it unlikely that Sherlock would chase that particular thread again, but Sherlock was finally moving on, finally allowing himself to have feelings for someone else, and John was just going to….what? Barge in, confess his love, and make Sherlock take care of him?

No. Sherlock deserved more than that. Sherlock deserved someone who was whole, and unbroken, and unconfused about his feelings. It had been a nice distraction, playing the roles of the legend of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. But that wasn't the truth. The truth was that they were two men who had hurt each other far too many times, and John didn't know if it was possible to untangle this web of hurt and betrayal from the web of love and desire. 

John turned around, his daughter still fast asleep in his arms, and checked into a hotel. 

Chapter Text

John sat across from Ella. His eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks sticky from tears that were still yet to dry. He had done a remarkable job of holding in his tears for the last week, but they had come in a deluge once John had entered Ella’s office. There were too many things that he had been trying not to think about over the last few days and they were all exploding out of him at once. He took a deep breath, wiped his eyes one more time, and looked up at Ella.

“I’m glad to see you again.” said Ella, looking at him with a contemplative stare that reminded John too much of Sherlock. She seemed completely unphased by his tears. John said nothing, staring at a tile on the floor with all of his focus, clenching his fists tightly. He was terrified to meet Ella’s stare in fear that he would burst into tears again. 

Rosie was in the corner, sitting in her stroller. Now that John was no longer living with his sister, there was no one to watch Rosie when he went in for his appointments. John knew he could ask Molly, but he had been avoiding her ever since he had called her from Fendry. He knew that all she would want to talk about was Sherlock, and John’s feelings for Sherlock, and that was something John knew he wasn’t ready for. He was having a hard enough time answering the questions that he was asking himself , he knew he wouldn’t be able to answer the questions of someone else (particularly someone as curious and idealistic as Molly Hooper). Mrs. Hudson was completely out of the question as a babysitter, because that would mean having to see Sherlock. 

He wasn’t trying to avoid Sherlock. Not actively. They had exchanged texts a few times in the week since they had arrived back in London (mainly just updates on the case), but John hadn’t seen him. John had no idea what he was going to do when he did see Sherlock, and so he had been putting it off as long as he could. He doubted Sherlock had even noticed his absence ( that’s not true , John reminded himself. Of course Sherlock noticed. He was probably missing John fiercely. The thought only made John clench his fists harder). 

“Last time we were here,” continued Ella, “we talked about examining your alcoholism triggers. Did you do any work in determining what triggers you to drink?”

John nodded. In this area, at least, he knew he had something to be proud of. “Yeah. The first one was pretty obvious. Thoughts and memories of my wife. You were right, that I needed to get out of that house. I stayed with my sister for a while. It….helped.” 

“Stayed? You’re no longer there?” 

John shook his head, and explained what had happened. He explained about the case in Fendry that had almost killed both him and Sherlock. He explained coming home, drinking alcohol in the cover of darkness, and being caught by Clara. He explained how Clara had kicked him out of the house, and how he had taken his daughter to a hotel. 

Ella was quiet for a while, letting John finish his story. She took notes as he spoke, careful to angle it away from him so he couldn’t read her writing upside down. When she spoke, her voice was as confident as ever. 

“I’m thrilled to hear that you have sought out help from your family, and I’m thrilled that you are staying in places that are less triggering for you.” said Ella. “That’s a very brave step for you to take for you and your daughter. I know it must have been hard to leave behind all of those memories.” 

“It was.” said John, and stopped himself before saying anything else. He could feel his body betraying him by threatening to spill tears. 

“It’s alright to cry, John,” said Ella, carefully. “It’s only natural. These sessions we have together are difficult, and force you to confront a lot of difficult emotions.”

“I don’t like to cry,” said John. 

“I know,” said Ella gently. When John didn’t say anything else, Ella continued.

“And I’m sorry to hear that the arrangement with your sister didn’t work out. However, I understand where Clara was coming from. Her first and only priority at the moment is ensuring the wellbeing and sobriety of your sister. I am proud of both of you for ending what could have been a toxic arrangement, and doing so on good terms.”

John nodded, looking stubbornly at the floor tiles and willing the tears to stay within his eyes. He tried not to think about the heartbroken look on Clara’s face when she had told him to leave, and he tried not to think about the past few nights that he had sat all alone on a bed that was not his, hating himself for not being a better brother to Harry, a better father to Rosie, a better companion for Sherlock. At the thought of Sherlock, he shut his eyes fiercely. It was a painful thought.

“Were there any other triggers you identified?” asked Ella. “For your drinking.”

“One more,” said John. “It’s….it’s Sherlock.”

“Oh?” asked Ella. “What about Sherlock, specifically?”

John took a deep breath, and tried to steady his breathing. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” he said. “And I’ve come to realise….well…I might have feelings for Sherlock. Of a not strictly platonic nature.” He didn’t know why it felt so monumental to say it to Ella. He had already told Molly. Somehow, the act of bringing it up to Ella seemed to be sealing it in fact, declaring his feelings in stone. 

“Oh?” asked Ella, in a tone that suggested this was not at all a surprise to her. “What led you to that conclusion?” 

John cleared his throat, feeling awkward. “It was a combination of things, really. It started with this bloody trigger exercise you gave me. I noticed that every time I spent time with him, or thought about him, I wanted a drink. I’ll admit….at first I blamed him for it. I’ve known for a while now that my feelings towards him are…complicated, to say the least. But I figured it was just because of how much pain he’s put me through. And dammit, he has put me through a lot of pain. I’m still not over him throwing himself off a bloody building. I think about it every time I talk to him. And I’m not over the fact that my wife shot him. I know it’s not his fault; and I know better than anyone how bloody awful it feels to be shot. But that whole situation makes me feel angry and confused and unsafe, and looking at him makes me feel those feelings all over again. And I’m not over the fact that my wife died to save him. It’s not his fault, I know that. And I know, deep down, that I would choose his life over hers a million times over. But that’s just it! That’s the problem! Seeing his face and feeling relief that he lives while the woman I pledged my life to is dead feels bloody awful .”

John took a deep breath, and continued, feeling as if saying all of this out loud was detoxifying his body from all of these complicated emotions. 

“But it wasn’t until earlier this week, when we were out of town on a case, that I finally realised the reason why I feel so damn conflicted about all of these things. When we were on the case, Sherlock met someone. A man; handsome, charming, your basic nightmare. The man flirted, Sherlock flirted back and…they…” John gulped, feeling himself get nauseous. “They slept together.”

Ella was quiet, waiting for John to continue. If she had any reaction to this news, she was keeping it private. 

“And it brought out the absolute worst in me,” said John. “And I realised….I realised I bloody love him. I want him. And that’s why our past still haunts me so much. I love him and I’m afraid to lose him. I’m terrified to get any closer to him than I already am. I’m terrified of binding myself to him the way I did before he jumped, because if I lose him again it will fucking break me.”

John was fully crying now, tears dripping down his cheek steadily. 

“You know how when you love someone, you have a sort of constant grief thrumming throughout your body because you know that they aren’t permanent? How sometimes you look at someone and just know that someday they will be dead, and there’s a good possibility you’ll be around to see that happen, and the anticipation of it can cause you to spiral?”

Ella nodded. “Yes.” she said. “I’m familiar with the feeling you’re describing. Go on.”

“Well, it’s different with Sherlock,” said John. “I don’t have that sort of….morbid curiosity with him. Because I know what it’s like to see him dead, to lose him. I know it, because I lived through it. And you might think that would make it easier. You might think that since I survived losing him before, I would be even more confident that I’d survive losing him again. But it’s not like that. It’s worse. I know what it’s like to lose him, and that makes me want to stay the hell away. Because if he and I…if we’re…more than friends. Well. That will make it so much worse.”

John took a slow, shaky breath. He felt as if he had been talking for hours. His voice was starting to get ever so slightly sore, and it made John realise just how little he had been using his voice over the last week. 

“I understand,” said Ella. “It is natural for us to avoid circumstances that we expect to cause us pain. Just as you might flinch away from someone who has hit you in the past, our brains try to prevent us from experiencing familiar emotional pain. Losing Sherlock was the deepest pain you have ever experienced. And so now, while it may seem that the natural response is to spend as much time as possible in his presence to make up for lost time, your subconscious is telling you to do the opposite. It is trying to spare you similar pain.”

John nodded. He looked down at his hands, which were shaking. “That’s exactly it.” he supplied. “I want to be with him. I want to spend time with him. But every time I get near him….” his voice trailed off. He didn’t finish, but knew he didn’t need to. Ella understood. 

“I have a question for you, John.” she began. “Which of the following options would you prefer: a life where you and Sherlock never speak to each other again, and he dies 5 years from now? Or one in which you’re in each other's lives deeply and intimately, but he still dies 5 years from now?”

John gulped. “Is there any option where he doesn’t die?” he asked weakly, adding a lighthearted tone to his voice so that Ella would know that he was, at least partially, joking.

She smiled at him. “No.” she says. “In this thought experiment, he will die no matter what you choose.”

John sighed. He thought for a moment. He imagined a world in which he was living far from London, raising Rosie all alone. In this imaginary scenario, Rosie was almost 6 years old, and had just started school. She would come home every day and hug him, and tell him all of the fun things she had learned that day. John would smile and laugh with her, and then put her to bed. Maybe he would have some friends that he could spend time with on the weekend. Maybe there was even someone special in his life, a woman (or perhaps, if he was very very brave, a man) who loved him and held him in their arms at night as he fell asleep. In this world, he hasn’t been hurt in 5 long years. His life is perfectly uneventful and he can't remember the last time he’s cried. He would hear about Sherlock’s death from Mycroft, who would feel the need to alert everyone that Sherlock has ever been remotely close to. John would take the news in stride. He would be sad, it would hurt….but he would know he’ll survive it, this time. He and Sherlock haven’t spoken in years. He knows how to live without him. He’s happy. 

Then, John pivots to thinking about the other scenario. In this world, he and Sherlock are lovers. They live in Baker Street together, and raise Rosie together. Rosie loves Sherlock just as much as John does, and the three of them have spent every single day together for the last 5 years. They are a family. They are happy. One day, John gets a call from work telling him that Sherlock passed away suddenly. Maybe it was a case. Maybe it was an overdose. Maybe it was something as normal and pedestrian as a car crash. Regardless, John thinks about the pain that it would cause him and his daughter. It would be an ugly sight, even uglier than the first time. This time, Rosie would be just as heartbroken as John himself. She will have lost two parental figures in her short life, and John will have lost a life partner three times. John will be inconsolable. John will never love again. It is quite possible that John will need a short stay in a mental institution in order to have any possibility of returning to his parental duties. 

The choice was, of course, easy. There was only ever one option. 

“The second one.” John responded, confidently. “I’d want to be in his life. I’d want to have been able to love him, even if for a short time.”

Ella smiled faintly, and John felt a sensation of pride that reminded him acutely of being in school and getting good marks on an exam. 

“Excellent.” Ella responded. “In that case, perhaps keep that in mind next time you feel your brain screaming at you to get as far away from him as you possibly can. Realise that it is a powerful trauma response, designed to protect you from harm. However, in this case, you know that you would actually prefer the harm to the alternative. Try to remind yourself of that. Eventually, your body will catch up with your mind. It just takes time.” 

John smiled, feeling encouraged. He briefly allowed himself to imagine the world from the second scenario again, but a happier version, where he and Sherlock solve cases and love each other into their old age.

But, of course, it wasn’t that simple. It never was.

“There’s more, though.” John said, feeling guilty. “It’s not just that I’m scared of how much he’ll hurt me. I’m also scared of how much I’ll hurt him .”

Ella nodded, not seeming at all surprised by this admission. “Go on,” she prompted. 

“It’s not fair of me to want him. I’ve put him through so much. I’ve hurt him. I’ve rejected him. I’ve pushed him away, when all he’s ever done for me is love me. I don’t deserve him. He deserves someone who is uncomplicated and whole. Undamaged. Unbroken. Someone who can give him a full life. Someone brave enough to admit they wanted him from the very first day.” 

John was quiet for a moment, but Ella seemed to realise he was not quite finished. 

“So yes. I drink because of him. So that I don’t have to think about all of it. About how bloody much I’m in love with him. About how horrible it is that I was emotionally unfaithful to a woman who is now dead. About the fact that I know exactly how hard it is to lose him, and I know I can’t survive that again.”

John looked up at Ella, and was surprised to see her smiling. 

“I’m proud of you, John.” she said, simply. 

John smiled weakly through his tears. “Why?” he asked. “I’m a piece of work. I keep hurting the man I love because I’m too daft to sort out my damn feelings. I hurt my sister because I don’t reach out to her until I’m at my fucking rock bottom, and then I almost drag her right down to the bottom with me. ” 

Ella shook her head. “You did what many of my patients fail to do. You found the root of many of your issues. You came to terms with something that is very painful for you to think about. You are a very brave man, John Watson. It takes an astounding amount of courage to look at your own faults head on, and to admit what you are scared of and what you want.”

The praise made John blink a couple of times, and then he felt overcome with guilt. “You shouldn’t praise me right now. I did a bad thing. I need to feel it.” 

“Why do you feel the need to punish yourself?” asked Ella. 

“That’s how it works, isn’t it? You do a bad thing, you get your toys taken away and you get a talking to from your mother. It teaches you not to do those things again.” 

“Parents do that to their kids to prepare them for the real world,” said Ella. “They create artificial stakes, such as losing a toy or losing social privileges, so that those children can learn that actions have consequences. When you’re an adult, you no longer need anyone to create artificial stakes because the consequences of your actions are very real. In your case, John, the consequence of you struggling to define your feelings for Sherlock is that he has pursued an intimate relationship with someone else. The consequence of your behaviour towards your sister is that her partner asked you to leave their home. There is no need for me to chastise you.” 

John shrugged. “I suppose you’re right.” said John. “But I still don’t feel like I deserve to be praised .” 

“I say that you do.” said Ella. “In my professional opinion, you have achieved a difficult task. There’s no more to it than that.” 

“Okay.” said John, not quite believing it but not wanting to push it any farther. 

“Have you told Sherlock how you feel?” asked Ella. 

“No.” said John, miserably. “How am I supposed to do that? I just spent the last few months telling him, over and over, that I do not feel that way towards him. How is he supposed to react when I just…change my mind?”

“Have you considered just telling him everything you told me? Sherlock knows you, John.” said Ella. “If anyone would understand why you fear the things you do, it’s Sherlock.” 

John took a deep breath, and shook his head, placing his head in his hands. “I don’t think I can do that.”

“Why not?” asked Ella. 

“Because….because what if he wants a bloody relationship with me? Just because I love him doesn’t mean I’m any more ready to be someone’s boyfriend than I was two months ago. I’m a widower. A recent widower. I’m a single father. I’m an alcoholic. I’m not the person Sherlock needs in his life right now. I don’t think I can love him the way he deserves to be loved. I’m still too….broken and confused.” 

“You don’t have to be in a relationship with him in order to be honest with him.” 

John started tugging his hair in frustration. “But you don’t understand. He’s starting to….move on.” 

“Are you talking about the man he met, on the case? Didn’t that man try to murder Sherlock?”

John huffed out an exasperated laugh. “Yes, he did. But the point is, Sherlock slept with him. He never showed interest in anyone while the two of us lived together. He never showed any interest in anyone when he came back, even when I was married. The fact that he’s finally open to the possibility of someone else means he’s….moving on. I should let him. If I tell him how I feel, it will just mean that he goes back to waiting for me. Pining for me. I can’t do that to him. What if I’m never ready to be who he needs me to be? What if he spends the rest of his life waiting for me, and I’m never able to give him everything? How terrible would that make me?” 

“John, if you were completely honest with him about your readiness for a relationship, and he still waited for you, that would be his fault. Not yours.” Ella said. “If you tell him the truth, that you love him but aren’t ready to be in a committed relationship, and aren’t sure if you’ll ever be ready, it would be his fault alone if he chose to wait for you. He might still choose to continue to wait. That is well within his rights. But it would not be your fault if what came to pass was exactly what you warned him would come to pass.”

John sighed. “But how am I supposed to just….live with that? How am I supposed to be friends with him? I would just feel guilty, every time we were in the same room, knowing that he loves me and is waiting for me.” 

Ella was silent for a moment, tilting her head and appraising him. “John.” she began. “Pardon the brief change of subject. I promise I’ll tie this back to what we’re currently discussing. Can I ask you where you’re living right now?” 

John sat up, dabbing his eyes with his palm. “Just in a hotel right now, with Rosie. I’m not quite sure where to go next, if I’m honest. I might sell the flat and buy a new one closer to the surgery. The one I’m in just had….too many bad memories. I’ve honestly felt much better since leaving.” 

“Can I ask why you don’t stay with Sherlock? As I understand it, that place used to be your home. Two of your child’s godparents live there. Would it not be the perfect place to stay, as you try and get back on your feet?”

John shook his head. “Weren’t you listening to me? Being around Sherlock right now is….confusing. I don’t want to complicate things.”

“How would sharing a flat with him, temporarily, complicate things more than they already are? Seems to me that things are already quite complicated.” 

John let out a bitter laugh. “I kissed him last week.”

Ella looked surprised. “Oh? I thought you didn’t want to tell him about your feelings?” 

“It wasn’t like that,” said John. “It was for a case. We were pretending to be together in order to confuse the criminals we were chasing. It’s a long story. Only…I didn’t really need to kiss him. I got carried away. And that’s what I mean by complicating things . If I share a space with him, what other stupid things will I do? It’s much better that I keep my distance. Work on myself first, before I ask him to deal with me.” 

Ella nodded her head. “I thought you would say something like that.”

John cleared his throat. “Yes, well….it’s true isn't it? It doesn’t do him any good to be around me in this state.” 

Ella sighed. “John. I have noticed you have made a habit of trying to stay away from Sherlock in order to….protect him. But in the process of doing this, you hurt Sherlock anyway. I’m wondering if it might be time to examine the reasons you do these things, and ask yourself whether you might both be happier if you took a slightly different approach with him.”

John sighed. “I’m not good for him, Ella. Look at me. I’m a mess. He deserves better.” 

“Isn’t that up to him to decide?” 

“I suppose,” said John. “But I would never forgive myself if I dragged him down with me.” 

“Your father drank, yes?”

John’s eyes narrowed immediately, tensing up at the change of subject. John had forgotten he had told Ella this. It had been years ago, before he had even met Sherlock. 

“Yes.” John said, shortly. 

“And what did he do when he drank? Did he hurt you?” 

“No, never,” said John. “He wasn’t a violent drunk, or an angry drunk. He was mainly just….a sleepy drunk. He often wouldn’t even stay in the house. He would go out, stay at the pub until it was late enough to assume Harry and I were asleep. Then he would come home, fall asleep on the couch.” 

“And how did that make you feel?” asked Ella. 

“Sad,” said John. “I loved spending time with my dad when I was a kid. It always bummed me out when he would leave Harry and I behind.”

Ella nodded. “That’s what I thought. It makes sense, John. Your father showed his love for you by removing himself from your presence when he would do something he was ashamed of. It seems that you have internalised this method, and have begun to remove yourself from the lives of the people you love when you do something you are ashamed of.”

“I suppose,” said John. “But isn’t that a good thing?”

“You tell me.” said Ella. “In the case of your father, possibly. But kids don’t understand the nuances of these things. Would you have preferred it if your father stayed in the house when he was drunk? And spent time with you and your sister? It seems to me that the only part of his drinking habits that really bothered you was his absence.” 

John thought back, pondering this. He supposed it was true. His dad was not a perfect person, by any means. He had been hostile to Harry when she came out as a lesbian, and John disagreed with him on practically every political issue. But when John was a kid….yeah. All John had really wanted was to be near his father. 

Ella looked him dead in the eye. “Sometimes, John, the best way to love a person is to let them love us.” 

John cocked an eyebrow. 

“Sherlock loves you,” Ella began. “It hurts him to see you hurt. It hurts him to be away from you. Sometimes, the best way to protect and show affection to the ones we care about is to let them see us, faults and all. The situation with your father is not a perfect analogy, because your dad was in a position of power over you. It was his responsibility to raise you. We could sit here and debate all day about whether your father did the right thing by removing his alcoholism from your sight. However, you are behaving in the way that was modelled to you by your father without considering the ways that your situation with Sherlock is different. Sherlock is not a child. He is your friend. When you stay away from him in order to protect him, I want you to think about how it made you feel when your father did the exact same thing to you.”

John pursed his lips. He had never thought about it that way. “But isn’t it bad to burden Sherlock with my problems?” he asked. “I’m an alcoholic. I have a daughter to raise, and he would inevitably get caught up in that if I stayed with him. I’m still processing my wife’s death, and I know that I’ve made him feel guilty for that. Isn’t it…bad to burden him with all of that?”

“That’s for him to decide,” said Ella. “If you ask to stay with him, he might refuse. Or, he might do what your sister’s fiancé did, and initially accept but back out when he realises that the situation is too difficult for him. Both of those would be well within his rights, and you should certainly give him the space to make either decision. But sometimes, if you love someone, the best thing to do is ask for their help. Sometimes, they’re more than happy to be the person we need.”

John was crying again. “I’ve been such an arse to him. I don’t deserve his help.”

Ella shrugged. “Again, it’s his choice. You should certainly apologise to him. And work hard not to hurt him again. But it is no one’s choice but his whether or not he decides to forgive you. Love isn’t fair. Forgiveness isn’t fair.”

John took a deep breath. “Okay.” he said. “I think I know what I have to do.” 

***

Sherlock was laying on the sofa, reading through his emails from clients. Some of them were interesting (Oh Sherlock, I think my sister’s boyfriend killed her and replaced her with a clone) but most of them were boring (Dear Sherlock, I’m convinced my husband has a second family in Venezuela. Dear Sherlock, I think my neighbour stole my dog. Dear Sherlock, please help me find my childhood sweetheart). Sherlock was in the middle of drafting a response to the sister-who-might-be-a-clone client when he heard a knock from downstairs. 

Sherlock knew instantly that it was John. John didn’t usually knock (he had a key) but this particular pattern of knock couldn’t have been anyone else. It was made up of three consecutive knocks; with a lack of formality that suggested familiarity, but an efficiency that no one in Sherlock’s life apart from John possessed. 

Sherlock froze. He hadn’t seen John since they had gotten home from Fendry. This in and of itself wasn’t surprising, as John had only recently stopped completely avoiding him. However, Sherlock was surprised to see John come over unannounced. He was especially worried that John had come over unannounced and knocked . He had no idea what it could mean, but he worried that something awful had happened.

He tried to restrain himself from running to the door. He was concerned, but mustn’t seem too eager. 

He feigned surprise when he opened the door and saw John. 

“John!” he said, not knowing what else to say. John was standing in front of the Baker Street door with his child (in a stroller), and several suitcases. 

“Hi Sherlock,” John said, looking sheepish. His eyes were red. “Could we….stay with you for a while?” 

Sherlock paused for a moment, mouth opened, simply staring. He could hardly believe his ears. 

“Erm, or not.” said John, clearly uncomfortable. “I completely understand if you don’t want….it’s completely fine. I’ll just…”

Before John could finish his sentence, Sherlock rushed towards him and pulled him into an embrace. 

“Stay as long as you like,” said Sherlock gently.

Chapter Text

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Sherlock and John stood together in the Baker Street sitting room, Rosie still in John’s arms and his bags set neatly down on the couch. They stood several feet apart from each other, as if each was afraid to get any closer.

John shook his head. “No. Not yet, at least.”

“Okay.” said Sherlock. The weight of the embrace they had shared outside still hung over them. John’s eyes were still red and bloodshot, and Sherlock’s sleeve had been stained slightly with tears. It seemed neither of them knew quite how to handle themselves after sharing a moment like that. 

“I have a cot for Rosie.” Sherlock said. “If you want, I can bring it upstairs. She can sleep in the room with you.”

“That would be lovely.” said John, his smile not quite meeting his eyes. His eyes passed over the sitting room and the kitchen, and Sherlock would have given anything to know what he was thinking at that moment. 

Sherlock went upstairs and busied himself with preparing John’s old room. John’s bed was still there from the days they lived together. Mrs. Hudson had asked Sherlock many times why he chose to maintain John’s room in its old condition, rather than clear up space for an office or a storage room. Sherlock had always grunted back something about laziness, but the truth was he would never have forgiven himself if it came to pass that John needed a place to stay and Sherlock didn’t have anywhere for him. 

As it turned out, having the room was quite useful. John spent a lot of time in it after Mary shot Sherlock, while Sherlock was recovering in the hospital and John was trying to avoid any encounters with his wife. 

Now it seemed the room would be useful again. Sherlock busied himself around the room, tidying (not that there was much to tidy) and making sure the bed was made up and Rosie’s cot was arranged close enough to John’s bed so he could easily get to his child. He brought each of John’s bags upstairs for him, placing them in the corner of the room. 

When he was done, Sherlock went back downstairs. John was sitting on the couch, rocking his baby in his arms. Rosie was awake now, looking around the room curiously. 

“Your room is ready for you,” said Sherlock. 

John smiled. “Thank you.” he said softly. He stood up and walked over to Sherlock. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if unsure how to proceed. Finally, he leaned in and gave Sherlock an awkward one-armed hug. 

“I appreciate this,” whispered John. “If you ever need us to leave, please let me know. I couldn’t stand being a burden on you.”

“Don’t be stupid.” said Sherlock, but there was no ice in his voice. “You’re not a burden. This is your home. Both of you.”

John’s face crinkled, as if he wasn’t sure how he should feel about hearing these words. Sherlock briefly panicked. Had he said too much? Maybe it was insensitive to tell John that Baker Street was his home, when the home he had chosen for himself had been ruined for him by the death of his wife. 

“I just mean….you’re both always welcome here. And I enjoy it. When you’re here.” 

John smiled, and this time Sherlock saw the slight twinkle of the smile in his eyes as well. 

“Thank you Sherlock.” said John, and with that he walked upstairs and disappeared into the bedroom that had once been his. 

***

Sherlock didn’t sleep. He spent a long time downstairs, sitting quietly on the sofa, listening to the sounds that came from above. He could tell that it took John a long time to fall asleep by the squeaking of the bed frame as John tossed and turned. When John finally did sleep, Sherlock spent the next few hours deep in thought, trying to figure out how to not ruin this. 

John was home. In so many ways, this was all Sherlock had ever wanted. Ever since his fall from the rooftop of Bart’s hospital, Sherlock knew that he would give anything to just have their old life back - a life where he and John lived under the same roof and spent their days together. However, now that John was here, Sherlock was convinced he would ruin it somehow. Eventually, John would realise that this was not a safe place for him or his child.

After that, Sherlock spent the next few hours of the night frantically tidying the flat. He threw out everything in the fridge that could ever be argued to be unsafe for a toddler. He took all of his experiments and moved them downstairs to 221C, where they would be out of sight from both John and Rosie. 

Afterwards, Sherlock came back upstairs and examined his work. Yes, this was a space where one would not be shocked to see a child habitating. Maybe this could work.

Of course, there were other reasons why John might decide to leave. He might get angry at Sherlock again. Sherlock supposed there was nothing he could do to completely protect himself from John’s rage, but he figured that he could at least try to make John happy. 

Sherlock spent the next few hours cooking breakfast. 

Sherlock hadn’t cooked for himself in years. His diet (when he did eat) almost entirely consisted of take-out and whatever Mrs. Hudson kindly decided to leave for him. He had to go to the 24 hour grocery down the street to get some basic ingredients: eggs, bacon, bread, butter. He got home and scrambled some eggs (and was remarkably delighted by how they turned out, given that he hadn’t scrambled eggs in almost a decade), cooked several strips of bacon, and made some buttered toast. 

By the time he was done, the sun was beginning to peer into the kitchen through the sitting room curtains, which, if Sherlock remembered correctly (and he had little doubt that he did) was the time that John would typically wake up. Sherlock had no idea what time John woke up these days, but he hoped it would be soon. He didn’t want the bacon to get too cold. As luck would have it, he started to hear stirring from John’s room a few minutes later. Sherlock’s heart started beating so fast he could hear it in his ears, and he put some coffee on to have something to do. 

It didn’t occur to him until John was already coming downstairs that maybe doing too much to make John happy would cause John to be angry at him as well. 

Rosie was crying in John’s arms; the loud unfiltered wail that could only come from a child Rosie’s age. 

“Shhh,” John was saying over and over again as he sat down on the sofa, rocking Rosie slowly back and forth. “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”

“Is she alright?” asked Sherlock. 

“Yeah she’s fine,” said John. “She slept through the night like a champ. I should have let her keep sleeping, but I didn’t want to leave her upstairs all alone.”

“Maybe tonight we can set up your baby monitor.” suggested Sherlock. “So you feel more comfortable leaving her upstairs sometimes.”

“Yeah you’re probably right.” said John. “I’m utter shite at this.”

“No you’re not.” said Sherlock simply. “She’ll be okay. Give her to me? I made breakfast. You should eat.” 

John looked at Sherlock, clearly confused, and then he finally looked at the kitchen for the first time. 

“Where are your experiments?” asked John, shocked. “You had a bunch of weird looking specimens on the table last night.”

“221C.” said Sherlock, embarrassed, refusing to meet John’s eyes. “I moved them downstairs. It’s just….not quite suitable for a child to be around strange substances like that.”

The confused expression on John’s face suddenly turned to pure guilt. 

“Fuck.” he said. “Sherlock. I never meant to…”

“Shut up.” Sherlock commanded, irritably. “Just shut up. I want you here. Moving my experiments downstairs is not an inconvenience whatsoever. In fact, I probably should have started utilising that space years ago. Mrs. Hudson will never let it out, it’d be a shame for all of that space to go unused.”

John took a deep breath, clearly still conflicted. He looked back at the table. “Since when do you know how to scramble eggs?”

“Since the 1980s, I imagine.” 

“You cook breakfast now?”

“Yes.” lied Sherlock. 

“There’s only one plate,” said John. 

“I already ate.”

“No you didn’t.” chastised John. “Go make yourself a plate, Sherlock. I won’t eat until you do.”

This berating of Sherlock’s eating habits felt so much like old times that it took Sherlock by surprise.

“Fine.” said Sherlock, heading to the kitchen, if only to hide the grin that had taken over his face. He took out the eggs and bacon again and began to make some food for himself. 

While Sherlock worked, John once again busied himself with calming Rosie, who was still whimpering but had seemed to tire herself out of her full body cry. 

“Mrs. Hudson has a high-chair for Rosie somewhere, doesn’t she?” asked John. “I need to feed her.” 

“Of course,” said Sherlock, cursing himself for not thinking of this earlier. “It’s in the shared cupboard downstairs. I’ll get it.” 

He set his finished plate of breakfast on the table and went downstairs to get the high chair for Rosie. He and John worked together to set it up and get Rosie securely inside of it, and John went upstairs to get his food for Rosie from his bag. 

While John was upstairs, Sherlock took the liberty of switching plates with John so that John could eat the more recently prepared, and thus warmer, plate of food. 

John got back to the kitchen and the three of them sat down at the table, eating their breakfast in silence. John fed Rosie first, using a comically large spoon to put her food (which turned out to be mashed carrots) into her mouth. 

When John was done, he ate his food. 

“Not terrible.” remarked John. 

“High praise.” said Sherlock, sarcastically. 

John chuckled. “Well you know. It’s you. I literally fed you every meal for 18 months.” 

“Not every meal.”

“Like 90% of the meals you actually ate came from me, Sherlock. I’m pretty sure you gained about 20 pounds after I moved in.”

“14.” 

“Alright, 14 then. And you were still far too skinny. I’m surprised you’ve kept yourself alive for the last few years.”

“Take-out exists.” 

John sighs. “Yes but it’s not good for you, Sherlock. I swear, sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who cares if you live past 50.” 

Sherlock felt a soft glow start in his stomach. This, indeed, reminded him of old times; John fussing over him and saying the most caring things Sherlock had ever heard in the most matter-of-fact tone imaginable. 

“Well, I cook now.”

“Do you? Or did you just go to the shops while I was sleeping to buy enough food for one meal?” 

Sherlock was quiet.

“I thought so,” said John. “I do appreciate it, by the way. But you need to take care of yourself too, alright?” 

Sherlock nodded. “Okay.”

John stood up. “Speaking of which, that’s a good idea for today. I should do the shopping, fill this kitchen up with food suitable for humans.” 

Sherlock smiled. “Do you….want me to come with you?”

John laughed. “You? At the shops?”

“I went this morning.”

“That you did.” said John with a fond smile. “No, Sherlock, it’s alright. I’ll take care of it. You’re literally letting me stay here for free. I should earn my keep.”

“You don’t have to -”

“I know,” said John softly, cutting him off. “But I want to. I want to help out. I want it to be like….like before. Is that alright?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. That’s alright.”   

“Yoohoo!” The sound of Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs startled them both. 

“Oh, right. She doesn’t know I’m here, does she?”

“I don’t believe so,” said Sherlock. 

“I imagine she’ll make it a big deal.”

“I imagine you’re probably right.”

At that moment, Mrs. Hudson pushed open the door. “Sherlock, honey, I noticed you moved your - oh!”

“Hello, Mrs. H!” said John, cheerfully. 

“John!” said Mrs. Hudson, clearly surprised. “I had no idea you were coming this morning!” 

“Oh, I arrived last night. Without notice. Sorry, I probably should have rang.”

“Don’t be silly!” said Mrs. Hudson. “We’re always so happy to have you here, dear. What’s the occasion? Is there a case?”

“No, I -” John’s face suddenly went slightly rigid, and Sherlock understood that John did not have the emotional bandwidth to explain his situation to Mrs. Hudson right now. Sherlock stepped in. 

“John is going to be living here for some undetermined amount of time. I assume that’s alright?”

Mrs. Hudson gave a genuine squeal of joy, and she ran up to John and embraced him tightly. “Oh my love, I’m so glad to have you back! Stay as long as you like.”

John was uncharacteristically silent, and when Sherlock looked up to meet his eyes he was surprised to see tears glimmering in them. 

“Thank you.” whispered John, clearly worried that his voice would crack and betray his feelings. Mrs. Hudson seemed to get the hint, and she turned to Sherlock. 

“Well that certainly explains all of the…..things…..you moved to my downstairs flat, young man.”

“Yes, that was a misunderstanding.” said John, his voice sounding more solid. “Sherlock moved his experiments downstairs in order to accommodate Rosie and I, but I told him there’s genuinely no need. Unless it’s something particularly toxic or disturbing.”

“Most of my things could be classified as toxic or disturbing.” argued Sherlock. 

Mrs. Hudson laughed. “Honestly, John, it might not be the worst idea in the world. I’ve been telling this one for months now that his kitchen table was not hygienic for any sort of mealtime.”

John sighed. “If you’re sure,” he said, looking at Sherlock. 

“I’m sure,” said Sherlock. 

John smiled softly. “Okay. Well, I best be off to the shops. The two of you will watch Rosie while I’m gone?” 

“Oh, I’d love to!” said Mrs. Hudson, scooping Rosie into her arms. Rosie babbled excitedly, clearly happy to see her godmother. 

“Thank you.” said John. He turned to Sherlock. “Any special requests?”

“There’s that thing you used to make…..with the peas?” Sherlock asked, hopeful. 

John chucked. “Oh, yes. The thing with the peas. I’ll do my best.” With that, he walked out of the room, looking back at Rosie, Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson almost regretfully as he left them, closing the door behind him. 

“Oh, Sherlock, honey, you must be over the moon.” said Mrs. Hudson, holding Rosie close to her. 

Sherlock’s gut reaction was to argue, to say something biting and sarcastic. But all Sherlock could feel at the moment was that light, feathery feeling of rightness deep inside his stomach - as if everything was finally as it should be. 

“I am,” said Sherlock. “I’m happy he’s chosen to come home. He’s been hurting for so long. I’m thankful he’s finally letting us help him lighten the load.”

“Me, too.” said Mrs. Hudson, giving him a soft kiss on the cheek 

***

They spent the next hour playing with Rosie. Sherlock pulled out some of the educational toys he had purchased around the time of Rosie’s birth and was fascinated watching her learn. She hadn’t quite grasped the concept of object permanence, but Sherlock could tell that she was getting close to the realisation. He made a mental note to start tracking her progress again. 

By the time John got back from the shops, Sherlock was laying on the couch with Rosie on his chest, fast asleep. Sherlock was awake, and had her little hand grasped tightly around his pointer finger. He had his notes app open, and was carefully tracking her respiration rate. 

“Hey, you.” said John fondly. “Looks like you tired her out.”

“It would seem so,” said Sherlock. “John, you’ll be happy to know that your daughter’s resting heart rate and respiration rate are well within the normal range for her age group.” 

John chuckled. “I am a doctor, you know,” 

“I know. But you may not have checked her vitals recently. Most parents don’t.”

John sighed. “Sherlock. I check her vitals every day.”

Sherlock glanced up at John, shocked. John’s face was sad. “I might be a little….overprotective of her, sometimes. I just….I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to her. I know that every parent feels this way, but if anything were to happen to her….well that would be my whole family, gone.” 

Sherlock looked away, unsure what to say to this. John began unpacking the groceries. 

“Successful trip?” asked Sherlock. 

“Oh, yeah.” said John. “I got the basics. Food for Rosie. Food for us. Ingredients for that thing with peas you like.”

“My hero.” said Sherlock, teasingly. 

John laughed in response. “I also got some other things. Rosie has been running out of clothes that fit her, so I got a bunch of baby clothes in the next size up. Hopefully they fit.”

Sherlock stood up, careful not to wake Rosie with the readjustment. 

“Maybe once she wakes up, we can try on all the clothes for her. A little….Watson fashion show.”

John burst into laughter. “I doubt that would be a sufficiently stimulating afternoon activity for you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock was affronted. “John! Of course it would be! You vastly underestimate the academic potential of having an infant around! They are completely unpredictable, yet also eerily deterministic! It’s quite interesting.”

“You’re not just saying that to stop me feeling guilty?”

“When have I ever said anything to spare your feelings, John?”

“Alright, point taken,” said John. “Well in that case, you can continue….researching with my child while I make us all dinner.”

“Perfect.” said Sherlock with a smile. “Unless…..should I make dinner?”

“After those eggs this morning? Absolutely not.”

“You said they were good!”

“Ah. Well you see Sherlock, that’s the difference between you and me. You never lie to spare my feelings. I absolutely lie to spare yours.” 

***

In so many ways, John had been distracted by love, attraction, jealousy, trauma, fear...so much so that he had forgotten the simplest fact of all of them: Sherlock was, above all else, his very best friend. The Watson fashion show had led to more full belly laughs from all three of them than John thought Rosie had ever experienced in her entire little life. Sherlock had enjoyed seeing Rosie’s confused reactions to her new garments of clothing, but had also begrudged John’s fashion choices for his daughter and threatened to style Rosie himself. 

“She’s an infant, Sherlock,” John giggled. “She doesn’t need high fashion.”

“She’s my goddaughter.” Sherlock said. “I may not be a religious man, but I intend to take that responsibility seriously. And that means not letting her dress like….like…”

“Like me.” John supplied. 

“Well, yes. More or less.” 

John chuckled. “You can buy her clothes for her first birthday. Does that work?” 

Sherlock grinned. “Already counting down the days.” 

Their first evening living together was so familiar it was almost eerie. After putting a tired but happy Rosie to bed, John cooked dinner (that thing with peas) and they ate it while watching a new drama TV series that Harry and Clara were obsessed with. Sherlock claimed to hate it and rolled his eyes at every plot point, while simultaneously teasing John for how invested he got. 

“Was that really a surprise to you?” Sherlock scoffed as John gasped at the episode’s cliffhanger (the billionaire media mogul decided to not, in fact, transfer his empire to his irresponsible son). 

“Let me enjoy the episode, you git.” said John, playfully hitting Sherlock with a pillow. 

“It’s not like it even makes any sense,” said Sherlock. “No one planning a big career change would ever wear a tie like that. Not that I expect show creators to pay attention to stuff like that. I’ve long given up on any semblance of common sense in the Hollywood wardrobe department.” 

John sighed and took another bite of his dinner, stealing a glance at the baby monitor they had set up next to the sofa. Rosie was still fast asleep and John could see the reassuring rise and fall of her chest that proved she was still alive. 

Everything was so different, but at the same time nothing was different. Here they were, bickering by the telly just like old times, yet now John had a daughter to take care of. John’s awareness of his responsibility to his daughter added a new heaviness to this evening. Where once John might have just allowed himself to relax and marvel in Sherlock’s company, he now had an extension of his very heart sleeping upstairs, needing him, relying on him. It felt heavy. 

“She’ll be alright, John.” said Sherlock, clearly not missing any of John’s stolen glances at his daughter. 

“I know that.” snapped John, slightly annoyed at Sherlock’s observance. “I just need to check sometimes.” 

“Okay.” said Sherlock, looking back at the screen, clearly feeling out of his depth. “Sorry.” 

John sighed. 

“It’s alright.” said John. The episode end-credits began to play and John looked down at his plate, noticing that his food was finished, as was Sherlock’s. He gulped, not knowing what to do next. Should he suggest they start getting ready for bed? Should he suggest another episode? John's new awareness, both of Sherlock’s feelings for him and John’s returned feelings, coloured every interaction he had with Sherlock in a new light. He was simultaneously more careful about trying not to hurt Sherlock’s feelings while also aware of his own hesitancy to spend too much time with him. He remembered his conversation with Ella the previous day, when Ella had pointed out that John was subconsciously trying to avoid Sherlock to spare himself more pain. John tried to push that instinct as far down as he could. He reminded himself that he loved Sherlock. He wanted to spend time with him. He wanted it, regardless of whatever tragedy might lie in their future. He took a deep breath, intending to suggest watching another episode, until he saw Sherlock’s face. Sherlock looked serious and a little timid. 

“Everything alright?” John asked. 

“I thought this might be a good time to….talk.” said Sherlock, not meeting his eyes. “I’m beyond thrilled to have you here. But you showed up here yesterday in tears, after spending the last few weeks with your sister. Would you mind telling me what happened?”

John’s instinct was to shake his head, make a lighthearted joke, and continue watching TV with Sherlock - continuing the low stakes easy intimacy they had shared all night. But Sherlock deserved to have at least a modicum of honesty from John. 

“Yeah.” said John, taking a big gulp of his drink. “Sure.” Sherlock hadn’t said anything when John had poured himself a large glass of wine this afternoon. John was personally proud of himself for being able to avoid drinking anything stronger. Sherlock hadn’t had any alcohol in the flat, but John had been careful to buy anything he thought he might need from the shops. He had briefly seen a mildly alarmed expression on Sherlock’s face when he had unloaded the groceries and pulled out several handles of scotch, but the expression had gone as quick as it had come. John could almost believe he had imagined it. 

John took a deep breath and forced himself to meet Sherlock’s eyes. 

“Ultimately, it was just…..the drinking. I never did it in front of Harry. I would never. But Clara caught me at it and….and she said she could tell that I wasn’t sober. And that Harry could, too. And Clara asked me to leave.” 

“I see,” said Sherlock. “So you came here?” his tone of voice told John that Sherlock knew that there was more to the story. 

“No.” said John. “Clara kicked me out as soon as we got back from Fendry.” 

“So where did you go? Back home?”

John shook his head. “No. I can’t go back there. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to live in that house again. It’s….too much. I went to a hotel with Rosie. We stayed there for a week. But yesterday I had another session with Ella. And she helped me realise that I was being stupid, staying away from you.”

“Why were you staying away from me?” Sherlock asked, bracing himself, as if he thought the answer might hurt. 

“Two main reasons.” said John, thankful for the wine that made the words come a little easier. “The first one is the…..death thing.”

“The death thing.” Sherlock repeated. 

“Just….I’ve seen you die. It makes it hard to be around you. Even though I want to. Ella compared it to flinching away from someone who has physically hit you. I know what it’s like when you die, and my body is trying to….spare me from that harm.” 

Sherlock’s eyes winced slightly. “I…..I can understand that. I’m sorry. For what it’s worth.”

“I know,” said John. “I know you are. And Ella helped me to realise that….that if you do die again….”

“John. I realise that I am quite deific in some respects, but I am all but guaranteed to die.” Sherlock said, the corners of his mouth twitching up in a smile. 

John chuckled. “Shut it, you prick. I’m trying to be vulnerable.”

“Then by all means, continue.”

“If you do die again, prematurely ,” said John, with a giggle. “I’d rather have been able to be your friend again, even for just a little while, than for it to happen with us….estranged….as we have been. If that’s alright.”

Sherlock smiled shyly. “I’d like that very much.” 

John smiled. “Good.” 

“You said there was another reason?” 

The smile fell from John’s face. “Um, yeah. I guess I just….was just trying to spare you. From hurt. From being near me.” 

Sherlock tensed slightly, and John knew they were both thinking of the incident in Culverton Smith’s morgue. 

“Do you find yourself….wanting to hurt me like that….a lot?” asked Sherlock quietly. 

John’s heart broke. He gaped at Sherlock for several seconds, not knowing what to say. Sherlock wasn’t looking at John directly, but his face was expressionless. 

They had never addressed what had happened between them that day. John had never offered an apology, and Sherlock had never asked for one. They had both gone on with their life as if nothing had happened. Most days, John tried his hardest not to think about it at all. The version of himself that had exploded at Sherlock was so far away from the version of himself that he longed to be that thinking about it too long made him feel like he was beyond hope. John didn’t like that feeling. 

“No!” said John, after a long moment of silence. “No, Sherlock. No. No no no no no no. Never. I have never wanted to hurt you like that. I should have never…..” 

“Then what do you mean?” interrupted Sherlock.

John sighed. “I would never physically hurt you again. But…..Sherlock, I’ve already hurt you so much since then. Emotionally. I’m a mess. I can’t give you…..what you want from me.”

“I’ve already told you, I don’t want anything from you.” said Sherlock, and there was an irritated edge to his voice. 

John cringed. “I just mean…” 

“If you’re going to insist on martyring yourself.” began Sherlock “at least do so for a good reason. I don’t want anything from you, John, except for you to be healthy and happy. And to see you a few times a month wouldn’t go amiss either. To constantly insist that I must be hurting just because you can’t return my feelings….”

“But I’m not healthy and happy.” interrupted John. “And it hurts you to see me like this. That’s all I’m trying to say.” 

“I’m fine,” snapped Sherlock. “What hurts me is when you cut me out of your life due to a misplaced regard for my feelings.” 

John sighed. It was more or less what Ella had been trying to tell him the previous day. 

“Yeah, I know,” said John. “And that’s what Ella helped me realise. I know I’ve been an arse. I’m sorry. But I’m here now.”

“Good.” said Sherlock, softening slightly. 

“But Sherlock,” said John. “In order for this to work….you have to promise me you’ll tell me if I’ve ever overstayed my welcome. Or if my being here is negatively affecting you in any way.” 

“I can’t imagine that ever happening,” said Sherlock. 

“Still.” said John. “Humour me.” 

“Okay.” said Sherlock. “I can try.”

John smiled, then looked around awkwardly. It was late at this point, and all hopes he had of starting another episode were eclipsed by a bone deep tiredness. 

“I guess I should go to sleep,” said John, stretching. “Thanks for….talking.”

“You’re welcome,” said Sherlock. “Is there…..anything else?” 

John met Sherlock's eyes, and had the strangest feeling that Sherlock knew he was holding something back. He briefly considered just blurting it out:

Yes, there’s one more thing. I love you. Sorry it took me so long to figure it out. I can be kind of thick about stuff like this. 

John cleared his throat. What would happen if he were to tell Sherlock tonight? Somehow, he doubted that they would exchange sweet nothings or fall into bed together with whispered love confessions on their lips. Something about this new closeness between them seemed too delicate to disrupt. No, he couldn’t tell Sherlock. Not yet. 

“Nope. That’s it.” John lied. 

Sherlock nodded, though he looked doubtful. “Okay.” said Sherlock. “Well, if you think of anything, I’ll be here.”

“Sure,” said John. “I guess I should start the washing up.”

“You cooked,” said Sherlock. “I should be the one to clean up.”

John let out a bark of laughter. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wash a dish in the entire time we lived together.”

“Things change,” said Sherlock. “I’ve had to deal with years without you to clean up after me. I’ve picked up a habit or two.” 

John narrowed his eyes. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.” 

“You really are lying. You’re not the only one who can….deduce people, you know.”

“Alright then. Show your work.” 

John laughed. “Well, for one, you already admitted that you still don’t cook. It’s sort of difficult to be in the habit of doing dishes when you never create dishes.” 

“Is that it? What a weak deduction. I rarely smoke cigars, but when I do I’m in the habit of smoking B&H.”

John sighed. “Well, there’s also the fact that this place is always a mess when I come to visit. Hard to believe that you’ve acquired any sort of cleanliness habits when you regularly live in such filth.”

“That evidence is even weaker!” said Sherlock. “I never claimed to be the perfect model of spotless living. I claimed that I picked up a habit or two .” 

John narrowed his eyes, looking around the room. “The dish soap is empty. It was empty last time I was here, before we left for Fendry. Either you’ve gone through an entire tube of dish soap in two weeks, or you haven’t washed a single dish in that time. Furthermore, you told me you went shopping this morning for breakfast ingredients. If you had truly gotten into the habit of washing your own dishes, you would have known to pick up dish soap while you were out.” 

Sherlock smiled. “Excellent job. Practically a B minus deduction.” 

“B minus?” asked John, incredulous. 

“B minus is far superior to your usual attempts!” said Sherlock. 

John shook his head, laughing. “I’ll get dish soap in the morning.” he said. “And then you can finally begin forming this habit of yours.” 

“Sounds reasonable.” replied Sherlock. 

“Goodnight.” chuckled John, walking upstairs to his bedroom. 

John changed into his pyjamas and settled into his bed. He watched the rise and fall of his daughter’s chest a few more times, until he was reasonably convinced that she was safe and sleeping comfortably. 

He looked up at the ceiling, smiling to himself for a long time for a long time before sleep finally welcomed him. 

Chapter Text

Sherlock woke in the morning to the sound of John Watson taking a shower. 

The information took a while to compute. John Watson. In his shower. 

It wasn’t a ridiculous notion. John had obviously taken hundreds of showers in Baker Street, and as such this knowledge shouldn’t have been quite as shocking as it was. That being said, Sherlock couldn’t help the blush that encroached upon his cheeks at the thought of John on the other side of the wall, naked and wet, cleaning himself. 

John was here . He had slept under Sherlock’s roof last night, woken up, and taken a shower. Showering implied home . Showering implied staying . 

Sherlock was almost mad at himself for letting a notion as ridiculously simple as a morning shower invoke butterflies in his stomach, but he supposed that when it came to John Watson, Sherlock had been a slave to his baser impulses far longer than he liked to admit. 

Sherlock took a deep, shaky breath and tried to think of something, anything else. The two of them had just started to repair this tenuous thing between them. The last thing he wanted was to ruin it by lusting after John like some randy teenager. He tried to distract himself by thinking about the case he had been working on (a client who believed her sister might actually be a clone). After John had gone to bed, he had sent a few emails to the client asking for follow up information and spent some time in his mind palace, trying to think of likely explanations for the weird phenomena his client had described. So far, he had three theories; but the most likely one was that the client’s sister was, in fact, a clone. This was so laughably unlikely that it made the entire case call to Sherlock like a drug. He was excited to check his email and see if the client had written him back yet. 

All thoughts of the case left his mind when he heard the faint sound of humming coming from the other side of the wall. John Watson was in Sherlock’s shower, washing himself, and singing while he did it. This made it far more difficult for Sherlock to focus on anything else. John’s voice was gruff with early morning sleepiness, and Sherlock thought it was just about the loveliest thing he had ever heard. 

He decided that a quick wank wouldn’t go amiss, in order to clear his head. He slipped his hand under his pyjama bottoms, where his morning wood was already hard and eager for his hand. Sherlock wrapped his hand around himself, stroking as slowly as he could and trying to keep his breathing quiet. It was unlikely that John would be able to hear him through the door (especially over the humming), but Sherlock felt one could never be too careful. 

Part of him felt disgusted at himself for doing such a filthy act only feet away from his friend; especially when said friend had only just started trusting him again. However, a much larger part of him knew that there was no helping this when it came to John Watson. He affected Sherlock too deeply.

In Sherlock’s fantasy, John came out of the shower wearing just a towel and just so happened (for reasons unspecified by the fantasy) to walk into Sherlock’s room, catching him in the act. Fantasy John liked what he saw quite a bit, and decided to take Sherlock’s….problem…into his own hands. So to speak. 

Sherlock came quietly and messily. He cursed himself for forgetting the most basic of logistical concerns for wanking over your flatmate when they’re in the shower….it’s difficult to clean up. Sherlock wiped himself off with an old T-shirt and changed into cleaner pyjamas. He spent a few minutes standing in his bedroom, taking deep breaths to try and calm himself. Eventually he decided that he was just being stupid and walked into the kitchen. 

He was immediately struck by a delightful smell. He looked at the kitchen and saw two plates full of French toast, covered in syrup and strawberries. Sherlock gaped. 

John was still in the shower, but Sherlock assumed based on the fact that John had not yet eaten his own share that John was hoping the two of them would eat breakfast together. So Sherlock busied himself with emails (the client with the maybe-clone sister had not yet responded, to Sherlock’s dismay) until John came out of the shower. 

Sherlock immediately thanked himself for his foresight to take care of himself earlier, because otherwise he wasn’t sure how he could have possibly handled the sight of John in his dressing gown. He looked absolutely adorable. Sherlock wanted to hold him (or better yet, be held by him). He felt his cheeks start to tinge pink.

Get control over yourself. Sherlock chastised himself. It’s just John . 

“Good morning, you.” said John, with a smile, and it felt so domestic it made Sherlock’s heart skip a beat. 

“Good morning John.” said Sherlock, shyly. “I see you made us breakfast. That was very kind.”

“It’s been ages since I’ve had a good home cooked breakfast,” said John. “I thought it would be nice.”

“You had a home cooked breakfast yesterday!” Sherlock reminded him. “Remember? I cooked eggs.”

“Yes, and they were delicious ,” said John sarcastically, giving him a little wink. “But I trust you’ll like this breakfast even more. Just let me wake up Rosie and we can all eat together.” 

Rosie was in a delightful mood when John came back downstairs with her in his arms. 

“Good morning, Watson,” said Sherlock. “Are you excited for breakfast?”

Rosie giggled. John placed a soft kiss on the top of her head.

“What do you have on today?” John asked, setting down his child and digging into his toast. 

“Nothing in particular,” said Sherlock. “I’m waiting for an email from a client with a rather interesting case. Until then, I’m just going through my emails, trying to find something that isn’t dreadfully boring.”

He took a bite of his toast. It was delightful. 

“Hmm.” said John. “Sounds nice. I’m thinking of writing up the Fendry case for the blog.”

“Oh,” said Sherlock. “I suppose that’s a good idea.”

“But I had some questions,” said John. “Have you been in contact with Greg about how the case wrapped up? I’ve read some of the articles about it, but they don’t seem to tie up all the loose ends.” 

“Yeah, I’ve talked to Greg. What are you curious about?”

“Well, it seems like Aaron, his father, and Damien have all been arrested.” John began. “But the article didn’t mention anything about….about Phillip.”

Sherlock nodded. Right. He had neglected to tell John about this, partly to spare himself the awkward conversation it would lead to. 

“They didn’t arrest Phillip. I asked them not to. I…I didn’t press charges. And as he had no knowledge of Aaron’s wrongdoings, and was the one who brought the case to my attention in the first place, the police saw no reason for charging him with a crime.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “He tried to kill us, Sherlock!”

Sherlock shrugged. “We’re all guilty of stupid things in the heat of the moment.”

He made eye contact with John, and John’s cheeks burned red. He knew they were both thinking of the same thing; the desperate and passionate kiss between the two of them, initiated by John, done with the supposed intent of convincing Phillip that they were a couple. The kiss that had felt confusingly, maddeningly real .

“So he’s…..still out there?” asked John, his voice angry. 

“Yes.” said Sherlock. 

“Have you heard from him?” asked John. 

“Yes.” said Sherlock, confused as to why this seemed to bother John so much. John’s attitude at the moment reminded Sherlock of the way John had acted all those years ago when they had first met Irene. Sherlock didn’t know how to categorise this version of John, but he was intrigued. 

Phillip had texted Sherlock a few days prior, saying simply:

Thanks for getting me off the hook there. I’m sorry for how things escalated back there, but I’m sure you of all people understand. Thanks for finding the truth about my brother. If you’re ever in Fendry, give me a call. 

Sherlock had responded:

The pleasure was all mine. Likewise, if you’re ever in London. SH

“So are you….going to see him again?” asked John, and he looked like he was desperately trying to keep his composure. 

“I….perhaps. I invited him to give me a call if he was ever in London.”

John nodded, and pushed away the rest of his breakfast. 

“Did you have any other questions about the case?” Sherlock asked. 

“Not particularly.” said John, and Sherlock had the strangest impression that he didn’t feel like talking anymore. 

***

John didn’t attempt to work on the blog post for the rest of the day. Sherlock attempted to focus on his own work (if you could call solving cold cases over twitter “work”), but he found it hard to focus. John spent most of the day in his room, unpacking him and Rosie’s belongings and organising the room to his liking, but Sherlock couldn’t help feeling like John was avoiding him. 

Sherlock decided to give John some space. He figured that moving into a new place, even temporarily, was a big adjustment; and as such John should be granted some time alone. He decided to go visit Molly.

He found her in the morgue at Bart’s, bending over the cadaver of a mid-60s software engineer (the wrists). She beamed when she saw him entering.

“Sherlock!” she said, looking genuinely delighted to see him. “It’s been ages!”

Had it been ages? He supposed it had. 

“What brings you in today?” she asked cheerfully, bending back over the corpse. 

“Bored.” said Sherlock, simply, grabbing a chair and moving to sit next to her. 

“Aneurysm,” he deduced, looking at the corpse. “Boring.”

“To you, maybe.” said Molly. “But it does fascinating things to the brain.”

“I’ve seen what a brain looks like following an aneurysm, Molly.” replied Sherlock, deadpan. “If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. Nothing new to glean from this particular corpse.”

Molly shrugged. “Well, if you’re not interested in my corpse, why are you here?” 

Sherlock shrugged. “Trying to give John some space.”

Molly froze and looked up. 

“Yeah?” she asked. “Why’s that? Last I heard, the two of you were out of town working on a case together. John was telling me about it.”

“Yep.” said Sherlock. 

“How did that go?”

“Fine,” said Sherlock. “Solved it.”

“So….why do you feel like you need to give him space?”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “I don’t know. He’s living with me again. Temporarily. I don’t want to overwhelm him.”

Molly gaped. “He’s living at Baker Street?”

“Yes.” said Sherlock, picking up a knife and fidgeting with it. “As of yesterday.”

“Oh! But that’s wonderful!” said Molly. “So…you’ve worked it all out then?” 

“Worked what out?” snapped Sherlock. “He’s just trying to stay somewhere less triggering for him. That’s all.”

“Oh,” said Molly, softly. “So the two of you, you’re not…”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Not what?” he asked, not allowing himself a moment to feel guilty about his icy tone. 

“Not…together?” Molly asked, seeming genuinely confused.  Sherlock stared at her.

“Why would we be together ?”

Sherlock knew it had been a few weeks since he and Molly had spoken. But he also remembered their last conversation quite plainly, and remembered pining to Molly about how much distance was between him and John. 

Molly knew, more than perhaps anyone else, how broken and grief-stricken John had been over the past few months.  Molly also knew about the letters. About Sherlock’s accidental confession. Of how John had told Sherlock, in no uncertain terms, that he did not and could not return Sherlock’s feelings. 

Knowing all of that….why would Molly assume they were together?

“Oh,” said Molly, her face reddening. “No reason. I’m sorry. I just assumed.”

Sherlock glared at her. “Why in the world would that be a natural assumption to make? After the many many times that John has made it clear to both of us that he’s not capable of wanting anything more from me!”

Sherlock was aware he was starting to shout. He let it happen. 

Molly smiled at him, kindly. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t upset me.” said Sherlock icily. “You’re just being stupid. I find it tiresome.”

Molly sighed, exaggeratedly. It was a testament to how much her confidence had grown over the past few years that she didn’t immediately shy away from his insults. 

“Is it very hard for you?” she asked. “Having him in your space again? Spending time with him? After all that’s happened between the two of you?”

Sherlock blinked, once again struck by how much Molly Hooper reminded him of Ella in her insightful observations and compassion. 

“Maybe a bit.” he said, feeling his shoulders relax as the anger dissipated off of him. “I guess that’s why I’m here. He’s been in his room all day. I thought he might be trying to avoid me.”

Molly laughed. “Oh, Sherlock!” she said. “I doubt he’s avoiding you. This is a big change for him. You need to give him time to find what’s natural for him again. It can’t just be exactly the way it was when you lived together in the past.”

Sherlock sighed. “I suppose,” he said. 

“Would you like to help me cut up Mr. Jenkins to take your mind off of it?”

“Mr. Jenkins?” asked Sherlock. Molly gestured to the very dead man lying beside them. Sherlock sighed. 

“I suppose,” he said. 

***

Sherlock left Bart’s Hospital feeling far more relaxed than he had when he had arrived, but something was still bothering him. Why would Molly assume that he and John were together? It didn’t make sense. 

Last I heard, the two of you were out of town working on a case together. John was telling me about it.

Sherlock wasn’t aware that John had talked to Molly while they were in Fendry. When would he even have had the time? John and Sherlock had spent all of their time together aside from the time that Sherlock had spent with Phillip (and the time when John had been held captive, but John certainly wouldn’t have been able to contact Molly then). 

Sherlock considered the order of events. 

Sherlock and Phillip spend the night together. John calls Molly. Next time Sherlock sees Molly, she assumes they are romantically involved.

Sherlock felt the beginnings of the familiar rush he got when he was close to solving a particularly difficult case, but he pushed it down. It wouldn’t do to dwell on such things. That way lay madness.

Sherlock walked around London for another half hour or so, before deciding that he really ought to get back home. Avoiding him or not, John would start to wonder where he had gone. 

He walked back into Baker Street and hung up his coat. He saw John sitting in his armchair, looking at him guiltily. John had a glass of liquor in his hands. 

Ah. All of a sudden, it became clear to Sherlock why John had been avoiding him. 

Of course , thought Sherlock. John had been in desperate need of a drink, but he had been embarrassed? Scared? Ashamed? To do so in front of Sherlock. 

“You don’t have to hide your drinking from me.” said Sherlock, bluntly. 

John sighed. “I know,” he said. “I just feel bad. I don’t want to…”

“Seeing you drink is not going to trigger me into using, John.” said Sherlock. “I’m in a good place right now. At least as far as my addiction goes.”

It was true. Sherlock had relapsed hard earlier that year, but he found that his urges to use had diminished considerably since he started seeing Ella. They were still there, lying noticeably underneath the surface, making themselves painfully evident any time Sherlock was a little too bored. But they were controllable. And they certainly weren’t worsened by the sight of John Watson with a drink in his hand. If nothing else, seeing John struggling made Sherlock feel determined to help, like this was his purpose. 

I’ve been through this. I know this feeling. Maybe I can help you. 

John sighed. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I don’t want to…drag you down with me.”

“You won’t.” said Sherlock, feeling a rush of affection for this man who had been avoiding him all day only to protect him. It was so John .

John took a big gulp from his cup. 

“I don’t know why I can’t stop.” he said. 

“You’re a doctor, John. You know how addiction works. You know what it does to your brain.” 

“I do know,” said John. “Theoretically. But I guess I always thought….”

“You’d be the exception?” asked Sherlock. 

“Yeah.” said John. “It’s stupid. I know.”

“Believe me,” said Sherlock. “It’s not. You know me. You know how arrogant I can be. I never thought I’d be the type of person to be incapacitated by sheer want of a substance. I always thought I’d be above it. Stronger than it.”

John nods. “Yeah.” he said. “Exactly that. It almost makes me want to call Harry and apologise to her for not being more understanding.”

“Then why don’t you?” asked Sherlock. 

John shrugged. “I don’t want her to worry.”

Sherlock nodded. 

“Rosie’s in bed?” he asked. 

John nodded. “Yeah. Just got her down. What have you been up to all day?”

“Cutting up cadavers with Molly.” answered Sherlock. At the mention of Molly’s name, John flinched. He met Sherlock’s eyes for a second, then looked away, feigning nonchalance. 

“Sounds like fun,” said John, his tone careful. 

Sherlock definitely hadn’t imagined it. John had said something to Molly. Something he didn’t want Sherlock to know. Something that caused Molly to assume they were together. 

Stop . Sherlock told his brain. It could be unrelated. 

It was completely possible that the conversation John had shared with Molly had nothing to do with the reason that Molly had assumed they were together.  Sherlock reminded himself not to jump to erroneous conclusions. 

“Wanna watch a film?” asked John. 

Sherlock nodded, pushing away thoughts of Molly’s conversation with John. 

“That sounds nice.”

***

The next day, John was back to working on the Fendry blog post again. It was easy enough for John to write up his own memories and observations about their time on the case, but naturally Sherlock had to fill in a lot of the gaps about his deductions of the victims. Unfortunately, a fair bit of the case hinged on valuable information Sherlock had gleaned from his time with Phillip, which always made John inexplicably decide to end the conversation all together.

“Did you dislike him?” Sherlock had asked that afternoon. 

“Dislike who?” asked John, but his careful tone of voice told Sherlock that John absolutely knew who he was asking about. 

“Phillip.” said Sherlock. 

John sighed. “I don’t know the man, Sherlock. I don’t have an opinion on him. Except for the fact that he tried to kill us.”

“Aaron and Nate also tried to kill us. But you don’t act weird when I talk about them.”

“Oy, I’m not acting weird .”

“You absolutely are.” said Sherlock. “Is it because we had sex? Is that why hearing about Phillip bothers you?”

John flinched and Sherlock saw him clench his fists. 

“It doesn’t bother me, Sherlock.” 

“It clearly does! And you’re never going to get this blog post finished if you keep clamming up every time we talk about Phillip, who, in case you’ve forgotten, was the client in this case. So let’s talk about it. Let’s clear the air and get it out there in the open. Phillip and I had sex our last night in Fendry. Happy? Do you want to know the details? I’m sure that you’ll be thrilled to hear that we both -”

“Alright stop!” shouted John, his face turning white. “I really, really don’t want to hear about it. I’ll stop being weird, alright? Just don’t tell me any details, please.” 

“But I want to know why it bothers you. You’ve had sex with plenty of our clients and I never complained!”

John sighed. “Yes but you didn’t, Sherlock. In the entire time that I’ve known you, you’ve never pursued a romantic or sexual relationship with anyone . What changed? Why now? Why him ?” John uttered the last word with such utter, pure disdain that it made Sherlock flinch. 

“I…I don’t need to defend myself to you.” said Sherlock, and he was surprised at how hurt his voice sounded. 

John closed his eyes and immediately softened. He was quiet for a few moments. “No, you’re right. You don’t owe me an explanation. I’m sorry. You can do whatever you want, with whoever you want. It’s none of my business. It just….surprised me is all.” 

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, not knowing what to say. The truth of the matter is that he had slept with Phillip because he had grown tired of constantly being unwanted by the object of his affection. It had felt nice to, for once, want and be wanted in return. He didn’t know how to explain that to John. 

“I get lonely sometimes, John,” said Sherlock quietly. “That’s all it was.”

John met his eyes, and there was an almost determined gleam in them, as if John was working himself up to say something, but the look passed as quickly as it had come. John took a deep breath. 

“That makes sense, Sherlock. Of course you get lonely. We all do. I’m sorry for prying.” 

“It’s alright.” said Sherlock. “Do you need anything else for the blog?”

John shook his head. “I think I’m good. For now.”

After that, John’s writing process seemed to go a lot smoother. He still had some questions for Sherlock, but seemed less bothered when Phillip came up. Sherlock could still see a flicker of discomfort in John’s eyes, but he tried to take it in stride. 

It was all so confusing. If Sherlock didn’t know better, he would have said that John was jealous . Sherlock was particularly talented at diagnosing jealousy. But Sherlock did know better. John couldn’t be jealous. John knew how Sherlock felt about him. If John had any desire to be in a romantic relationship with Sherlock, he would have said something on the many opportunities he had been given to admit his reciprocal feelings, instead of clinging to his disinterest in men generally and Sherlock specifically. 

Sherlock did briefly consider the possibility that John was in denial about his feelings and dealing with some internalised homophobia. It was possible, especially considering John’s background and family history. But the sheer amount of jealousy coming from John seemed to be at a level of extremity that suggested that John was aware of it. 

And then there was that kiss . Try as he might, Sherlock couldn’t quite erase it from his brain. That kiss had meant something, he felt almost positive. Sherlock had never been kissed that lovingly in all his life. 

The evidence all pointed towards….an intriguing puzzle, if nothing else, and Sherlock was in desperate need of a puzzle. 

***

An opportunity provided itself for Sherlock sooner than he would have expected. John posted his new blog entry on Friday, which gave a significant traffic boost to their website. The post had been notably well written (for John’s blog, that is) and seemed to garner a good amount of interest from the general public. Sherlock had been surprised to get a text message about it from a very particular friend. 

Phillip Gardiner himself had written: 

John’s writing isn’t half bad. And I’m a professional, I know these things. 

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile at the message. He felt a sense of secondhand pride on John’s behalf. 

“What’s got you smiling like that?” asked John, who had just sat down on the sofa with Rosie in his arms, bouncing her on his knee to get her to stop fussing. 

Sherlock’s first instinct was to keep the message to himself, considering John’s habit of clamming up when Phillip’s name was mentioned. But Sherlock figured this might be the perfect opportunity to gather data in regards to John’s feelings, so he said: 

“It’s Phillip. He saw your blog post and sent me a text. He thinks your writing is good.”

There. Let John come to the entirely erroneous conclusion that Sherlock’s blushing and smiling was due to the message’s sender, and not its subject. 

As expected, John’s face started to grow red. The tempo of his leg bounces slowed considerably, leading to some impatient whimpers from Rosie. 

“Oh. Erm. Tell him thanks, I suppose.” John said. 

Sherlock made a big show of typing on his phone, pretending to think carefully about his response, aware of John’s eyes on him. 

When he actually responded, what he said was:

I certainly think he’s got something special. SH

Sherlock hit ‘send’ on the text and looked up at John, who was looking at him with an expression that Sherlock could only classify as longing .

Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. 

Sherlock sat for a while, with his hands clasped together and fingertips to his lips, trying to find the missing puzzle piece that would make this all make sense. 

***

John had his therapy appointment the next day. He came back home with his eyes red and water rimmed, but in generally good spirits. 

“How did your session with Ella go?” Sherlock asked, laying on the floor with Rosie. Sherlock had spent the afternoon organising Rosie’s toys from order of least to most intellectually stimulating. It was no surprise to him that Rosie seemed to vastly prefer the toys that offered the largest challenge. She was certainly her father’s daughter. 

“It went well,” said John, with a soft smile. “She seemed proud of me.” 

“She should be.” said Sherlock, smiling up at John. “You’ve made a lot of progress. Especially recently. Just coming here has been a huge step.”

“Yeah,” said John. “I think so too.” 

“Has it been….good for you? So far?” asked Sherlock, slightly nervous about what John would say. 

John’s expression turned into a small little smile. 

“Sherlock,” he said. “Staying with you these last few days has brought me the kind of happiness I didn’t realise I was still capable of.”

Sherlock had absolutely no idea what to make of that .

***

The invitation came three days later, when Sherlock was still in bed.

As luck would have it, I’m going to be in London for three days this weekend. Would you like to meet up? I’d love to see that lovely arse again xxx

Sherlock’s eyes widened, and he had to blink several times before he was sure of what he had read. He hadn’t considered the possibility of a follow-up sexual encounter with Phillip, but found he was more than interested.  Living with John had been lovely, phenomenal, joyous….and frustrating. It was frustrating in many different ways. Sherlock was frustrated that he couldn’t solve John’s alcoholism in one night, he was frustrated that he couldn’t figure out why John was behaving so oddly around him, but strongest of all of his frustrations was the sexual type.

Sherlock had no idea how he had been able to (mostly) ignore his sexual feelings for John in the 18 months they had lived together before Sherlock fell. It must have been due to the fact that Sherlock had been strictly celibate, and never allowed himself time to focus on satisfying (or even acknowledging) his libido. 

Now that Sherlock was (somewhat) sexually active, being this close to John had been mind numbingly erotic. Sherlock had wanked more times in the last week than he had in the last three months combined. 

The idea of seeing Phillip and finally being able to blow off some steam certainly had its appeal. The idea of watching John’s face when he told him that he was planning to see Phillip was doubly appealing. 

That sounds intriguing. SH

Phillip responded with an up close image of his cock.

Sherlock was momentarily taken aback, and was relieved that he was in the privacy of his room instead of out in the sitting room, where John could see. He had no idea how John would react to that . 

He zoomed in on the image. He recognized Phillip’s patterned sheets underneath him, which brought to mind all of the filthy things the two of them had done together. He remembered laying on the sheets, grinding against Phillip until they both reached completion. He started to stroke himself lazily. 

It took him a while to remember that Phillip must have noticed by now that Sherlock had “seen” his message and hadn’t yet responded. Sherlock was certainly no expert in the intricacies of sexting etiquette, but he figured that as much as he was enjoying this photo, it would be nice of him to return the favour. 

He shimmed out of his pants and dressing gown and opened the camera app on his phone. He angled it above himself, taking a photo of his hard cock against his stomach. He pressed ‘send’.

He waited anxiously for a moment, wondering if Phillip would respond, but he needn’t have worried. He got a message back before the minute was up. 

Lovely. Let me see that arse of yours?

Sherlock gulped, and rolled over to his front. He took a tasteful (he hoped) picture of his backside and sent it to Phillip. 

Phillip once again responded immediately. 

Lovely. 

Attached was a video of Phillip stroking his cock. Sherlock gulped and increased the tempo of his hand. 

In a way, Sherlock was proud of himself. He almost exclusively thought about John when he touched himself. He often tried to think about other things, but at the end of the day, when he was close to orgasm and thus less guarded, he always thought about John. About the broad length of his shoulders, the firm expanses of his chest and stomach. About the soft interior underneath the bold and brave exterior, about the man who loved and loved fiercely. About the soft feeling of his fingers when the two of them brushed hands, even for a moment. 

It wasn’t until it was a little too late that Sherlock realised he was doing it once again; thinking about John while he touched himself. He felt the waves of his orgasm start its journey through his body, and upon finding it was too late to course correct, allowed it to pulse through him. 

He wasn’t quite sure how to respond to Phillip in a situation like this, but was spared when he received the message:

Fuck, haven’t come that hard in ages. Not since we were together.

Likewise SH

Sherlock was lying. It was no more intense than the orgasms he had been experiencing daily thanks to John’s near constant presence. But in this situation, he felt a lie may be preferable to the truth. 

Excited to see you. :)

Likewise SH

This time, Sherlock didn’t even have to lie. 

***

Sherlock and Phillip arranged to meet up that Friday. Sherlock’s appointment with Ella was on Thursday, which he was extremely thankful for, because he had no idea how to navigate all the emotions he had leading up to his date with Phillip.

On the day of the appointment, Sherlock entered Ella’s office slightly on edge, having no idea what direction this appointment was going to go. 

“John’s living with me again.” he said, before Ella had a chance to even open her mouth. “I know you probably know that. Since you’re John’s therapist, too. But that’s part of what I wanted to talk about.” 

Ella smiled. “And how has that been for you this last week, Sherlock? Having John back in close quarters with you again?”

Sherlock thought for a long time. 

“It’s been nice. But….confusing. At the same time.”

“I see. And how has it been confusing?”

Sherlock fidgeted, uncomfortably. It was quite likely that whatever reason there was for John’s weird recent behaviour, that Ella was aware of it. And it was absolutely guaranteed that she was not allowed to talk about it. Sherlock hoped that it wouldn’t bar him from talking about how the situation affected him, because it was getting quite frustrating. 

“John’s behaviour towards me recently has been…..not quite what I would expect.”

Ella nodded. “In what way?” she asked. 

Sherlock took a deep breath. “There’s been a lot of things recently. He’s been more….affectionate towards me, for one.”

“Physically?” 

“No,” said Sherlock. “Not physically. But…verbally. It’s not quite in line with what I remember from before I left.”

“What part of that is confusing to you?” asked Ella.

Sherlock shrugged. “It all seemed to….come out of nowhere. A month ago, he was still avoiding me. I’m not quite sure what to make of it.”

Ella nodded. “I see. Have you considered that perhaps he just wants to be more honest with you? And that what you’re perceiving as affection might just be John finally being genuine?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. I have. And if that’s John being genuine, then I don’t know what to make of that. But then there’s….the Phillip thing.”

“The Phillip thing?” asked Ella. 

Sherlock had not yet discussed Phillip with Ella. He had only had one therapy session since returning to Fendry, and they had focused mostly on Sherlock’s overwhelming feeling of dread that accompanied the end of a case; his gloomy anticipation of the end of the high and return of the boredom. 

“Yeah. When John and I were in Fendry, I had a bit of a romantic fling with the client.”

“I see.” said Ella, and Sherlock was impressed with her professionalism. He truly could not tell if Ella had heard this story from John or not. “And how does that relate to your current confusion about your friendship with John?”

“John is acting….almost jealous? He gets defensive and even angry when I bring him up.”

“Are you bringing him up often?” asked Ella. 

Sherlock shrugged. “John and I have been working on the blog post for the case. John has asked me a lot of questions about how I deduced certain things, and we’ve inevitably had to talk about the client. I have not spoken to John about the details of our relationship, however. But he just….doesn’t like to hear about him.” 

“I see,” said Ella. “Have you asked John about his off-nominal behaviour?”

“Yes.” said Sherlock. “He said he was just surprised that I pursued a relationship with anyone. He cited the fact that I haven’t had a relationship in the entire time we’ve known each other. He claims that’s all it is, but it doesn’t quite fit, in my opinion. His reactions seem more dramatic than they would be if he were just surprised. He doesn’t seem surprised, he seems….unhappy.”

“I see,” said Ella. “And why does that bother you?”

“Because I’m starting to think he might be in love with me,” said Sherlock. He rushed out the words, and they felt foreign on his lips. He felt almost embarrassed to admit his suspicion to Ella. 

“Sherlock,” began Ella. “As much as I enjoy having the privilege to treat you and John simultaneously, you must know that this conversation borders on unethical for -”

“I know,” said Sherlock. “I know. But what am I supposed to do?” asked Sherlock. “Just ask him if he’s in love with me?”

“That could be a strategy you choose to employ, yes.”

“What if he lies? What if he says he still isn’t?”

“Then you have to believe him,” said Ella. “It is absolutely paramount that we believe the people we love when they tell us things about themselves. Even if it doesn’t fit the picture we have of them in our head.”

“I have a date tomorrow.” interrupted Sherlock. “With the client, from Fendry. His name is Phillip.”

Ella’s eyes widened. “Oh!” she said. “I didn’t realise this was an ongoing relationship.”

“It wasn't,” said Sherlock. “It’s not. He knows how I feel about John. And Phillip is also in love with someone else.”

“So what is this relationship to you?”

“I don’t know,” said Sherlock, truthfully. “A distraction? A cure for loneliness?” A test of John’s feelings for me ? he thought, but decided to keep that part to himself. 

“I see,” said Ella. “Is this why you’re concerned about John’s odd behaviour? You don’t want to further his jealousy if he is, as you suspect, in love with you?” 

“That’s certainly part of it,,” said Sherlock. “I’ve spent most of my adult life denying myself relationships of any kind. But I’ve found that I’m open to the possibility of continuing to see Phillip, every now and then, when the two of us are in the same town. If nothing else, it helps me deal with the unrequited nature of my feelings for John. But the fact that my association with Phillip upsets John worries me. I don’t want to make him angry with me. I only just got him back.”

Ella took a deep breath, and Sherlock could tell she was irritated. He didn’t know whether the irritation was towards himself, or John, or both of them. 

“It is not your responsibility to protect John from his own feelings of jealousy, if jealousy is indeed what he’s feeling.” Ella supplied. “You are not, currently, in a monogamous relationship with John Watson. You are allowed to date other men.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “I know that,” he said. “But I don’t want to date other men. Not if John’s open to something deeper between us. But if he was open to that, why wouldn’t he just say something? He knows how I feel. He knows that he could prevent me from ever seeing Phillip again with a single word. But he hasn’t said anything. Which leads me to believe….that he doesn’t love me. Which is consistent with what he’s always told me. But it contradicts everything I’ve deduced with my own eyes. It’s maddening.”

“Your only option, Sherlock, is to just ask him.” she said, matter-of-factly. “If he says he’s not interested in you, it might be time for you to give up the hope of being with him, once and for all. And then you can feel free to pursue Phillip without any guilt. If John is interested, well then, that’s wonderful. But all you can do is ask.”

“And what if he gets angry at me for asking?” asked Sherlock. “What do I do then?”

Ella looked at him sadly. “Do you really want to be friends with someone who would react with anger to such a simple question?”

Sherlock thought long and hard about this. He loved John, and he knew he always would. He knew there was no version of Sherlock Holmes in any universe that was capable of knowing John Watson and not loving him deeply and profoundly. However, Sherlock also knew something that he didn’t know three months ago - that he, Sherlock Holmes, was worthy of love and respect. He was someone who should not allow his best friend to treat him with cruelty. 

John had improved dramatically since that horrible afternoon in Culverton Smith’s morgue, but Sherlock also knew he had a long way to go and was still working on himself actively. 

“No.” he said. “I suppose I don’t.” 

***

Sherlock told John about the date the moment he got home. 

John was sprawled on the floor of the flat, lying on his side while Rosie was on her stomach. They were playing with her set of block toys ( far more elementary of a toy than she prefers , thought Sherlock) and John seemed to be trying his best to fake enthusiasm for his daughter. 

“How was Ella?” asked John. 

“She was….good.” said Sherlock. “John I….I have to tell you something.”

John looked up, his brow tensed in concern. “Yeah? Is everything all right?”

“Yeah. Everything is fine. It’s just….” Sherlock took a deep breath. “I have a date tomorrow night. With Phillip.”

John’s eyes widened. He froze for several seconds, not saying anything at all. 

“John?”

John snapped out of whatever trance he was in. “You and Phillip. You’re….dating?”

Sherlock nodded. “Well, it’s just one date. He’s in London this weekend. We thought we might meet up for dinner.”

“Oh.” said John, his voice pitched up. “That’s….that’s great! I’m happy for you.” he smiled at Sherlock, but the smile didn’t quite meet his eyes.

“I thought I should tell you….in case you had a problem with it. In case you….didn’t want me to go on the date.”

John blinked. “Of course I want you to go!” he said, his tone defensive. “Why wouldn’t I want you to go?”

Sherlock made eye contact with John, waiting, hoping for him to change his mind, to say something, anything. John didn’t.

Well , thought Sherlock. I suppose that’s that.

It is absolutely paramount that we believe the people we love when they tell us things about themselves , Ella had said.

“No reason.” said Sherlock, retreating into his bedroom. 

Well, he had his answer. John was okay with him dating Phillip. Sherlock must have misread something. John was not in love with him. 

Sherlock laughed bitterly to himself. How had he let himself get his hopes up? How had he been so convinced, so sure that John felt something for him, when John had been telling him for years that he didn’t?

Sherlock felt foolish. On the bright side, soon he would get to have a fancy dinner with an attractive man whose company Sherlock genuinely enjoyed. He would get to have satisfying sex with this man, and hopefully be so swept up in it that he wouldn’t have time to be sad about losing what brief hope he had been holding on to in regard to John’s feelings. 

***

On Friday morning, John was noticeably quiet and withdrawn. He still made Sherlock breakfast, which had become a habit between the two of them, but was far less conversational with Sherlock than Sherlock had grown used to. 

“How did you sleep?” asked Sherlock, trying to hide the concern from his voice. 

John smiled in a way that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Not great,” he admitted. “Had trouble falling asleep. And then Rosie woke me up bright and early.”

Rosie was sitting in her chair, giggling, and playing with the peas her father was trying to feed her. John sighed as Rosie dropped a handful of mashed peas into her hair. 

Sherlock tried to hide his smile. “She certainly seems to be well rested.” 

John sighed. “Apparently.” 

“Why don’t you go upstairs and get some sleep?” asked Sherlock. “Rosie and I can keep each other company for the next few hours.”

John looked up at Sherlock, conflicted. “You’re sure?” he asked. “She’s sort of a handful right now.” 

“I’m sure I can handle it.” said Sherlock, kindly, turning to Rosie.

“How do you feel about spending today with me, huh Watson?” he said with a smile on his face. Rosie grinned at the attention, and babbled excitedly. 

“She seems fine with it.” said Sherlock playfully, looking back at John. 

John was smiling fondly, watching Sherlock interact with his daughter. 

“If you’re sure.” he said. “I could use the rest.”

“Absolutely.” said Sherlock, grabbing a serviette and beginning to wipe the mashed peas from Rosie’s hair. 

John sat up from the chair, smiling down at Sherlock and Rosie for a few moments. Suddenly, he placed his hands in Sherlock’s hair, ruffling it. 

“Thanks,” he said, with a smile. “I appreciate it.” The contact ended almost as quickly as it had began.

With that, John went back up the stairs. 

Sherlock started at him for a moment, mouth agape, almost forgetting about Rosie and her mashed peas. 

John had never touched him like that before. It was so….affectionate. Playful. Intimate without being sexual. Loving without being overtly romantic, but toeing the line just enough to drive Sherlock mad. 

Once he heard the sound of John’s door closing shut, he cleared his throat. 

“What was that, Rosie?” asked Sherlock under his breath. “Your daddy is incredibly confusing.”

Rosie babbled loudly. 

“Yes, yes, you make a good point.” responded Sherlock. “I’m reading too much into it. It was just a friendly gesture.” 

Rosie made a sound that almost sounded like a scoff. 

“Have you ever seen your daddy ruffle anyone’s hair like that before?” asked Sherlock, wondering how insane someone had to be to be having a conversation about their love life with a baby. 

Rosie made a babbling noise, but Sherlock decided it might as well have been a negation. 

“That’s what I thought.” he sighed, taking Rosie into the bathroom to give her a much needed bath. 

***

John slept for about three hours, and when he came back downstairs he seemed in noticeably better spirits. He watched Rosie and Sherlock play blocks for a few minutes before taking Rosie back upstairs for her nap.

“Thanks for that.” said John when he was back in the sitting room. “Rosie loves playing with you. And I really needed the rest.”

“No problem.” said Sherlock. “Is everything all right? Anything particular keeping you up at night?” Such as a date that you don’t want me to go on? For some inexplicable reason? Since you don’t, in fact, love me?

As Sherlock thought these words, he found that he didn’t even believe them anymore. Sometime in the last 24 hours he had stopped doubting, entirely, the fact that John had romantic feelings for him. Had it been the hair ruffle? The expression on John’s face when he watched Sherlock and Rosie play? The bags under John’s eyes, telling a story of a restless night’s sleep? Sherlock couldn’t say exactly what the missing puzzle piece had been. All he knew for sure was that John loved him and refused to say so. It was maddening. 

It is absolutely paramount that we believe the people we love when they tell us things about themselves , Sherlock reminded himself.

Love him or not, John had made his decision clear. John did not want to be with him. Sherlock supposed he had no choice but to accept it. Sherlock also found himself grateful to have plans later that night. It would be good to spend a few hours not thinking about John.

Sherlock spent two hours trying to pick out the perfect outfit. He had three possible options for a shirt: dark blue, light salmon, and white. They all had their pros and cons. 

The blue was the best contrast to Sherlock’s skin, but it looked possibly a little too fancy for the night they were planning. 

White was probably most appropriate for the restaurant Phillip had picked, but had the disadvantage of being easy to get messy. 

The salmon was the perfect middle of the road pick; wouldn’t show stains as easily, but didn’t look quite as fancy. 

Sherlock decided to employ John’s help in the matter. He left his bedroom in pyjama pants and the salmon shirt. 

“What do you think about this shirt?” asked Sherlock. “For the date?”

John’s eyes widened, and he spent several moments staring at Sherlock’s chest, blinking. 

“I - I haven’t seen that shirt before.”

“No one has, it’s new.” said Sherlock. “Do you think it’s a good date shirt?” 

John blinked a few more times, seemingly unable to take his eyes off of Sherlock’s chest. 

“N-no.” stammered John. “No, I think it looks too….too showy. Maybe something less…vibrant.”

Sherlock was disappointed. “I see,” said Sherlock. “I have a white shirt, I’ll change into that.”

He turned around and walked back into his bedroom, thinking that if the salmon shirt was too vibrant, it was good that he hadn’t tried on the blue shirt for John. 

“Wait, Sherlock?”

Sherlock spun around. 

John was looking at the ground, looking furious with himself.

“Ignore me.” he said. “I’m being an arse. The shirt is perfect.”

“You said it was too vibrant.” 

“Yeah but vibrant’s good,” said John. “It suits you. You’re vibrant. Not to mention….that shirt shows off your chest. Really well.”

Sherlock felt his face flush, and it was his turn to look down at the floor. 

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock said. “Salmon shirt it is.”

***

Sherlock took a long, indulgent shower; making sure to thoroughly clean every part of him that Phillip had a chance of seeing that night. He spent thirty minutes paralysed over which cologne to choose, before finally settling on the one that historically had attracted the most women. He didn’t know if men would respond the same way to the scent, but he had a frustrating lack of data when it came to men’s attraction to him. He wished he knew which of these colognes had the best effect on John, but John had always seemed to respond the same way to Sherlock regardless of what he smelled like. Sherlock had always taken it as a sign of unwavering disinterest, but he wondered now if it had been more of the opposite. 

He was perfectly dressed to go with 30 minutes to spare before he needed to leave, but found that he didn’t know what to do with his anxious energy. He decided to leave early, and figure out a way to occupy his time once he got there. Maybe he could people-watch. People watching always entertained him for at least an hour. 

“I’m heading out.” said Sherlock, tersely, draping his scarf over his shoulders. By this point, Rosie was upstairs fast asleep. John was in his armchair, reading a novel (well, pretending to read. Sherlock noticed that he’d been on the same page for well over an hour).

“Okay.” said John, and his face looked conflicted. 

“Is everything all right?” asked Sherlock. Ask me to stay. Please ask me to stay.

John sighed. “I - I just thought I should probably tell you….”

Sherlock waited. 

“Erm. That I’m taking Rosie to try out a daycare in the morning. I thought it might be nice for her to see some kids her age. And for us to not always have a baby around. So if you’re not back until the morning….I might be gone.”

Sherlock’s heart sank.

“Very well. Thanks for the heads up.”

“That is, if you thought you would be out that long?”

Sherlock blinked. Was John trying to gauge whether or not he was planning on sleeping with Phillip? Why couldn’t people just be direct ?

“Yes, John, I imagine I won’t be back before the morning.” Sherlock certainly didn’t intend for his voice to come out sounding as icy as it did, but he found that he didn’t regret it. 

John nodded. “Alright.” 

Sherlock lingered at the doorway. One more chance. He would give John one more chance to ask him to stay. 

John said nothing. 

Sherlock sighed, and opened the door, and began the descent down the stairs.

“Sherlock, wait!”

John was standing at the top of the stairs. Sherlock turned around, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Yes, John?”

“Don’t go.”

“What?”

John took a deep breath. “Please, Sherlock. I know I shouldn’t ask. I know I have no right to ask. But please…..don’t go on this date with Phillip.”

“Tell me why.” Sherlock demanded, walking back up the stairs and into the flat. 

John looked relieved to see Sherlock backtracking his journey, but still had an expression of uncertainty across his face. 

“Just….please.” said John.

“Tell me why,” said Sherlock. “Or I go.”

John gave Sherlock a pleading expression.

“It seems like you already know why.” 

“I need to hear you say it, John.” 

John put his head in his hands.

"I…I can't . You and I just started talking again. It's too soon." 

"No, John. Look around. It's about to be too late ."

John’s eyes met Sherlock’s, and Sherlock knew that at that moment, the two of them were on the same page. Now or never. Shit or get off the pot .

John squared his shoulders, arranging himself in his signature soldier-like stance. His eyes focused intently on Sherlock’s, and Sherlock saw the body of John Watson be taken over my Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, the man who was pure courage and nerve, the man who had run after Sherlock without a second thought when Sherlock had first invited him to a crime scene all those years ago. 

"I love you." said John. He didn’t elaborate, but the words were out there and he couldn’t get them back, like a balloon let go from the slippery grasp of a young child.

"You said you didn't. You said you couldn't ." said Sherlock, needing this clarification.

"I know,” said John. “And I thought it was the truth. I was wrong. I didn't even realise it myself until…..until recently. Until I saw you with him . It drove me crazy."

Sherlock felt his chest seize up in anger. 

"You're telling me that you had absolutely no interest in making me yours until you saw someone else want me? Are you that childish? You have no interest in the shiny toy until another kid wants to play with it, and then you want it all to yourself?”

"It's not like that!" 

"Then what's it like?" 

“I would have figured it out eventually. If you hadn’t jumped.”

“Oh, so this is my fault.”

“I didn’t say that!”

“You didn’t have to!”

“Listen! I wasn’t done. I would have figured it out. I was on my way there. I had stopped dating entirely. I had told myself that all I wanted was just the life the two of us had together, that all I wanted was you , that I didn’t need a relationship with anyone else. If you had given me a few more months, I would have figured it out; that what I actually wanted was to be in a relationship with you . I had never felt that way about a man before. It was confusing.”

“Alright,” said Sherlock. “And you still didn’t figure it out afterwards? In the years we’ve had since I’ve returned?”

John sighed. “Sherlock, your death broke my heart. I had plenty of people suggest to me that maybe, the reason that I was so heartbroken by your loss was the fact that we were more than friends. But it hadn’t been that way with us. And I think I didn’t want to know. I was already hurting enough. Realising that the feelings I felt for you were love would have been too much to handle, I think. And then when you came back, there was Mary.”

John and Sherlock were both silent for a moment. This was the first time that John had spoken Mary’s name to Sherlock in a long time. Sherlock softened some, remembering John’s grief, not wanting to put pressure on such recent wounds. 

“I loved Mary,” said John quietly, somberly. “Or at least I wanted to. She was what I wanted to want. She was what I thought I should want. And she didn’t turn out to be any of those things. But that doesn’t change the fact that I tried really hard not to think about you when I was with Mary. I think I had a feeling, even then, that thinking about you, spending a lot of time with you….was not particularly faithful to Mary. I think Mary knew it too.”

Sherlock said nothing. John’s voice had started to break, and tears were falling slowly and steadily down his face. 

“I think I would have still figured it out eventually, if she hadn’t died.” John said. “In the brief period of time that we were married, we had already started to drift apart. Argue. I found myself spending longer and longer hours with you, and looking at other women on the bus…”

John sat down on his armchair, crying steadily into his hand. Sherlock fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and gently handed it to John. John blew his nose. 

“But she did die. And then I read your letters, found out you loved me. And god, Sherlock, what was I supposed to do? If I admitted to myself that any part of me loved you, that would have proved what an awful, terrible, undeserving husband I had been. Because who does that? Who marries another woman when they’re so deeply in love with their best friend?”

Sherlock looked at him kindly. “Someone who is deeply conflicted, and has been deeply hurt by the best friend in question,” he reminded John. “I am quite aware, John, that I never made it particularly easy to love me.”

John scoffed. “Don’t say that.” he said, wiping his eyes. “You make it easy to love you just by existing. Breathing. Loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done in my life. I was just too stupid to notice.”

“Well,” said Sherlock, with a small smile. “I always did say you were quite slow.”

John chuckled despite himself, wiping at his face gently. 

“And yes, it was seeing you with Phillip that finally brought me to my senses.” said John with a sigh. “I always was a jealous prick. I’m sorry about that. But seeing you flirt with him made me so viscerally upset that I just….couldn’t ignore it anymore.”

“And that’s why you kissed me,” said Sherlock. 

John’s eyes widened. They had managed to not acknowledge the kiss in any way since it had happened. “Yeah.” said John. “Sorry. I thought we might die and…..just had to know what it was like. To kiss you.”

“How was it?” asked Sherlock, cheekily.

John let out a bark of laughter. “It was incredible, you git. You know that.”

“I do know that.” said Sherlock, with a smile. “It was quite incredible.”

John chuckled to himself. “And then I talked to Ella, and she helped me realise how stupid I was for fighting against my feelings so hard.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” asked Sherlock. 

John sighed. “Because I didn’t want to let you down.”

“How could you possibly let me down by telling me you love me?”

John gestured to himself. “Look at me Sherlock!” He gestured to the drink in his hand. “Look at all the problems I have right now! I’m in no position to be….to be….someone’s boyfriend. I have so much work I still need to do on myself. I didn’t want to…get your hopes up and then let you down when I couldn’t be who you wanted me to be.”

“John! Look at me.” Sherlock commanded. John looked up at him, his blue eyes glimmering with tears.

“You will never disappoint me, John.” Sherlock said. “Ever.”

“But you were just starting to move on,” said John. “And I should be encouraging it. I know I should. I’m sure Phillip is way better for you than I am.”

“Don’t be an idiot, John.” said Sherlock, icily. “I’m not in love with Phillip. I don’t even care about him. And he’s not in love with me. The love of his life is currently awaiting a bloody prison sentence. We just both wanted a distraction from constantly pining over the men we are in love with.”

John sighed. “Well, still.” he said. “I should be letting you chase after that distraction.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Why would I want a distraction, when I have you?”

“But you don’t have me,” said John. “Didn’t you hear what I said? I can’t be your boyfriend right now.”

“I don’t need you to be,” said Sherlock, calmly. “All I need, all I’ve ever needed, is what we have right now. The two of us, living under one roof. Solving crimes together. Eating shit take away together. Helping Watson try on her new clothes together. That’s all I need. That’s all I could possibly need.”

John looked up at him, curiously. “So, in the future.” he started. “You don’t want….”

“Oh, want is a far different thing than need .” said Sherlock. “I want everything with you. But I am a patient man. I can wait.”

John sighed. “I don’t want you to have to wait for me.”

“I would love the pleasure of waiting for you.”

“It’s not fair of me to ask.”

“You’re not asking. I’m choosing.”

John looked up at him with a shy smile. “Yeah? You mean that?”

“I do.” said Sherlock. “On one condition.”

“What’s that?” asked John. 

“If I’m going to wait for you, you have to wait for me. No women. No dating. If I have to be celibate, so do you.”

John laughed. “Sherlock, I haven’t even looked at anyone else in months. No one but you. I promise you, that won’t be a problem.”

“Good.” said Sherlock. “Now if you’ll excuse me. I have a date to cancel.”

Chapter Text

John sat in his armchair, wiping his face, watching Sherlock fondly as he tried to find the right words to draft his text to Phillip. 

“How honest do you think I should be?” asked Sherlock. 

“Pretty damn honest, I’d say,” said John, gruffly. “Don’t want him thinking you’re still available.”

Sherlock smiled to himself lightly, enjoying the thought of being unavailable . He quickly drafted a message.

“How about this:'' Sherlock announced. “ I am terribly sorry for the inconvenience, but Captain John Hamish Watson, love of my life, has professed his undying love for me in a fit of jealousy at the thought of you and I coupling. I regret to say that I am now, unwaveringly, his and his alone, and can no longer see you. ”

John looked up at him from the armchair, a soft smile on his face. “That works.” he said, watching as Sherlock pressed the button to send the text. “Unwaveringly, huh?”

“Obviously, John. Do keep up.” 

“Has it always been this easy? This whole time, I could have just…told you how I felt?”

Sherlock looked at him, and it was a mark of how far he had come over the last few years that his face was filled with empathy.

“Yes and no,” said Sherlock. “Yes, I would have always accepted you with open arms if you told me you loved me. Well, not at first. Anytime after we met Irene. But no, you weren’t wrong to be wary of the challenges. I’m a difficult, damaged man. You’re a difficult, damaged man.”

John contemplated this for a moment, before a particular piece of information jumped out at him. “After we met Irene?”

“Yeah.” said Sherlock. “She’s been…helpful. Quite helpful.”

John hated himself for the rush of jealousy that ran through him. 

“What exactly has she been helping you with?” 

“You are jealous of Irene. I always suspected.” 

“That doesn’t answer my question.” John said, bitterly.

“She helps me with you, John,” said Sherlock. “She’s the one who helped me realise how I felt about you. She allows me to talk to her about you. For a long time, she’s the only one who knew.”

“She didn’t try to…you know…”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Seduce you?”

Sherlock laughed. “John, Irene is gay. She told you as much.”

“Oh,” said John, vaguely remembering the conversation he had with Irene what felt like a lifetime ago. 

“She’s, perhaps, the biggest advocate of a relationship between you and I.”

John felt sheepish. “I see,” said John. 

A moment passed, in which neither of them knew what to say. John had spent many long hours (and even days) sitting in comfortable silence with Sherlock, but he now found the silence to be somewhat awkward. 

The silence was broken by the familiar chime of Sherlock’s phone, alerting him that Phillip had responded. 

“What did he say?” asked John. 

“ Congratulations, you bastard .” read Sherlock aloud. They met each other’s eyes for a moment before both breaking out into laughter. 

“So….what now?” asked John hesitantly, not ready to meet Sherlock’s eyes. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” asked Sherlock. 

John took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said. “I do. I think we should. But not tonight?” He met Sherlock’s eyes, and found himself a little shocked at the compassion he saw there. “I’m a little raw tonight.” 

“That’s alright.” said Sherlock. “We’ll talk later. Whenever you’re ready. I can be patient.”

John burst into laughter, the type of belly-rumbling laugh that he hadn’t felt since long before Mary died. “You? Patient?” 

Sherlock looked at him defiantly. “I can be patient. Let me prove it to you.”

John shrugged. “Alright,” he said. “Then what do you want to do tonight? I still feel bad for ruining your plans.”

“James Bond marathon? The Daniel Craig ones?” asked Sherlock, a knowing smile in his expression. 

“Are you serious?”

“Of course.”

“Damn. You really do love me,” said John. 

“I keep telling you,” said Sherlock, reaching for the remote. 

***

John woke up the next morning to the cries of his daughter. 

He opened his eyes slowly, and blinked a couple times as the light from the window illuminated his surroundings. It took him a moment to remember where he was. He was on the sofa in the sitting room, still completely dressed. There was a blanket over him and a pillow underneath his head. 

“Good morning,” said Sherlock, who was sitting in the kitchen with a whimpering Rosie in his arms. “Sorry to wake you. I think your daughter wants your attention. She was good for the last hour or so.” 

John sat up and stretched. “Did I fall asleep during the movie last night?” 

“About an hour into Skyfall,” said Sherlock. “I was impressed you lasted as long as you did.” 

John laughed. “I like watching those movies with you,” he said. “Takes me back.”

“Yeah.” said Sherlock. “Me too.” 

He knew in that moment they were both remembering the same thing, the night years ago when John had just broken up with his girlfriend and Sherlock had agreed to spend the evening watching James Bond movies with him. In hindsight, John had no idea how he didn’t realise earlier how much Sherlock cared for him. He may not have been the most verbally affectionate in the past (in fact, he often bordered on being verbally abusive) but he showed John his love constantly. 

“Did you put this blanket over me?” asked John. 

“Yes.” said Sherlock. “I’m sorry, should I have woken you? I did think you might be more comfortable in your own bed, but you looked so peaceful.”

“No, it’s good,” said John. “I haven’t slept that soundly in a while. Has she…?”

“She’s already had breakfast,” said Sherlock. “I gave her those peas she likes.”

“Oh. Good.” said John, not knowing what to say to this but still quite touched. “Damn, what time is it?” 

“Just after 8,” Sherlock said. 

“Bugger,” said John. “I’m supposed to be touring a daycare with Rosie in….30 minutes.” He got up the sofa and ran to get ready. 

In the chaos of trying to make himself and Rosie look presentable enough to interact with strangers, John almost didn’t have time to think about what had happened the night before. He supposed it was for the best. He was worried about things with Sherlock feeling awkward or forced after his confession last night. After all, Sherlock had never been in any sort of sustained romantic relationship, as far as John could tell, and John wasn’t sure he would know how to act around someone who loved him and he loved in return, even if they weren’t ready to be together . Especially since they weren’t ready to be together. 

John sighed, giving himself one last glance over in the bathroom mirror before taking his daughter out of Sherlock’s arms and hurrying out the door. 

“You sure you don’t want me to come?” asked Sherlock. 

“No, it’s okay,” said John. “I’ll be alright. I can’t imagine touring children’s daycares will be much stimulation for you.” 

“You underestimate the amount of valuable data that can be gleaned from a place like that, John,” said Sherlock, with a wink, but he returned to the kitchen nonetheless. 

***

In the cab, John had plenty of time to reminisce about the previous night. Part of him felt embarrassed at how vulnerable he had been in front of Sherlock. Part of him felt relieved that he didn’t have to hide anything from Sherlock anymore. Part of him still felt regret at the lack of ability to commit fully to Sherlock. If only he had Ella to talk through some of these feelings with, but his next therapy session wasn’t for another few days.

The daycare was, as these things go, underwhelming. 

The staff was friendly, John texted on the cab ride home, after sending Sherlock a link to the daycare. The kids looked like they were having a good time. I dropped Rosie off for a trial day. She didn’t cry when I left. I suppose that’s a good sign. JW

So what’s the problem? SH

How did you know there was a problem? JW

Your punctuation. SH

John decided not to question this further. 

Am I a horrible father? Sending Rosie to a daycare when I don’t even have a job right now? JW

Sherlock’s response was immediate. 

NO. Rosie will benefit from being around other children. And she will benefit from you having time to sort out your own affairs. This will be good for both of you. SH

John responded without thinking. 

Thanks. I love you. JW 

When Sherlock didn’t respond right away, John began to panic. 

I’m sorry. Ignore that. I’m an emotional mess right now. JW

This time, Sherlock did respond immediately. 

Do I have to? Ignore it? SH

I don’t want to come on too strong. JW

Afraid of scaring me away? SH

Well, yes. JW

Me? The man who’s been pining over for you for the better part of a decade? SH

More like, the man who despises declarations of emotion. JW 

I find myself less disdainful when the emotion being expressed is praise of me. SH

John laughed. Somehow, it was easier to talk to Sherlock about this over the phone. 

I’m sorry I didn’t let you come with us. You seemed like maybe you wanted to. I just needed some time to myself, to think about everything. JW

Perfectly understandable. SH

And then, a quick follow up:

Did it help? SH

I think so. We’ll talk more when I’m home. JW

However, at that moment, John’s cab made a turn onto a street that John recognized far better than he wanted to. The location of his surgery, where he used to work.

John felt a lump in his throat that he hadn’t felt in a while. Mycroft had kept his word and the surgery had continuously been paying John’s salary, despite the fact that he hadn’t worked a day in several months now. John felt guilty. 

‘Excuse me!” John called out to the cabbie. “Do you think you could maybe….stop the cab here?” he asked. 

The cabbie looked back at him from the rearview mirror. “I suppose,” he said with a shrug, looking over his shoulder to find a place to pull over. 

John took a deep breath. Just looking at the building was starting to make him feel weak in the knees. He had countless memories of himself and Mary walking hand in hand through that very entrance. He felt his face start to sweat, and felt the familiar tremors begin in his hands. 

“Oy! Are you getting out or not?” asked the cabbie. John took a deep breath, trying to steady his breathing. 

“I am. Sorry.” he said, and forced himself out of the car. He paid the cabbie, and then watched him drive away. 

Suddenly, Sherlock was calling him. John picked up the phone.

“Sherlock? What is it?”

“I looked at the link you sent me. For Rosie’s nursery.” said Sherlock.

“What’s the matter?” asked John, his heart beginning to race. If he had just left his daughter in a place filled with vindictive criminals…

“Nothing’s the matter, John.” said Sherlock, noticing John’s anxious tone. “It looks lovely. But I just noticed that the best route from there to Baker Street, at this time of day, passes your old surgery. I just thought maybe passing it would be…hard for you.”

John chuckled. “You’ll never guess where I am right now.”

Sherlock sighed. “John. You’re going to ask for your job back, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know.” said John, doubt swelling up in him suddenly. “You and Mycroft made a deal with the NHS to continue paying my full salary for as long as I need. I’ve been taking advantage of it. I’m in a better place now. I should come back.”

“John, do you want to go back? Truly? Does the idea of returning to your old job as a general practitioner make you happy?”

John looked down at his feet. “The idea of returning to being a functioning member of society makes me happy. I don’t love the idea that I’m only able to pay my bills due to my connections to your brother.”

“John. You’re not ready. You’re having a panic attack.”

“I’m not,” snapped John defensively, before realising that Sherlock was absolutely right. His heart was practically beating out of its chest and he had sweat through his clothes. 

“Stay right where you are.” said Sherlock. “I’m coming over.” 

That’s not necessary, John wanted to say but found that he couldn’t get the words out. His mouth simply wasn’t working. All he was capable of was staring at the entrance to the surgery, all his brain was capable of was giving him memory after memory. 

Mary asking him out for the first time. He and Mary sharing kisses and secretive moments in between patients in the early days of their relationship, still trying to hide their affair from their coworkers. Mary holding him, letting him cry, after John had seen a patient that reminded him a little too much of Sherlock (a posh, clever, curly haired boy with a drug addiction that he thought he was doing a good job of hiding from John) and the grief struck him so hard it was almost like the first day Sherlock was gone. 

The memories came after him in full force, one after another, never letting up. He wondered briefly why this was so, so much worse than being in the house he and Mary had shared together. He figured it must have been because he had become desensitised to his home, after spending so much time living there. But that explanation didn’t quite fit. It was a while before the truth sunk in. Their house had been where he and Mary had lived together, but it had also been where they had fought, the location of angry silences and thoughts of divorce and of John’s continuous emotional infidelity. Their moments together at the surgery had been far less complicated. The surgery was where they had fallen in love. The surgery was the place they spent together before Sherlock had come back into his life and complicated everything so damn much. This building was a temple to the love they had shared, to the way that Mary had saved him from a grief so intense it had felt like John was drowning. Mary had rescued him from the crushing weight of missing Sherlock and replaced that weight with the grief of missing her….John put his hands on his knees, his breath racing away from him. He couldn’t look at the building. He couldn’t look at the doorway. He couldn’t even look at the hedges surrounding the walkway. It was too painful. 

Name 5 things you can see. 

It was too hard. John couldn’t look at anything. 

I see my laces, thought John. His shoelaces were black, the same colour as his shoes. Sherlock hated these shoes. Sherlock, who had died and cut a hole so deeply into John’s heart that John had needed saving in the first place. In some ways, this was all Sherlock’s fault. Sherlock, who loved him. Sherlock, who only left him because he thought he had no other choice. Sherlock, who had spent all evening watching John’s favourite movies with him and who had draped a blanket over him when John had fallen asleep on the sofa. 

I can see my knuckles, John listed next. His knuckles were white against his knees. John had once punched a man in the face just for calling Sherlock a weirdo. He and Sherlock had escaped, hand in hand, running away together - just the two of them against the world. And then, the next day, Sherlock had jumped off a building, leaving John more alone than he had ever felt in his life. So alone that he had fallen in love with the first nurse to show him any kindness, a woman who had shot Sherlock in the heart….

John became aware that he was crying. He was sure people were watching him. He wondered if some of the people watching him were old coworkers, people who had once known and respected Dr. Watson…who surely would no longer respect the man who was kneeled over in front of his old place of employment, crying. 

He still needed to list three more things he could see, but it was no use. His tears were blurring his vision, he wouldn’t be able to see anything else anyway. 

“John.” a voice was breaking through the haze, a voice that was so familiar yet so unexpected. 

John found the strength to stand up, and saw Sherlock, standing right next to him, still in pyjamas and a dressing gown. Sherlock had clearly not had time to get dressed for the day before heading over. 

“How did you get here so fast?” asked John, before realising that he actually had no idea how long he had been standing here. 

“Took a cab,” said Sherlock simply. He timidly placed a hand on John’s shoulder. “John.” he said, and the way he said John’s name contained so much emotion that John didn’t even know how to begin to parse it. 

John wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m okay.” he said softly, and it was true. The shock of seeing Sherlock standing over him had broken through the panic attack and John found his breath returning to him, his heart rate slowing. 

“I was an idiot,” said John, regretfully. “Thinking I could come back here. Thinking I was better, now.” 

“John.” said Sherlock for the third time. John met Sherlock’s eyes finally, and the sight of John’s tear-soaked face must have given Sherlock the courage he needed, because Sherlock stepped forward and took John in his arms. 

It was like the embrace they had shared on Sherlock’s birthday, what felt like ages ago, when Sherlock had assured him that he was only human. Sherlock held John to him protectively, letting John’s tears soak his shirt. This time, however, Sherlock stroked John’s hair; a soft and careful gesture from the apex of John’s head to the nape of his neck. 

John allowed himself to fall into the embrace, letting Sherlock’s strong arms hold him, letting Sherlock’s gentle strokes ground him back to reality, letting Sherlock’s smell remind him that though Mary was indisputably gone, Sherlock was not dead, that Sherlock had returned to him, that he was here and safe and loved him. 

“Let’s go home,” whispered Sherlock into John’s ear. “You’re okay. It’s going to be okay. But let’s go home.” 

John nodded, but did not lift his head from Sherlock’s chest, and Sherlock did not let go of him until after he had flagged down a cab. John determinedly did not look back at the surgery as he stepped into the car. 

As they drove back to Baker Street, neither of them spoke. Sherlock, however, slid his hand across the seat to John and gently intertwined their fingers. He looked at John, seeming to be waiting for John to yank his hand away or display some sort of disapproval, but John simply squeezed Sherlock’s hand harder. He refused to let himself think of anything other than the firm squeeze of Sherlock’s fingers, the softness of his hands, the strength of his grip. 

When they got back to Baker Street, John finally dropped Sherlock’s hand and walked back up the stairs in a daze. He let himself fall into his armchair before looking back at Sherlock. 

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, John,” said Sherlock. 

John sighed, exasperated. “How did you just know, Sherlock? I had no idea that seeing my old surgery would...incapacitate me that way. I thought I was ready. I was on my way back home and I….I had the cabbie drop me off there. I thought I was ready to go back to work. But you just knew. The second you saw my cab route, you knew exactly what would happen. How do you always just know?”

“It’s my job, John.” said Sherlock, softly. “It’s my job to predict how people will act in moments of stress. And I know you. You’ve been doing so well. So, so well. Of course you would be desperate to prove yourself, desperate to free yourself from the weight of relying on other people.”

“It’s not just that,” said John. “I’m not just relying on other people. I’m wasting taxpayers’ money by continuing to get paid a salary while not doing even the smallest amount of work for the NHS…”

“It’s not taxpayers money, John,” said Sherlock softly. 

“What?” asked John. “I thought Mycroft made a deal with the NHS to get them to continue paying for….” reality struck him all at once. 

“Mycroft’s paying my salary isn’t he?”

“Yes.” said Sherlock. 

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t Mycroft?” said John, standing up in a fury. 

“Because you wouldn’t have taken it.” said Sherlock simply.

“You’re goddamn right I wouldn’t have!” John fumed. “Mycroft’s been paying me out of his own pocket? On your demand I assume?” 

“John, I don’t think you realise just how much money Mycroft has . Your salary is nothing to him, he won’t even miss it….”

“I don’t CARE.” said John, furiously. “You can’t just lie to me like that, Sherlock. I thought I told you I was sick of this….this method of you showing your love for me. This form of love where you lie to me because it’s what you think is best for me. You lied to me about being dead for two years to save my life, and you lied to me about where my money is coming from to save my pride. It’s not okay. I can’t tolerate this.”

Sherlock’s face grew white, and he dropped John’s gaze. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right. I should have told you. I just….I didn’t want you to have to worry about money.”

“I know why you did it.” said John. “That doesn’t make it okay.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. “Do you want me to ask Mycroft to stop paying for you?”

John sighed. “Yeah, I do,” he said. “I’ll find some other way of making money. I’m not going back to that clinic though.”

“I think that’s for the best,” said Sherlock. 

John was quiet for a moment. 

“Can I ask you a question, John?” asked Sherlock, quietly. 

John met his eyes. “Of course,” he said. 

“That thing, you know, that you said yesterday. Do you…do you still? Or did I ruin it by lying to you again?”

John couldn’t help but smile. “Sherlock, are you asking if I still love you?” 

Sherlock nodded. 

John chuckled. “Of course I still love you. I’m angry at you, yes. And I mean it when I say that if you want a relationship with me, of any sort, you need to stop lying to me like this. But that doesn’t change how I feel. Nothing could change that. I promise.”

Sherlock smiled slightly. 

“I really am sorry,” he said. 

“I know,” said John softly, and this time it was him initiating the embrace. He took Sherlock’s hand and pulled him close, wrapping his arms tightly around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock returned the favour, wrapping his own arms around John’s chest and holding him close. 

“I love you so much John,” whispered Sherlock into his ear. “You are….everything to me. I never meant to hurt you. I know that I have, so many times. But all I want is for you to be safe and happy.” 

“Shh, Sherlock,” said John. “It’s okay. I forgive you.”

They stood like that for a few minutes, hugging tightly, neither one seeming to want to be the one to let go. 

“It’s humiliating that I fell apart like that,” said John. Somehow, it was easier to talk to Sherlock this way, when they weren’t face to face. 

“It’s understandable, John. Why do you think I was able to deduce it so quickly? That building is the place you and Mary fell in love. It must hurt to see it again.”

“It’s not just that,” said John. “That’s definitely a big part of why being so near that place affects me. But…that place….it’s where I worked. While you were dead. That place is where I felt some of the lowest feelings I’ve ever felt in my life. Being so close to it….it reminds me what it’s like when I’ve lost you. And after what we said to each other last night….I couldn’t lose you, after that.”

Sherlock pulled him even tighter. “Me neither,” he said. 

John took a deep breath, breathing in Sherlock’s distinct and comforting scent. He placed a small, almost imperceptible kiss on the side of Sherlock’s neck. 

And Sherlock, strong, unaffected, unshakeable Sherlock Holmes….let out the tiniest of whimpers. 

And fuck if it didn’t go straight to John’s cock. 

John needed to pull away. He knew he should end the hug, go back to being amicable and friendly with Sherlock. He and Sherlock had agreed they weren’t ready to be that yet, whatever that was, and kissing someone’s neck was definitely not what you did with someone you weren’t ready to be romantically involved with.

But John kissed him again. Harder, more intentional this time. Sherlock, prepared for it this time, did not whimper, but he did let out a sigh and gripped John’s chest tighter. 

John was rock hard at this point. He didn’t know if it was the adrenaline from the panic attack, the emotions that were running high, or simply the smell, feel, and sound of the man he had been trying not to want for the better part of a decade, but suddenly he felt like he had no control over his mind and body. 

He let his arms slowly glide from Sherlock’s waist to his hips, gripping his hips tightly as he kissed Sherlock again. He let his teeth graze over his neck softly, then placed a gentle bite right on Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock moaned, pushing his hips forward, so that John could feel Sherlock’s erection against his lower belly. This time it was John’s turn to whimper. 

“Can I kiss you?” asked John, drunk on the feel of Sherlock against him. 

“Please.” begged Sherlock, and John lost all modicum of control he had left. He pulled back just enough to see Sherlock’s face, whose eyes were dark with want, and brought their mouths together hard. 

Sherlock kissed him back eagerly, bringing his hands to cup John’s face as their lips moved against each other. John parted his mouth, allowing their tongues to touch gently. John groaned, moving his hands from Sherlock’s hips to his arse, finally, finally feeling the tightness and firmness that had haunted John’s dreams for longer than he would ever admit. Sherlock pushed up against John more firmly, and this time John complemented his motion, pushing forward his waist so that his own erection brushed against Sherlock’s leg. Sherlock sighed when he felt it, kissing John harder, digging his hands into John’s hair and pulling ever so slightly. 

John backed Sherlock up against the wall and Sherlock eagerly leaned against it for support. John went back to his eager exploration of Sherlock’s neck, and slotted their hips together so that their erections would slide together.

The sensation was glorious, taking everything John thought he knew about sex and flipping it on its head. He couldn’t believe just how easy it was, how naturally it came to him, how simple it was for him to lean into the motion, to continue down the path that had such a delicious end point. It was as easy as breathing to kiss Sherlock again, again and again, to grind into him deliciously and hear the lovely sounds he was making - the shaky breaths, the half sighs, the shocked but eager gasp as John moved his hand from Sherlock’s arse and gently and lightly ran it along the outline of Sherlock’s erection. It was so effortless, in fact, that John almost didn’t notice when Sherlock pulled back, just a hair, and whispered to John: “John. Stop. We have to stop.”

John froze for a moment, and then dropped his arms from Sherlock, taking the tiniest step back. He let his eyes meet Sherlock’s, and seeing the desire on Sherlock’s face, the rumlped state of his clothes, and the unruliness of his hair did nothing to quell John’s arousal. 

“Sherlock? Is everything okay?”

Sherlock nodded, emphatically. “It’s wonderful,” he said, and John was shocked by the sincerity he heard in Sherlock’s words. “But we can’t. You said you’re not ready.” 

John laughed, relieved. “Is that all? Blimey Sherlock, did it at all seem to you like I wanted to stop?”

“No.” said Sherlock. “But that’s the problem, don’t you see? You said just last night that you weren’t ready for there to be anything between us. I don’t want you doing something you’ll later regret because you lost your mind in the heat of the moment.”

John sighed, closing his eyes. He took a couple of deep breaths until the intensity of his arousal had waned slightly, and he felt his thoughts coming more clearly. He knew Sherlock was right. He felt ashamed of how easy it was for him to lose his head. 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

Sherlock placed his hand on John’s face, cradling his jaw and slowly stroking John’s cheek with his thumb. 

John looked up, meeting Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock’s expression was raw, unguarded.

“Don’t be sorry.” said Sherlock, gently. “Don’t be sorry for any of it. This has been the best morning of my entire life.”

“Me too.” said John, sincerely. 

They were quiet for a moment, the two men looking into each other’s eyes, Sherlock’s thumb continuing its journey on John’s face. It was Sherlock who finally broke the silence. 

“So. James Bond?” he asked. 

“James Bond.” agreed John, with a grin, and together they returned to the films that had become a safe place for them and the feelings they hadn't found the words to discuss. 

***

They sat on the sofa watching films until it was time for John to pick up Rosie. John had found it slightly difficult, sitting on the sofa with so much space between himself and Sherlock. He knew that it was intentional; Sherlock was literally giving John his space, allowing them to be friendly and not romantic, just as John had said he needed. But John still couldn’t help himself from wanting to scooch closer, to lay his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, to hold him close. Hell, he now knew what it felt like to have Sherlock’s tongue in his mouth, he knew how it felt to touch the outline of Sherlock’s cock through his trousers. It felt almost silly to continue to feign friendliness. 

It was almost a relief when it was time to pick up Rosie. John asked Sherlock if he wanted to tag along, but was not surprised when Sherlock, again, refused. It seemed like maybe John wasn’t the only one who needed a moment alone. 

“Maybe take a different route home.” was all Sherlock said as John went out the door, and John smiled. 

“Yes, I believe that would be for the best.”

John finally had time to think when he was on his way to pick up his daughter. He thought about Sherlock, he thought about Rosie, he thought about Mary. He thought about what he wanted, now that his feelings for Sherlock were out in the open. 

Some of the answers were clear. Did he want to continue having Sherlock in his life? Yes. Did he want to be romantically and sexually intimate with him? Again, that was easy, yes. Some of the answers, however, were far more complicated. How could John ensure that he could be good to Sherlock when he still had so much anger about the things that had happened to him the last few years? How could John ensure that he was a good father, especially in light of his latent alcoholism, if he had the distraction of a burgeoning romance? 

He also needed to continue to provide for his daughter, which would be much harder now that he wouldn’t have the comfort of a regular salary. Before he could talk himself out of it, he sent a message to Mycroft:

Sherlock let it slip that you’re the one who’s been paying my salary. Please stop. JW

Mycroft’s response was immediate:

Why does it matter so much that I’m the one who’s paying it, rather than the government? 

If you really thought it wouldn’t matter to me, you would have told me the truth about where the money was coming from. JW

Just following the orders of one very insistent little brother.

Yes, well. That stops now. I don’t want your money. JW

Very well, very well. I will cease your bimonthly payments. But do not hesitate to ask if you change your mind, Dr. Watson.

John ignored this message. It was done. Mycroft would no longer be financially supporting him. John was surprised to learn how much of a relief it turned out to be. For once, he was not financially tied to his former job. For once, he had the freedom to try something new. Something different. 

For the first time in a long time, John Watson was thinking of the future. 

When he arrived to pick up Rosie, John found that he had a smile on his face. Rosie was delighted to see him, but she didn’t seem to be traumatised that he’d left her behind. 

“Was she alright for you?” He asked the childminder, whose name tag informed John that her name was Rebeca. 

“Oh, Miss Rosie was an absolute delight!” she said. “We would love for her to come back sometime.”

“She didn’t cry?” asked John. 

“She did for the first five minutes or so,” said Rebeca. “Children always do, the first time. But once she saw the blocks, she became so excited! She’s such a bright child. I’ve never seen a child her age with such keen problem solving abilities.”

John chuckled. “Is that so? Well, she doesn’t get that from me.”

“Oh? What does Mrs. Watson do?” Rebeca asked, a clueless smile on her face. 

John’s stomach dropped. 

“Ah.” he said. “Well, she was a nurse. She passed away, though.”

“Oh.” said Rebeca, her face growing white. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s no matter,” said John, wanting to ease the tension of the situation. “She really was clever. But I’m afraid Rose doesn’t get her cleverness from her mother, either. Her godfather is a brilliant detective. He’s trying to impart his brilliance on Rosie, and I daresay it’s working.”

Rebeca’s face changed immediately, her shocked frown turning into a delighted grin. “Is that so?” she asked. “Well that’s lovely. I’m so glad little Rosie has so many people who love her.” 

John found himself smiling. “So am I, Rebeca.” he said. “So am I.”

And just like that, Sherlock had turned John’s grief into thankfulness. It was remarkable how Sherlock was able to do that, even from so many miles away. It occurred to John that this was the second time in his life that Sherlock had found his way into John's life just in time to save him from himself. He had saved John so many years ago, when John had been sent home from the army with nothing but an gunshot wound and a psychosomatic limp, and he was saving John again by loving him and his daughter in the face on an unspeakable tragedy. And just like that, John had his answer. 

John wanted to be with Sherlock. He wanted to belong to Sherlock, to love him, to be loved by him. He wanted to be able to point to him any time someone brought up his grief and heartbreak, and say “yes, I’ve been through hell. I’ve lost my wife, the woman I believed to be my life partner. But look what I gained! Now I have the privilege of loving my best friend in the world, the remarkable Sherlock Holmes, who loves and adores both me and my child. Isn’t that lovely?”

Some things were remarkably simple after all. 

Of course, John knew it wouldn’t be easy. He still had so far to go in his recovery, and he and Sherlock still had so far to go with each other. But yet, he knew that if any two people could cross that line together, it would be him and Sherlock. It had always been the two of them, against the rest of the world, since the moment they met. He knew Sherlock would never give up on him, would never abandon him, would stay by his side until John begged him not to. 

John spent the rest of the ride home (instructing the cabbie to take a very specific route, free of all potential triggers) coming up with a plan. Because if he were to do this, with Sherlock, they needed to do it carefully. 

He barged into 221B, Rosie on his hip, and saw Sherlock playing his violin. Sherlock turned to him, a welcoming grin on his face, and started to speak. 

“Welcome home John, welcome back Rosie! Did you have a good time at the -”

But John didn’t let him finish. He took his free hand and placed it on Sherlock’s face, bringing their lips together to kiss. Sherlock sighed into him, kissing him back, and for a moment they let themselves revel in the sensation. Rosie was giggling on John’s hip. 

“John.” said Sherlock, separating himself from John with clear difficulty. “I thought we talked about this. You said you weren’t - “

“I want to be with you.” said John, definitively. “I want us to be together. I want to be yours, I want you to be mine.”

“Oh.” said Sherlock. “Are - are you sure?”

“Completely.” said John. “But I have some rules. Three, in fact.”

“Alright.” said Sherlock. “And what might those be?”

“One.” spouted off John. “I’m not ready for anyone to know. Not yet. We have enough to work out between the two of us, I don’t want the opinions and reactions of others to get in the way of that.”

“Alright.” said Sherlock. “I suppose that’s understandable. What else?”

“Two.” said John. “I want us to do joint couples sessions with Ella. She has helped both of us so much, I feel like she’s the perfect person to help us work on our foundation, to work through our past and our issues in the way we need.”

Sherlock smiled. “I think that’s a wonderful idea. What’s rule #3?”

John took a deep breath. In fact, rule three had been the hardest one for him to settle on, and he was only able to come up with it thanks to the clarifying feeling of Sherlock’s absence on the cab ride home. Now, looking at Sherlock, whose dressing gown was hanging loosely in the most enticing way and whose lips were bruised from kissing, it took every amount of strength in John’s body not to back out now. But he had decided on this rule for a reason, regardless of how hard it was.

“No sex.” said John, and felt guilty and privately pleased at the dismayed look on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock schooled his face almost immediately, however, and turned his face into stone, free of all emotion.

“Of course,” said Sherlock. “If that’s not something you -”

“I want it so badly, Sherlock,” said John. “That’s the problem. That’s why we can’t do that, yet. If I’m allowed to touch you, it will be all I’ll want to do. All I’m able to think about. I can spend weeks entertaining myself with your body alone. But I've spent too many years jumping too quickly into physical relationships with people, and right now what I need is more time to focus on recovery. I can't let myself get swept away by you right now. I want to be with you. But I can't give you all of me, not yet. No matter how desperately I want to.”

Sherlock’s face reddened, and he broke John’s gaze and looked down at the floor. “I - I don’t…”

“And this rule isn’t for forever. Of course not. Mark my words, someday soon I will rip this goddamn dressing gown off of you and have my way with you.” he said, while stroking his hand down Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock inhaled, shakily. 

“O - okay.” said Sherlock. “That’s fine, of course. Just let me know when - if - you’re ready to....amend rule number three.”

“Of course,” said John. “And I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

“Don’t be.” said Sherlock, setting down his violin and pulling both John and Rosie into his arms. He placed a soft kiss on the top of John’s head. “I understand completely. I’m proud of you. You’re opening yourself up to the parts of a relationship you’re ready for, and you’re setting boundaries for the parts you aren’t. It’s everything I could have ever asked for.”

“You’re not upset?” asked John. 

“I’m not,” said Sherlock. “I’m happy, John. “I’m so, so happy.”

"And there's one more thing." said John. "I've texted Mycroft, he's agreed to stop paying my salary. But that means I'll need a way to make money. And I was thinking....what if I made the blog my full time job?"

Sherlock glanced down at him, meeting his eyes with a curious expression. "Is that something you'd want?"

"Yes." said John. "I think so. I think that, if I start posting again, as regularly as I did before....before. I think we might be able to attract enough clients to make a suitable living for both of us. I'd like to try, anyway."

Sherlock grinned. "Well, then, John Watson. Welcome back to my employ."

“I’ll call Ella,” said John, chucking softly. “See if she can set something up for us later this week. And tomorrow I'll start going through our inbox to find a new client.”

“That sounds good,” said Sherlock. “And what shall we do for the rest of the evening? More James Bond?”

“I had something else in mind,” said John, with a small smile. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to do with you for years.”

“Oh yeah?” asked Sherlock. “And what’s that?”

“Sherlock Holmes, I am about to take you out on a date.”

Chapter Text

Ella Thompson watched the two men sitting in front of her and tried not to let her joy show on her face. It would be unprofessional to let these two men know how much she had been personally rooting for the day she would see the two of them sitting hand in hand on her couch. 

“Good morning John, Sherlock.”

“Morning Ella,” both men mumbled, clearly feeling a little uncomfortable and unsure of how to act in this new environment. This was not uncommon. Ella had seen many couples throughout her time working as a therapist; and most of them found the first few sessions of couple’s therapy to be a little confusing. It was difficult to transition from associating Ella’s office with privacy and solitude and a place for saying every thought that came into one’s mind, damn the consequences, to seeing it as a place to share those inner thoughts with one’s most loved person. Ella, however, was a professional, and knew exactly how to navigate such matters.

“Let’s start with the elephant in the room, why don’t we. I’ve been seeing you both separately, for some time now, and now you have booked a couple’s session with me and you are sitting on my couch, hand in hand. Why don’t we start with how that came to happen.”

Both men smiled shyly, and met each other’s eyes quickly. Sherlock gave a firm nod, signalling that John should be the one to answer the question.

John began to speak, and suddenly the whole story came out. John talked about how, over his weeks living with Sherlock, he became more and more aware of his own feelings. He re-iterated the story he had told Ella previously about feeling overcome with jealousy at Sherlock being intimate with another person and told Ella how he had finally admitted to Sherlock how he felt. He told Ella about how Sherlock had reacted, and how they had agreed they weren’t ready for a relationship. He talked about having a panic attack at the location of his old workplace, and Sherlock stepping in to come talk him down. He talked about almost sharing an intimate moment with Sherlock after that, a heated kiss that had almost turned into more if it weren’t for Sherlock’s insistence that John wait until he’s ready. They told Ella about John stepping away to think about it for a few moments, before realising that he actually did want to be with Sherlock. Finally, he told Ella about the rules he had negotiated with Sherlock about pursuing a relationship: first, that they would keep it from their loved ones until they both felt ready to share; second, that they would attend couple’s counselling sessions together; and finally that they would abstain from sexual intimacy until the pair felt that they were ready. 

Watching John and Sherlock tell their story was fascinating to Ella. She knew, intellectually, that these two men had loved each other for a very long time. However, it was a different beast altogether to see them sitting side by side, talking about their love for one another. Their love was obvious in the way they interacted with each other. Sherlock beamed with pride while John spoke, and interjected any time that he felt John wasn’t portraying himself in a kind enough light. John, on the other hand, looked at Sherlock with a type of amazement; as if he was still unsure how someone like Sherlock could even exist, much less fall in love with him. The two of them moved and spoke with such synchronicity that it made Ella wonder how either of them could have ever doubted that the other adored him above all else. But, she supposed, if her years working as a therapist had taught her anything at all -  it was that people were invariably blind to how much they mean to others.

“I am truly happy for the both of you.” said Ella, honestly. “I’ve been treating you both for so long that it’s just lovely to see the two of you having come so far. And I’m pleased to see that you have established boundaries that allow you to build a foundation without jumping into anything you’re not ready for. I especially appreciate your commitment to these sessions with me. I have some questions for the two of you, if you don’t mind.”

“Go ahead,” said John. 

“Well, I am curious how your relationship has changed since deciding that you wanted to go forward as a couple. You aren’t making your changed status known to the world, and you aren’t being physically intimate with one another. In what ways does your newly found romantic relationship differ from your platonic friendship?”

Ella was surprised to see John tense up. 

“I - well - it’s more about…” John stuttered, but Sherlock stepped in. 

“John, I don’t think Ella is doubting the validity of our relationship just because of the boundaries we have put in place.” he said, softly. “I think she’s just curious about what our dynamic with each other looks like, given the change in circumstance.”

“Precisely,” said Ella. “Is that a concern of yours, John? Do you worry that you and Sherlock don’t have a real relationship, given the rules you have outlined?”

John shrugged, his face flushed with embarrassment, and he looked at the ground. “Maybe a bit,” he said, gruffly. “Because, truth is, nothing much has changed. Our relationship is pretty similar to what it was before he…before he, you know. Died. We’ve started to work on cases together again. We live together. We spend time together, we eat meals together. But we’ve done all of those things together for years. And I guess I….I guess I feel guilty. That I haven’t been able to offer him more than just a symbolic change of status. I wish I could give myself to him in all the ways that I could. I know that trivial things such as labels don’t mean much to Sherlock. I want to give him something tangible”

Ella nodded. “Sherlock?” she prodded. “How does it feel, hearing John say these things?”

Sherlock pondered for a moment. “Frustrating.” he said. “It’s frustrating because he’s wrong, and he doesn’t realise it.”

“And how’s that?”

“Plenty has changed. For one, you have decided to commit yourself to me, meaning that there is no longer an endless parade of tiresome women walking around half dressed in the flat.” he said the last bit with a twinge of bitterness, and John cringed.

Sherlock softened again, seeing John’s face. “But there’s more than just that,” said Sherlock. “You love me, and I’m allowed to love you back. It makes all the difference in the world. And you’re right that labels don’t mean anything to me. But honesty does. And that’s what you’ve done, by allowing yourself to be in a relationship with me. You’re being honest with me and with yourself. And it’s wonderful.”

Seeing that John remained unconvinced, Sherlock thought for a moment. “Take what happened last Saturday,” he said. 

***

Sherlock and John were sitting together in the kitchen, both scrolling determinedly on their laptops. 

“Ah, yes, finally!” Sherlock said suddenly, jumping up from the table and beginning to pace. John looked up at him with a grin on his face. 

“Yeah? You found one?”

“Indeed.” said Sherlock, with a grin. “Go on, read it.”

John slid Sherlock’s laptop towards himself. 

“Dear Sherlock.” John read aloud. “I have found myself in a rather unseemly predicament and I would like your assistance. I am concerned that my boss, a prominent public figure, is involved in embezzling money….”

John trailed off, reading the rest of the letter in silence. His lips were turning more and more into a line, his face hardening. Sherlock noticed the change, and tilted his head in confusion.

“John? What’s the matter? It’s a case, John, a good one. Did you read the bit about the missing chinchilla? Fascinating.”

“No, Sherlock.” said John, sternly. “We’re not taking this one.”

“Why not?” said Sherlock, bemused. “This has everything we’ve been looking for! It’s not dreadfully boring, it has a high likelihood of actually turning into something, and the client’s boss is a big enough name to drive actual traffic to your blog again. If we want to start making real money again, this is how to do it.”

“No.” said John, even firmer. “Not this one Sherlock. Pick anything else.”

“But why?” said Sherlock. 

“This guy is famous for starring in a children’s TV show. If you go around accusing him of crimes, people will get angry.”

“Not if I prove that he actually did commit the crimes!”

“Even then, Sherlock. Trust me, I know. This guy is adored. All of the kids at Rosie’s daycare watch this program. If you expose him for crimes, they’ll be even angrier at you than him. This won’t be like the time you exposed Culverton Smith as a murderer. This will be worse. People don’t tend to think straight about things when the happiness of children is involved.”

“Oh, but who cares?” snapped Sherlock. “All publicity is good publicity. A couple of moms here and there will be disappointed that I ruined their electronic babysitter. But I’m sure they’ll also be grateful that I saved them from having their child look up to a criminal.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said John. “You’d be surprised how mental some people can be about their kids. Just….pick another one? At least for now, while you’re trying to rebuild your reputation. Pick something less….public.”

“I don’t want to pick another case, John.” snapped Sherlock. “This is the first potential client since the clone sister case that hasn’t made me want to die of boredom.”

John put his head in his hands, rubbing his temples gently. He took a big sigh. 

“I just don’t like seeing the media trash you. Never have, really. But now….it reminds me of everything that happened leading up to your fall from Bart’s. And all of the articles defaming you after. Do you know how miserable that was? You were dead and I was the only person alive who believed in you.”

Sherlock came back to the table, sitting across from John once more. “John,” he said. 

John looked up from his hands and met Sherlock’s eyes. 

“None of that will ever happen again, John.”

“But it might,” said John. “Maybe not the whole ‘you faking your death’ thing. But the media turning against you? People insinuating that you’re a fraud, or that you’ve lost your talent? That could happen.”

“It really bothers you, what other people say about me?” asked Sherlock. “I don’t understand. Why should it upset you ?”

John was silent for a moment. “Because I love you, Sherlock, that’s why. I think you’re goddamn amazing and when other people can’t see what’s right in front of them….when they’d rather believe any other story other than the simple fact that you are the most incredible man that’s ever walked the Earth? It bothers me.”

Sherlock smiled shyly. “Well it doesn’t bother me.” he said. “I don’t care what anyone thinks. Except you. I care what you think, I always have. Knowing that you think I’m special is more than enough.”

John chuckled. “That’s sweet of you.” he said. “But I’d really prefer it if the world can see the version of you that I see….at least for now. We can go back to taking high profile cases eventually, it’s just….right now I don’t want our lovely little bubble interrupted by the press. I just want to watch you solve some client’s small and unsensational mystery and I want to be able to gush about you on my blog. Is that alright?”

Sherlock smiled. “More than alright.” he agreed, picking up John’s hand and placing the smallest of kisses to the back of it. 

***

“If that had happened several years ago, John would have felt unable to tell me the truth about why he hated the idea of me taking such a public case. But now that John and I are open about our feelings for one another, he felt comfortable telling me that his reservations came from a place of affection for me. It is remarkable that he loves me so much and feels free to tell me all about it.”

John smiled. “Yeah, I guess that’s true,” he said. “I certainly enjoy not feeling like I have to downplay my concern or my affection for you. I guess that’s something.”

“It’s everything.” said Sherlock. 

“That’s lovely.” said Ella. “Honesty is so important to building a strong foundation for a relationship. And yes, that marks a significant change from your status as platonic friends. Is there any other way your relationship has changed? How about in the realm of the physical? I understand that you have outlined a desire to abstain from sex, but I also see that you sit in front of me holding hands. How has your physical relationship changed?”

“Not much.” said John. “We’ve, well, we’ve started cuddling in front of the telly in the evenings. We kiss each other goodnight and good morning. We…hold hands sometimes. Nothing more to it than that.”

“That’s nice,” said Ella, with a smile. “And how does it feel? Getting to express your affection for him physically?”

John smiled. “It’s lovely,” he said. “I’ve spent so long sharing space with Sherlock, wishing I could reach out to him when he was frustrated or disappointed, wishing I could kiss him when he was especially clever. It’s nice not to have to fight those urges anymore.”

“And what about other urges?” asked Ella. “Has your rule about physical intimacy been difficult to keep?”

John gulped. 

****

John and Sherlock ran up the stairs, slamming the door of 221B behind them.

“Did we lose him?” asked John. 

Sherlock nodded. “He took a wrong turn a few blocks south.” 

Both men leaned against the wall, catching their breath. John thought to himself that the pair of them were getting a bit too old for this - soon they would not be able to outrun criminals like this. But for now, he let himself bathe in the glorious rush of adrenaline, and the relief in nearly escaping with their lives. It felt like he had been transported back to a near decade ago - when he and Sherlock had been out running from criminals what felt like every other day. 

There was one, very singular way that things had changed since those days, however, and John was determined to make the most of it. Sherlock stood next to him, his forehead wet with a light layer of sweat, cheeks pink from the exertion, and John thought he had never seen anything more beautiful. Head buzzing with adrenaline, he pivoted and grabbed Sherlock’s hips, pushing him up against the wall. Sherlock took a sharp intake of breath, and froze. 

Sherlock had been so, so good this last week. He had refused to instigate anything physical between the two of them, and left everything up to John. It was John’s responsibility alone to determine what physical displays of affection he was ready for, and John was thankful for it. Sherlock did not instigate their sweet, chaste goodnight kisses or the times they leaned against each other while watching telly, but that certainly didn’t mean that Sherlock wasn’t enthusiastic. 

Now, John found that he was drunk on the high of a freshly solved case, and found he needed to do something about it. 

He leaned against Sherlock, and started by giving him a sweet and chaste closed-mouth kiss. Sherlock sighed into the kiss, placing his hands lightly on John’s shoulders, letting John lead the way. 

The kiss was luxurious and unhurried, and John found that he was soon hard in his trousers. He leaned closer against Sherlock, slowly, until they were flush against each other. He felt himself instinctively sliding against Sherlock’s answering erection, deepening the kiss as he did so. God, why hadn’t they done this already? John found he could no longer remember. All he knew was that the two of them were wearing decidedly too many clothes, and John intended to do something about that right now. He reached towards Sherlock, finding the button of his trousers and beginning to unclasp…

Sherlock grabbed John’s wrists, preventing him from going any farther. 

“John.” Sherlock said, his voice breathless. 

“What’s the matter, Sherlock?” asked John, in between kisses. “You don’t want this?”

“Don’t be stupid.” said Sherlock, sliding himself out from under John and stepping backwards until he was at least 5 steps away. Sherlock looked delectably debauched, his trousers noticeably tented. 

“There’s a rule,” said Sherlock. 

“Damn the rules,” said John. “It’s my rule. What if I want to rescind it?”

“Then rescind it later,” said Sherlock. “Tomorrow. After you’ve had some sleep, a good wank, and the adrenaline has worn off. If, then, you still want to rescind the rule, well then. We will.”

John sighed. “Fine.” he said, bitterly. 

The two of them stood there, awkwardly, both sporting rather impressive erections and clearly not sure what to do about it. 

“I’d better….go shower,” said John. 

Sherlock nodded, not meeting his eyes. 

In the shower, John got himself off quickly. He had never been a fan of shower masturbation, but now that he shared a bedroom with his daughter he found he had no choice. As John touched himself, he was determined to end the rule. Tomorrow, he would put an end to this madness, and finally have Sherlock the way he wanted him, after years and years of fantasies and lingering glances. 

However, once John had come, he found that his resolve to remove their boundary had wavered some. He felt the familiar anxiety seep into his thoughts, and found himself grateful that Sherlock had insisted they stop when they did. 

By the time they woke up the next morning, John had made his decision. He still wasn’t ready. He went downstairs for breakfast, and momentarily met Sherlock’s eyes. He saw understanding fill Sherlock’s expression, and was thankful for Sherlock’s ability to practically read his thoughts, thankful that he didn’t have to struggle to find the right words to give Sherlock news that he knew would be a disappointment. 

John spent the rest of the day alone in his room, feeling guilty. 

***

“Yes,” said John, honestly. “It’s difficult. I’m….attracted to Sherlock, and I want him constantly. But I’m not ready. My mind and my body want two different things. It’s been difficult to control. There’s been some…close calls. I’m thankful that Sherlock is able to keep his head on, in such moments.”

Ella turned to Sherlock this time. 

“How has that been for you, Sherlock?” Ella asked. “It sounds like you are bearing the responsibility of enforcing John’s boundary. Has that been difficult for you?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No.” he said, firmly. “If I were to give in to my baser urges in those moments, if I had allowed John to go further than he was ready for, John would leave me. It’s not a difficult choice when I know those are the two options.”

John looked at Sherlock, shock in his expression. 

“You know that’s not true, Sherlock, don’t you?” he asked. “I wouldn’t leave you. I wouldn’t be angry at you. It wouldn’t be your fault if I decided I was ready and then changed my mind once we tried it.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Regardless,” he said. “I don’t want to have sex with someone who isn’t 100% sure they want it. That wouldn’t be enjoyable, for me.”

John sighed. “I am 100% sure, Sherlock. I do want you. It’s never been about not wanting you.”

At this, Ella interjected. 

“This seems like a good opportunity to talk about your feelings in all of this, Sherlock. Given that this boundary was put in place by John. Has there been any frustration in regards to this agreed upon abstinence?”

“No!” said Sherlock, a little too quickly. “No, of course not. It makes me happy to know that John felt comfortable enough to let me know what he does and doesn’t feel comfortable with, physically. I’m happy taking things slow. I would never want to push him into anything he isn’t ready for.”

“But?” asked Ella, a knowing expression in her eye. 

“But.” said Sherlock. “I can’t deny that it hasn’t been….frustrating. Not emotionally. But sexually. It is….difficult to have John offer himself to me so freely, but be forced to say no because I know he would regret it.”

“And how have you been coping with that?” asked Ella. 

“Regular masturbation, mostly.” answered Sherlock. 

Ella didn’t have to be a consulting detective to see the way John froze, the way his mouth opened ever so slightly, the way his pupils dilated a little at these words from Sherlock. It was clear that John was not expecting to hear Sherlock admit to this, and it was equally clear that John was incredibly aroused that he had. 

“What about you, John?” asked Ella. “Has regular masturbation allowed you to feel more comfortable with your abstinence with Sherlock?”

John sighed. “No, not really,” he said. “I…it’s been difficult to…do that, since I moved back in with Sherlock. I share a room with my daughter. I don’t get a lot of privacy.”

Ella nodded. “I see. Well, you’re certainly not the first couple I’ve counselled that has been abstinent, and I’ve found that regular masturbation is often very helpful for both parties involved in helping to keep their promises to each other. So I would recommend finding a time to do that.”

John nodded, awkwardly. 

“Alright then,” said Ella. “Our hour’s just about up. I’d like to end this session with both of you telling me, and each other, what your biggest fear is at this moment in the relationship. John. Would you like to start?”

“Sure.” said John, softly. “I’m worried that I’ll fuck it up. That I’ll try to do something sooner than I’m ready for, and I’ll screw up my relationship with Sherlock, or screw up my daughter’s development. In so many ways I’m feeling so much better, and looking forward to the future in a way I didn’t since before Mary died. But in other ways, I still have so far to go. So many feelings I don’t understand, so many fears and anxieties that I don’t know how to quell. Having Sherlock by my side makes things better, but also adds to the list of anxieties. I don’t want to end up hurting him.”

Ella nodded. “Alright.” she said. “Sherlock, is there anything you’d like to say to John before you tell us your fear?”

“My response to John and my greatest fear in the relationship are one and the same.” said Sherlock. “I fear that John’s various anxieties about hurting me or Rosie will end up hurting him in the long run. John has a habit of trying to protect me by keeping himself away from me. It isn’t what I want. John, I don’t care if you make mistakes. I’m not going anywhere.”

John smiled. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll try to keep that in mind. Best I can.”

As Sherlock and John walked out the door, Ella let out a slow breath. She didn’t do couple’s sessions often, but when she did, this was the best part. These delicate, tender moments after a reconciliation needed to be treated with the utmost of care. John and Sherlock at this point had said almost everything they needed to say to each other, had grown just enough that a happy future between them started looking not just possible, but probable. The two men just needed to begin to trust each other, and almost more importantly, begin to trust themselves. And that, Ella knew, was just a matter of time. 

***

Sherlock and John didn’t say a word to each other on the way home from Ella’s, but the silence was a comfortable one. John rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder on the cab ride home, and the two men kept their fingers intertwined. 

John thought, almost inexplicably, about Mary. He thought about what she would say if she could see the two of them now, publicly affectionate, committed to working on their relationship with each other. John hoped Mary would be pleased. If anyone had understood how inextricable John’s love for Sherlock was to his state of being, it was Mary. 

Sherlock placed a tender kiss on the top of John’s head, and John sighed contentedly. 

Yes, Mary would be pleased. There were quite a few things John would never know about the woman who called herself Mary Watson, but one thing he knew for certain was that Mary had loved him. Mary had wanted him to be happy. Mary may not have loved him as selflessly or unconditionally as Sherlock did, but at the end of the day he knew Mary’s love was sincere. If she were seeing this moment, right now, John wanted to believe she’d root for them. 

“What are you thinking about?” whispered Sherlock, out of earshot of the cabbie. John couldn’t help but be impressed at Sherlock’s perceptiveness, even now. 

“Mary.” John said, truthfully. 

“Oh.” Sherlock said, and John detected uncertainty in his voice. “What about? Is everything…all right?”

“Yes.” said John. “Just thinking that she probably would be okay with this. If she knew that we got here, after she died.”

John felt Sherlock smile against his skin. 

“I think so, too.” he said. 

***

When they got home, Sherlock offered to pick up Rosie from daycare. 

“Are you sure?” John asked. “I can do it. I don’t mind.”

“I know you don’t.” said Sherlock. “But something you mentioned to Ella…stood out to me. You talked about how, since you share a room with Rosie, you don’t get much time alone. In the flat. I thought it might be good to remedy that, by giving you an opportunity to have both me and Rosie out of the flat.”

John looked guilty. “I’m sorry I said that, Sherlock, I didn’t mean -”

“I know John. Stop worrying.” said Sherlock, gently. He kissed John’s forehead lightly. “It’s all fine. Always. I’ll go pick up Rosie, and then we’ll all go out to Angelo’s together. Yes?”

John smiled. “Alright, Sherlock,” he said fondly. 

Sherlock felt guilty as he made his way to the tube station. It wasn’t often that things had slipped by him, but this time something genuinely had. He couldn’t believe he had failed to realise how frustrating it had been for John, sharing a room with his daughter and thus unable to enjoy the many, many privileges of the privacy of one’s bedroom. He had noticed John had been sexually frustrated, certainly, but had assumed it had little to do with anything other than their unconsummated relationship. However, Sherlock had been wanking himself stupid every night since he and John had become a couple, and he felt bad that John hadn’t been enjoying the same privileges. He had assumed (probably correctly) that John had been wanking in the shower - but had failed to deduce how unsatisfying it had been for John to resort to exclusively shower wanks. 

It made sense, Sherlock realised. John was a man of visual stimulation, who probably preferred to get off to pictures and videos. Sherlock, who had a vast and meticulously designed floor of his mind palace dedicated to situations and images he found arousing, had no such specification. Sherlock truly hoped that John would take full advantage of this time alone. He had chosen to take the tube instead of a cab in the hopes that it would prolong his journey, and give John more time. 

A few minutes into his journey, Sherlock was rewarded by a text alert from John. 

I can’t stop thinking about something you said to Ella. JW

Sherlock smiled. He had a feeling he knew where this was going. 

What? That I masturbate? SH

John’s response was immediate. 

How’d you know? JW

Obvious. Body language. Plus you’re always so scandalised when I mention my sexual urges. SH

Not scandalised. That’s not the right word. JW

Then what is? SH

I don’t know. JW

The text indicator that John was ‘typing’ remained for several long moments. When it finally came in, the response was short.

Intrigued. JW

Oh? SH

I just spent so long thinking that sex wasn’t something you did. JW

It wasn’t. For a long time. SH

When did you start? JW

Sherlock pursed his lips, looking around him. He waited to respond until he got on the tube, not knowing quite how honest he should be at this moment. He didn’t want to hold anything back from John, but he also didn’t want to upset John in this delicate moment. He wanted John to be able to fully enjoy his time alone. Sherlock ultimately decided to be upfront about his indecision. 

Hmm. I’m not sure I want to say. SH

Oh. I’m sorry for prying. JW

You’re not prying. I want to talk about these things with you. I’m just not sure you’ll like the answer. SH

Try me. JW

I was completely uninterested in the entire business until I met you. And after I met you, I was uninterested in pursuing anything with anyone else. The only sexual encounters I’ve had occurred when you and I were apart, while I was in Serbia. SH

…

…

…

John ‘typed’ for quite a while, and Sherlock began to feel anxious. He knew it had been a mistake to tell John the truth. John always got so angry at any mention of Sherlock’s time in Serbia. Truthfully, the memories weren’t enjoyable for Sherlock, either. The encounters had all been before his capture, so the memories luckily did nothing to trigger the trauma of his torture at the hands of the final piece of Moriarty’s network. However, the memories did manage to trigger memories of isolation, loneliness, fear. Sherlock so desired to form new sexual memories with John, to overwrite his early experiences with memories of love and devotion. How soft he’d become. 

John? SH

…

See I told you you wouldn’t like it. SH

After five long minutes, John finally responded. 

No, it’s fine. I’m sorry. I just didn’t know what to say. You’re right, it makes me feel odd that you spent the years I was mourning you shacking up with men. Did you meet anyone special? JW

NO! Not even remotely. It was all impersonal and anonymous. Never any sort of penetration. Never any repeat encounters. SH

Why? JW

Because I couldn’t risk my identity being recognised. Plus, I never let myself get close to people. Except you. SH

No, I mean, why did you start up when you went away? JW

Lonely. Missing you. Needed some way to fill the void. SH

I thought you said there was no penetration? JW

Ha-ha. Hilarious. Truly commendable sex humour, John. SH

Ha. Thanks. Couldn’t resist. JW

Also, I should add that I got tested after I returned home to London. I’m in the clear. Everything I did when I was away was safe, but I wanted to be sure. SH

Well that’s good. It’s certainly unlike you to take an interest in matters of your own health. JW

Not like me at all. Luckily I’m in love with a doctor and he’s rubbed off on me some. SH

Rereading that last message…possible poor choice of words. SH

LOL. I haven’t gotten to rub off on you quite as much as I would like to. JW

Sherlock chuckled. This was certainly heading in the direction he hoped it would. He tried to think of something cheeky to respond, but before he had the chance another message came in from John. 

Did you….after you got back? JW

No. Not until Phillip. SH

I see. JW

…

But you masturbate? JW

Yes, but that’s not recent. I’ve always done that. SH

Oh. JW

…

How often? JW

Not that often, in the past. As sparingly as I could manage, and I always tried to be efficient about it. When I realised my feelings for you, however, my habits changed slightly. Frequency increased. I allowed myself to draw it out occasionally. SH

I see. So you thought about me? JW

Almost exclusively, John. SH

Almost exclusively? Who else slipped in there? JW

Ah, good to know your jealousy is a constant I can always rely on. No one, John. It was either you or a faceless man. SH

I see. :) JW

We’re resorting to smiling emoticons now? SH

That we are, Sherlock. :P JW

This is inane. SH

Any more questions about my masturbatory habits? SH

How often, since I moved in? JW

Do you really want to know the answer to that? SH

Yes, please. JW

Every day, John. Sometimes multiple times a day. SH

Often multiple times a day, if I’m being honest. SH

Really? JW

Yep. SH

And you think about me? JW

Invariably. SH

What do you think about? Specifically? JW

Hmm. You. I like the way you smell. I like the way it feels when your skin brushes mine. I like the way your clothes fit you. SH

That’s sweet. Do you just think about the aspects of me that you find attractive? Or do you imagine us doing things together? JW

John, my love. I’m on the tube. SH

And? JW

You’re the expert on social niceties, but I imagine that this is frowned upon. SH

Texting? JW

Don’t play dumb. You’re asking for me to sit here, on the tube, and type out each of the explicit things I’ve imagined us doing together. SH

Perhaps. :) JW

And is this consistent with our rule? SH

Yes. I think it will help, actually. Ella had a good point about masturbation being important for what we’re trying to accomplish here. And, well, I finally have the flat alone (thanks, btw). And I want to do it. But I want you to talk me through it. JW

Sherlock let out a slow breath. He wasn’t as soft as it was generally socially acceptable to be on the tube at the moment, but he had the advantage of a long coat to hide the evidence. He didn’t think he could manage to remain visibly unaffected while sexting John, but he hoped he could remain calm long enough to get John where he needed to go. 

Okay. Where should I begin? SH

I want you to tell me about the last time you masturbated. I want you to tell me all about it. Tell me where you were, how you touched yourself, how long you lasted, and most importantly: what you thought about. Be specific. JW

God. John being commanding always seemed to do it for Sherlock. He couldn’t resist replying:

Yes, Captain. SH 

Sherlock decided to be completely and totally honest. He hoped it wouldn’t be too much for John.

I touched myself this morning, as soon as I woke up. I woke up hard, I usually do these days. You were in my dreams last night. I dreamed about you allowing me to suck your cock. It’s something I dream about often. It’s a simple fantasy, but a powerful one. When I woke up, I lathered my cock with lubricant and I imagined crawling under the table while you work on your blog. I imagined you trying to continue working on your blog entry, but getting gradually more and more distracted. I imagined you eventually giving it up as a lost cause and threading your fingers through my hair, pulling it as you thrust into me. I imagined how you’d taste, how it would feel to have my mouth full of you. In my fantasy, you finished in my mouth. That took me over the edge. It often does. SH

Oh, fuck Sherlock. That’s so fucking hot. I would absolutely die if you ever put your mouth on me. Jesus Christ. JW

Would you like to hear more? SH

Oh god, of course. JW

The other night, when we got home from the case and you wanted to touch me. You went to the shower to touch yourself. I didn’t even make it to my bed. I touched myself right there, back against the wall, thinking about what we could have done if I hadn’t stopped you. SH

…

God, I’m sorry again. I’m sorry I can’t be a normal bloody person who can just have sex with the person he’s in love with. JW

Shut up. I’ll be having none of that. SH

Sorry. JW

Well what would we have done? If you hadn’t stopped me? JW

I imagined that you would have touched me for a while, enough to be tantalising but not enough for me to come. Eventually, you would have reduced me to a state of begging. You’d finally take pity on me and take me to the bedroom - but you wouldn’t be ready to finish things off quite yet. You’d strip us both down, lay me on the bed, and start to finger me. You’d be so patient and caring with me, you’d make sure I was good and prepared. So caring, in fact, that you’d deny me time and time again as I insisted that I was ready for your cock. I’d be begging for it but you’d insist I’d need just a little more preparation. When you finally decide to take pity on me and fuck me, I wouldn’t last longer than a few minutes. SH

Holy fuck, Sherlock. Okay I’m going to have to stop replying now. I need my hands. Keep talking. JW

Sherlock took a deep breath. He was absolutely rock hard now, and had taken his coat off to drape over his lap to give himself more cover. He felt beads of sweat starting to gather on his forehead, and his body was absolutely screaming at him to go somewhere private to remedy the situation. He mentally calculated that there was a cafe right outside the tube station with a loo that he could slip in for some privacy. But for now, for just a little while longer, he needed to deny his own wishes so that he could satisfy John. He continued to text. 

I’m rock hard right now you know. Coat over my lap to hide the evidence. SH

I’m planning on finding an empty toilet when I get off the tube so I can take care of this. SH

Wish I were in my bed though. Do you know what I would do if I were there? SH

I would use my bottle of lubricant on my three largest fingers and I would push into myself, over and over, imagining it was you. SH

I do that sometimes, you know. Not all the time. Sometimes I’m too impatient for the necessary preparations and I just fuck my own fist. But sometimes, when I really need it, I’ll fuck myself with my fingers until I come. SH

Did you know I can do that? Come from penetration alone? Well I can. And one of these days I’d like to do so with your cock inside of me. SH

John’s typing icon appeared again. 

Fuck, Sherlock. That did it. That last text made me come. Holy fuck. JW

Sherlock smiled.

Good. I just got to my station. Heading to the loo now. SH

Sherlock stood up, draping his coat in front of his lap, and walked (with difficulty) to the nearby cafe. As he walked, he felt his phone vibrate with notifications, but he didn’t let himself check just yet - not until he found some privacy. 

He locked himself in the loo and opened his notifications. 

Fuck yes, I want you to come Sherlock. Please touch yourself for me. JW

Here’s something that I hope will help you along. JW

<Image Attached>

Sherlock felt his heart absolutely beating out of his chest, tapping to open the image with an embarrassing level of desperation. What could John have sent him?

The image was of John’s face and chest, stopping tantalisingly before showing any of his lower half. John was shirtless and flushed, and his hair was matted adorably to his forehead with sweat. Underneath him, Sherlock saw the familiar sight of his own sheets. 

God. John had touched himself in Sherlock’s bed. The knowledge in and of itself was almost too much. That, however, was not the most intriguing aspect of the photograph. Right on John’s stomach was the clear and unmistakable sight of semen on John’s stomach. 

Fuck. John had come all over himself, in Sherlock’s bed, and sent Sherlock a photograph of the evidence. 

It was the sexiest thing Sherlock had ever seen in his life. 

Sherlock unbuckled his belt and pulled out his cock within seconds, beginning to fist it frantically. He knew it would take seconds. His cock was swollen and leaking, and the touch of his hand on himself was perfect and wonderful. He looked at the photograph, drunk on the knowledge that when he went to bed tonight he would smell John’s scent, John’s sweat, maybe even John’s come…and the thought brought him over the edge. Sherlock came in hot pulses all over his hand, being careful to avoid getting any on his clothes. He sent John a response text with his one clean hand.

God, thank you John. That was the most gorgeous photo I’ve ever received. SH

You’re welcome. Did it help? :) JW

Sherlock was too blissful to bother commenting on John’s usage of emoticons. He gathered what remained of his courage and sent John a photo. The photo was of nothing but Sherlock’s hand, with the backdrop of the bathroom stall, covered in his own release. He was just returning the favour. Evidence of what John had done to him. 

Fuck, Sherlock. That’s hot as hell. You’re going to get me going again. JW

Feel free. I won’t be home for another half hour. You have plenty of time. SH

I’m going to wash up and go get Rosie. We’ll see you when we get home. I love, love, love you John. SH

And I love, love, love you Sherlock. JW

***

True to his word, Sherlock was home a little over a half hour later, a giggling Rosie on his hip. John was thankful for the presence of his excitable daughter, because it saved him some of the awkwardness that he worried would come with seeing Sherlock after all they had done over text message. He had gotten himself off a second time while Sherlock was on the return journey, re-reading their texts and looking at the deliciously dirty photo Sherlock had sent him, evidence of his orgasm over thoughts of John. 

Sherlock handed Rosie over to John so that he could change clothes and prepare to go out to dinner. John bounced his daughter on his hip, feeling enormously thankful for his ability to share some of his caretaking duties with Sherlock. The daycare had needed to call John to get his consent before allowing Rosie to go home with Sherlock, and it had made John feel guilty. Over the last few weeks, John had begun to view the three of them as a family - but the world didn’t, not yet. 

Sherlock came out of his bedroom wearing an aubergine shirt and fresh trousers. He grinned devilishly at John. 

“I had to check to see if my sheets smell like you.” he said, softly. “They do. I’m delighted.”

John’s face flushed, and he forced himself to meet Sherlock’s gaze. Sherlock’s eyes slowly panned down his body, likely deducing as much as he could about John’s activities while Sherlock had been away.

“You got yourself off a second time, didn’t you?” Sherlock asked. 

“Yeah.” said John, simply, trying not to be embarrassed. “I did.”

“Also in my bed?” 

“Yep.” John confirmed. It had been the easiest decision in the world, after he decided he was going to touch himself. He had wanted to smell Sherlock, had wanted to see the exact view that Sherlock had when he regularly touched himself to thoughts of John. 

“Was it too much?” asked Sherlock, a slight amount of concern in his voice. "Everything we did this afternoon?"

John smiled softly. “No, Sherlock. It was perfect. It was wonderful. Thank you so much.” 

Sherlock smiled back. “Well then. Perhaps we can start making this a routine. I’ll try to find ways to get myself out of the flat more often, and give you some privacy.”

John grabbed Sherlock’s hand, pulling him in so he could place a gentle kiss on his cheek. “Maybe next time you don’t have to leave the flat completely,” he said. “Maybe next time we do something like that, we could both be here. We could be in separate rooms, but…but you could text me. About what you’re doing. And send me photos?” 

John felt slightly embarrassed about the request. He was a grown man, asking his live-in partner to engage in regular sexting rather than genuine physical intimacy. But if he had learned anything about Sherlock the last week, it was that Sherlock was willing to meet him where he was, to give him what he was ready for, no more no less. Because Sherlock loved him. 

“Of course.” said Sherlock, and the smile on his face was so genuine that John found he had no choice but to return it. 

***

The three of them went out to dinner at Angelo’s, talking mostly about Rosie, about Molly’s recent Facebook announcement that she was in a relationship, about an idea Sherlock had come up with on the tube for an experiment involving fire and poison and a microwave. 

This was the third time he and Sherlock had been to Angelo’s since the establishment of their relationship, and the restaurant had become a sort of safe place for the two of them. Here, they didn’t talk about their worries for the future, their concern for each other, or their complicated feelings for each other. Here, they were Sherlock and John, John and Sherlock, best friends and (though the world didn’t know it yet) romantic partners. This time, they were Sherlock, John, and Rosie. A family. 

As he always did when Sherlock and John dined with him, Angelo insisted on serving them personally. 

“How are my three favourite detectives doing this evening?” he asked, joyfully, giving Rosie a little boop on the nose that caused her to burst into giggles. 

“We’re doing lovely,” said John, truthfully. He thought for a moment, before making a decision that felt impulsive while also feeling like the most natural thing in the world. “Do you think you could bring us a candle for the table? It’d be more romantic.”

Angelo didn’t miss a beat. “Of course! I’ll be back in a moment.”

Sherlock gaped at John. “What was that about?” he asked. 

John shrugged. “I’ve been thinking….I might be ready to abandon rule #1. I think maybe I’d like to start telling people about us.”