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"Well, good night then," Sherlock murmured, his voice strangely thick. He turned abruptly and vanished. Soon John and Mary heard the front door open and close. The house was silent.
John turned to Mary. "Has everyone lost their minds?"
"We thought you were dead."
He pulled her up and sat her carefully on the bed, where she cried and explained what Moriarty had done, how he'd tricked Sherlock, how Sherlock had had to make his devastating choice.
"So," John said after a moment, slowly, "He chose to save you. And the baby." His voice sounded clinical, as though diagnosing a strain of flu.
"Yes." Mary dabbed her eyes with a tissue. "Oh, my God. I was sure you were dead. We both were."
John's gut fell the floor. He felt he was going to throw up his leftover lasagna.
He stood up. "Mary, I have to go find Sherlock."
Mary looked surprised, then nodded. "Do you want me to come with you? I never got a chance to properly thank him. In fact, I probably owe him a new shirt, since I've cried all over the one he's wearing."
"No." He looked at her. "No, you stay and rest. You can thank him in the morning."
"What about you? Will you be safe?" She grasped his arm.
John nodded grimly. "Moriarty got what he wanted. I was never meant to die." Gently, he kissed her forehead and left.
*******
Sherlock did not need to read the text that buzzed in his pocket as he left the Watsons. He knew what the general message would be. But he looked anyway.
Bravo, Superman. Too bad the secret's out. Whatever will John do about you now? :0
Sherlock curled his lip in contempt. Was this really just a ploy to make John aware of Sherlock's feelings? How utterly absurd. Sherlock made the right choice--obviously. No matter how Sherlock analyzed it, Mary was the only viable option.
Sherlock's heart might not agree, but his brain knew. Barely.
He walked on. Hurt, anger, and shame burned so bright he wondered that he did not ignite. He knew John would be grateful. But John would know. Somehow, this was what Moriarty wanted.
I will burn the heart out of you.
Sherlock stopped in his tracks. Was this Moriarty's promise fulfilled?
No. No it couldn't be. John would not turn him away, no matter what he came to realize.
But...now everything would change. Where John had once looked at Sherlock with respect, or skepticism (or frustration, or occasionally rage), now there would be-- Pity. Overt expressions of acceptance and friendship. Hearty pats on the back. Forced usage of the term "mate." Tight smiles, offers to talk with the obvious underlying hope that said offers would be lightly rejected.
I will burn the heart out of you.
Fuck. For the second time that evening--perhaps the half- dozenth time in his entire life--Sherlock felt a sob escape, wrenched from his soul. He could hear Moriarty laughing as though he were standing there, wrenching it out with his bare hands.
********
Sherlock awoke to the sound of knocking on his bedroom door. "Just leave the tea by my chair. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock mumbled, face smashed into his pillow. Maybe he could get a couple more hours of oblivion before facing the world again.
"Sherlock."
Sherlock's eyes squeezed shut even tighter. Oh God, no.
"Sherlock, it's me."
"Hello, John," Sherlock drawled, voice scratchy from sleep. And tears. More than Sherlock had thought himself capable of shedding, but he'd never let John know. "Have you brought the tea?"
He heard John chuckle, heard his footsteps cross the floor until they were right beside the bed. "I'll make us both some tea. But it's one a.m."
He felt John pat his shoulder through the bedclothes. He stiffened. "John, although I appreciate your friendship and generally enjoy our time together, it does not usually extend to late night chats when I've had a rather long day and am attempting to sleep."
The light clicked on next to his bed. He saw John's beautiful blue eyes looking down at him tenderly. John reached out a finger and brushed it lightly across Sherlock's high cheekbone, sticky with tears. "Doesn't look like you've been sleeping well."
Sherlock felt his face flush. So this was how it was to be? Not even a day or two to gather his thoughts and prepare himself for the change in their relationship. He flung off the covers. "You're right. Something about my best friend's wife and unborn child nearly being murdered does rather upset the sleep cycle." He jumped out of bed. "But I'd really prefer the opportunity to catch up on my sleep, regardless. I'm exhausted, John." He marched to the doorway and jerked his chin in the direction of the front door. "Now, if you'll excuse me... "
John stared at him for a moment, then nodded and gingerly stepped around him. "Right. I'm sorry," he said in a low voice.
Sherlock's heart ached, but he said nothing. He would not be the object of John's pity. Or he would at least hold that off as long as he could.
John reached the stair and suddenly stopped. He turned to face Sherlock, a grim smile on his face. "No, you know what? This time, for once, we do it my way." He walked back to stand before Sherlock in the bedroom doorway.
Sherlock mustered the most disdainful look he could manage. "Exactly what are we doing 'your way'?"
"This." And John leaned forward, grabbed the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled him down into a kiss. His lips brushed Sherlock's with a tenderness and sweetness that Sherlock could not even, in all the magnificence of his Mind Palace, dare to imagine.
Sherlock froze. He could not even pretend to be appalled at this display, pity or no. His hands came up involuntarily and cupped John's face, leaning in and savoring the raw, sweet taste of the only human being he had ever loved.
After a few seconds, John gently broke away, leaving Sherlock to gaze at him, breathless in wonder. "Why didn't you tell me before? Why did it have to come to this, Sherlock?" His voice was not angry. It was as soft and caressing as his lips had been. Sherlock stared at those moist pink lips. Without thinking, he leaned forward and brushed his lips against John's once more, reveling in the glory of such intense sensations. John tilted his head up and kissed him back. They remained like that for several minutes, kissing, exploring with their mouths and tongues, taking in each other's scents, elevated pulses, and shallow breaths.
"John," Sherlock murmured at last, his head against John's forehead.
"Sherlock," John whispered in reply. Their hands wrapped around each other's waists, gently holding each other, marveling at the intimacy each had denied himself so long.
Sherlock did not want to say it, but because he loved John, would do anything for him, he exhaled the word:
"Mary."
"Yeah," John said, and it was clearly a subject he had been thinking of but wished he could avoid as well.
Sherlock closed his eyes. "Your wife.. your... baby..."
"Yeah, I know, I know," John said. Their foreheads still rested together. Sherlock heard him swallow. "Thing is... you realize Mary couldn't have happened if you hadn't... if I didn't think... "
"John--"
"No. Everything's been said. Everything's well done. I had my share of fuck ups, too. I must have been blind as well as daft not to realize your feelings, everything you did for me... Not just to show me who she really was, but to give us the chance to heal. It was all so bloody obvious. Anyone could have seen it." He looked up into Sherlock's clear green eyes. "But I clung to her."
Sherlock pulled back then. "Why?"
John was silent so long Sherlock thought he wouldn't answer. But finally, he said, "I...hoped, always hoped...you and I could...be together.. But," he stopped, and swallowed again. Then he looked up into Sherlock's eyes. "You killed me, Sherlock. I died the day you... " He looked away abruptly, eyes glassy. After a moment, he composed himself and looked back again. "I never wanted to go through that again. Mary...whatever she is...Mary never left me. She would never leave me. And now, with the baby...." His lips tightened, and his eyes welled up. "Two people depend on me, Sherlock. Two people who wouldn't walk away, not without a word." His voice had dropped into a hiss. "I can't manage that, Sherlock. Not again."
Sherlock did not have the words to erase the years of separation, of misunderstandings, of pain. So he turned off, as much as he was able, his magnificent brain, and apologized to John as best as he could, without words, running his fingers gently down John's arms, stroking him, grasping his fingers tightly in his own, trying to soothe away the hurts. He leaned forward, tilted John's anguished face up, and kissed him with every bit of love, gratitude, and apology he had.
Sobbing, John reached up and kissed him back. "I love you, you fucking bastard," he growled into Sherlock's neck.
"I know. I should have said something before, months ago, years...." He stopped, took John's face in his large hands again, and looked into his eyes. "I love you, too, John."
*****
They lay together in bed, holding each other, caressing and kissing each other. They had not bothered to undress, only clung to each other, safe in the little nest of Sherlock's bed at 221B Baker Street. For now, it was enough. The sun was just beginning to streak through the window. They looked out at the dawn, watching a new day begin.
"Are you absolutely sure, John?" Sherlock asked, stroking his fingers through John's soft greying blond locks.
"Yeah, actually. It feels right. I know she'll be hurt, of course. We'll manage," he added. "I'll always be there for her and our daughter. I just can't give her my heart when it's already taken."
Sherlock dipped his head to gently kiss John's lips. "Little Sherlock will be thoroughly spoiled, of course."
"Still not calling my daughter Sherlock," John replied, patting Sherlock's thigh.
"Shame, really," Sherlock replied, smiling down at him.
John reached up to stroke his cheek. "One Sherlock is more than enough. For me, at least."
After a moment of quiet, Sherlock let out a hearty laugh. It was so startling that John jumped. "Jesus, what's so funny?"
"Moriarty thought he was tearing us apart. The night at the pool, he said he'd 'burn the heart out of me.'"
John nodded. "Yes, I remember."
Sherlock laughed again, delighted. "Don't you see? He doesn't understand. For all his cleverness, he doesn't understand the human heart--"
"Sometimes, neither do you," John interjected, raising his eyebrows.
"I am learning, John," Sherlock amended. "But he didn't burn the heart out of me. He brought it back to me and made it beat, made it human." He laughed again. "He did. Perhaps I should send flowers."
John gave him a look. "Don't get carried away. He's only going to go back to trying to kill you. He's still an evil arsehole."
Sherlock bounced out of bed, smiling down at John: glorious, wondrous John.
His John. He could scarcely believe it, but finally, John was his. His pulse raced with giddiness.
"Come on," he said, reaching out a hand to John. "Let's get Mrs. Hudson to make breakfast."
****
The end.