Chapter Text
Sherlock found himself waiting for a table with John. Mary had begged off, claiming a headache. Sherlock had landed that afternoon following his four minute exile.
What Sherlock really wanted was to be alone. He wished he could have made an excuse to go back to his flat, to think. But Mary, ever mindful of their friendship, had made the suggestion that they go have a bite and plan the next move for dealing with Moriarty. “Go on,” she’d said, giving them both a little push. “Have Mycroft drop you off somewhere to eat. I know you’ll want to discuss things.” She kissed John. “Don’t stay out too late. You’ve got clinic in the morning.” Then she was gone.
So here they were, waiting for a table at a new Thai restaurant. It was going to be about an hour wait. The crowd was thick. “I just can’t believe it,” John said again for the third time. He shook his head. “This is surreal.” Sherlock did not reply. Oh yes, isn’t it? He thought. Let’s gossip about the big bad wolf and his designer suits. Let’s talk about what exciting new diabolical schemes he must be hatching. Let’s talk as though nothing has changed. He felt a lump in his throat.
Everything had changed, and he did not know how he could bear another moment with John Watson. Four minutes can be an eternity, especially with a mind like Sherlock’s. As he was being taxied down the runway, and as they reached altitude, he’d done quite a bit of thinking. After all, he had assumed that he was leaving London for the last time. Leaving John for the last time. Something was tugging at his gut, giving him a feeling of quiet unease. Since feelings came so rarely to him, Sherlock had had to chase down the source. He saw once more John and Mary entering the flat ahead of him as they filed past Mrs. Hudson. He watched again in his mind as John yelled at him to shut up, again and again, while Sherlock tried to get him to reconcile with his lying wife while Sherlock bit back what he’d wanted to say for so long: “She may love you, John. I know she does. But she could not possibly love you as much as I do, as much as I always have, always will.” No. Sherlock had seen the look—the one under the seething anger—that longed for Mary to be real, genuine. To be able to be forgiven. So Sherlock had pushed them to reconcile, even as his heart began its erratic thumping and he discreetly dialed for an ambulance. John stayed by Mary’s side as Sherlock lost consciousness again.
“So am I just going to keep talking to myself or do you plan to participate in this conversation?” John’s sharp voice penetrated through Sherlock’s brooding, dragging him back to the present.
“You’re doing fine,” he replied, scanning the others sipping drinks around them. “Sorry? I’m doing fine?” John laughed. “If I’d wanted to talk to myself, I could have just dined alone.”
And disappoint Mary? Sherlock thought bitterly. Always so happy to see us as chums. “Please do go on. I’m dying to hear your thoughts.”
John’s mouth dropped open. “Okay, look. I’m sorry if you’re disappointed that you’re not being whisked off to Siberia for holiday. But I did think perhaps you’d be slightly interested in the return of Moriarty.”
Sherlock swallowed. This really was, as Hamlet had once mused, the rub. John was never going to understand, could never understand. Sherlock was sure—he knew—John loved him. But it wasn’t safe and conventional (a ridiculous notion, since they were both now fully aware that John and convention were about as compatible as oil and water). Mary wasn’t safe or conventional, but they both enjoyed the outward appearances as such. She provided that for him: a wife, and soon, a daughter.
What could Sherlock bring this man who craved the appearance of normalcy so deeply?
“I’m sorry, John,” he said, raising his glass. “To interrupted holidays, and exciting new days ahead.”
John clinked his glass against Sherlock’s, a small smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “That’s more like it.” They each took a sip. “So, any ideas? Starting with, how in bloody hell did he blow his brains out but not die?”
“Obviously he pulled a stunt, much as I did,” Sherlock replied. “I haven’t worked it out yet, but I will.” John rolled his eyes, but he looked pleased. “Of course you will, genius.”
******
Sherlock returned to his flat after dinner. He shrugged off his coat and headed to the kitchen to make tea. He knew from the hour that Mrs. Hudson was unlikely to do it for him. On the way his eyes fell upon John’s chair, empty save for the Union Jack cushion which always lay there. How stupid I was, Sherlock thought as he pulled out a mug. As though he would give up his wife, give up his baby, to come back to Baker Street. No use being coy about it, was there? It wasn’t as though John was there. Or even if he was, it wasn’t as though John could read his thoughts. As if, he amended, he would come back to me.
What had Sherlock imagined, as he’d set up the scheme to trap Mary in her own lies in Leicester Gardens? Had his mind been racing ahead, like a child’s at Christmas, imagining the big presents Santa would leave for him for being such a good little boy?
Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. Mycroft’s smug voice filled his head once again, and Sherlock shook it to dispel it, as though an evil spirit from a cellar. How utterly intolerable that once again his brother should prove right.
While waiting for the kettle to boil, he paced. When exactly would have been the right time? Obviously, at some point before he decided to propose to Mary. But Sherlock had not known. He had spent two years trying to right some of the evils in the world, trying to tear down Moriarty’s web. It now appeared that he might as well have stayed in London, saved John the heartache of believing he was dead. A lump formed in his throat.
I never meant, John…
Once again the words began in his head, the apology he never could bring himself to give. He saw John in front of him, quivering in anger, his fist slammed into the table, his eyes regarding him as though something foul.
John, I never meant to hurt you—
The whistle of the kettle interrupted his reverie. He hurried to take the kettle off and pour a cup. Then he sat down in his chair to wait while it steeped, staring at John’s chair.
Why had he had to return the very night John was proposing to Mary? He wondered again. Why couldn’t he have returned the day before, when they had (presumably) had no dinner plans? Yes, John would still want to pulverize him. But he wouldn’t have interrupted The Moment. He could have whisked John away to somewhere private, let him have a good cry (let them both have a good cry) and try his best to make it up to him. For some reason, ever since that night, every time Sherlock was seized with an impulse to apologize (and he desperately wanted to), something in him turned it into a big joke (“Oh, you thought we were going to die inside a massive bomb? HA!”). He backed off. He was afraid.
The truth was, Sherlock saw now, there would never have been an opportune moment. The only way it could have happened would have been if he had never deceived John, never let him grieve. Now, in addition to all the other trauma John had undergone in his life, he had to deal with his best friend leaving him to grieve, alone, and make his way the best he could. Of course he found someone to cling to. Of course he’d sought out safe and conventional (on some level), something solid to cling to. Sherlock was a fool. And he did not deserve John.
His mobile buzzed in his pocket.
Hello, brother. Care to let me in?
No, he replied. It’s late. I’m in bed.
No you’re not. The light is still on. I suspect you’re moping and making tea.
Sherlock growled, jumped up and leapt down the stairs to wrench open the door. Mycroft greeted him with his usual tight lipped smile. “Hello, brother dear,” he said, swinging his umbrella.
“What do you want?” Sherlock spat.
“I am delighted to see you as well,” Mycroft replied, stepping past him.
Back upstairs in the flat, the brothers faced each other. Sherlock hated to see Mycroft in John’s chair, but he wasn’t exactly going to invite him to the couch, so he let it slide.
“So let’s begin,” Mycroft finally said, sipping his tea (Sherlock had grudgingly poured his brother a cup).
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I don’t have any ideas yet. Well, I have eleven, but they’re just in the formative stages. I’ll get back to you when I have it narrowed down.”
Mycroft gave a small sigh. “And to think we thought the most dangerous dragon had been slain and buried amongst the ashes.”
“Why weren’t you on top of this?” Sherlock demanded. “This was all something you should have kept watch on.”
“I can assure you, brother mine, we have been keeping watch. But Moriarty pulled off his feat with much more…finesse…than yours. We had positive DNA. Confessions. Reams of evidence that seemed irrefutable.”
“So England stands safe and warm in the bosom of its protectors.”
“Now, Sherlock, don’t be difficult,” Mycroft murmured. “We have our work cut out for us.”
“We?” Sherlock spat. “I don’t see how I am part of this.”
“Oh, you can’t be serious.” Mycroft frowned. “Do you think I ended your exile simply so you could come home and moon over Mr. Watson?”
Sherlock was out of his chair and in Mycroft’s face in a flash, his hand grasping his brother’s tie, twisting it tight against his throat. “Brother mine,” he murmured in a low, dangerous voice, “you will keep the Watsons out of this. They are not your concern. Nor are they mine.” Mycroft’s eyes bugged out. After another moment, Sherlock loosened his grip and stalked away. “You are very tired. You shall leave now.”
Mycroft stood up as gracefully as he could manage. “We have yet to discuss Moriarty.”
Sherlock walked over to the window and stood facing the street. “Call me tomorrow. Do not just arrive.”
“Sherlock,” Mycroft began, addressing the rigid line of his brother’s back against the streetlight. “You may think I am heartless—“
“Yes.”
“I would tell you if I had any idea how to right things,” he said softly. Sherlock did not move. “I know he loves you, Sherlock.”
“Get out.”
Mycroft nodded. “Very well. Goodnight, Sherlock.”
*******
The next morning, Sherlock received a call. It was Mary. He wanted to ignore it, but after a few rings, he finally answered.
“Sherlock? Yeah, hi, it’s Mary.”
“Oh, yes. Hello, Mary.”
“How did dinner go last night?”
“It was nice, Mum. We chatted a bit and then kissed good night at the door. I hope to see him before class tomorrow.”
“Ha, ha. Very funny,” Mary replied. “Why are you so touchy this morning? Surely I didn’t wake you.”
Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. “No, I’m fine. Sorry. Just woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”
“Ah,” she replied. After a pause, she continued. “So…are things all right between you two?”
“You spoke with John. I’m sure you know. Everything’s splendid. Can’t wait to dash off into death-defying adventures again.”
“Yeah, I did speak to John. And more, I saw him, Sherlock. He wouldn’t say anything, but it looked as though someone had punched him. He looked absolutely crushed. I wondered…if you might know why.”
Irritation surged through Sherlock. Was he supposed to tattle on his best friend to his best friend’s wife? If John was upset and didn’t want to talk about it with Mary, that was none of Sherlock’s affair, and none of her business, calling him to pry.
“I suppose he neglected to tell you, then, that he had a bout of sickness after his Poo Thong. But he recovered quickly. I’m sure he didn’t want to upset you.”
“Poo Thong? Sherlock, are you making that up?”
“It’s a Thai appetizer; a crepe-like thing that’s deep fried. I don’t believe it agreed with him.”
“But you didn’t get sick…?”
“I don’t eat fried foods, Mary. That is a particular indulgence of your husband’s, not mine.” He realized, too late, how sharp his voice sounded. Mary was quiet. “I’m sorry,” Sherlock said. “It’s been a rough morning. Please accept my apology. I’d better go. Mycroft is sending a car round.”
After he hung up, Sherlock grimaced and shook his head. Could he not avoid this? Was everybody aware of what was going on except John? Well, at least Mary seemed to think it just a strained argument, and nothing more. He wondered what John had said when he’d gotten home, how he’d acted toward Mary. He felt a bit guilty, thinking he might have caused some strain. He’d been civil to John, but there had been a definite distance last night. John clearly saw it, and mercifully said nothing. They discussed Moriarty and his faked death, and what it would mean now that he was back, and how he would continue to destroy lives. But after the meal, Sherlock feigned exhaustion and excused himself to go home.
As the car pulled up to Baker Street, John had said, “Want to have a cup of tea, work things out a bit more?”
Sherlock felt his stomach grip anxiously. Work things out a bit more? Did John mean Moriarty, or the gulf that had widened between them in the brief hours they dined together?
Sherlock put his hand on the car door handle, his faced turned toward 221B. “I rather think I’d like to just lie down. Thank you, though.” He pushed the car door open.
“Goodnight, Sherlock,” John said to his back. Sherlock did not acknowledge it.
Four minutes, Sherlock thought again now. Four minutes to think about, to weigh, all the actions and reactions of their time together. It may not have been fair, to balance friendship on a scale and keep score, but that was how Sherlock’s mind worked. This was how he knew how to understand things. Scales, scores, elements. Four minutes when he thought John was lost to him forever. And in that time, perhaps the last minute before the pilot informed him that his brother was calling, he had actually become grateful that he could leave John behind—with a happy marriage and a baby on the way. He would not have to watch the baby’s happy arrival and the inevitable drawing closer into a family unit. He would not have to be good ol’ Uncle Sherlock for the child, watching John as he held Mary and played with the child they had brought into the world together, holiday after holiday, and probably far more frequently than that. When considered his exile and almost certain death sentence, he felt a twinge of gratitude for his brother.
Sherlock finally knew what it was to have his heart broken. And it would seem that, unlike for most people, his would be over—finally and fully—in a few short months. He had felt calm, at peace, and ready to accept his fate. Then came the phone call.
Sherlock felt as though he’d been dragged from the jaws of a quick death only to be dropped into the bottomless ocean of a slow, never ending torture.
“For God’s sake, why? What have I done to deserve this?” he said, addressing the skull. The skull stared back, silent and pitiless. He picked it up from the mantle to peek under it, then sighed. No such luck. No cigarettes hiding there.
He paced restlessly. After a couple of minutes, he faced the skull again. “I love him,” Sherlock said in a low voice. “What kind of world is this that a sociopath falls in love with his best friend--his straight, married best friend, a friend who’s about to be a father?”
As he turned away, he caught his reflection in the mirror. “I love him,” he told himself. “And it’s going to kill me.”