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Originally posted on The Blanket Fort - Darth Stitch on Tumblr
![If You Predictably, the return of Sherlock Holmes was filled with enough drama and action to practically qualify for a bloody Hollywood blockbuster. Obviously, the first sensible thing that Dr. John H. Watson, former Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, did upon seeing his best friend returned from the dead, the man he’d mourned for more than a year, was deck him. Judging from the rather nasty cut and beautiful bruise forming on Sherlock’s much-commented upon cheekbones, Dr. Watson had a rather formidable left hook. Unhappily, neither man did the next sensible thing, which had been obvious to anyone who had been in their general orbit in the span of time that they spent together as flatmates and partners, which was snog each other senseless. For all the time that John denied that he was Sherlock’s boyfriend and that he was most emphatically not gay, it was evident that his world was entirely shattered when Sherlock took that apparent fatal leap from the roof at St. Bart’s. For all the time that Sherlock spent emphatically not saying a blessed word every time someone took their relationship as something more than platonic, it was evident that his world would have shattered if Moriarty had followed through on his threat to kill John. Yeah, Greg Lestrade had pretty much most of the story at this point and while he was not a deductive genius after the caliber of a Sherlock Holmes, he was still a Detective Inspector of the Metropolitan Police and he was perfectly capable of making a logical conclusion after having all the facts. The conclusion being, of course, that both Sherlock Holmes and John Watson (well, to be fair, Lestrade was rather heavily biased towards John’s favor) were bleeding idiots. [[MORE]] To be honest, it was a bit of a circus when Sherlock first returned from his apparent “death,” what with the news that James Moriarty’s right-hand man and the deadliest of all his assassins, ex-Colonel Sebastian Moran, was in London with every intention of finishing what Moriarty began. While he was nowhere near the genius his partner and boss had been, he was, however, a formidable warrior in the ranks of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces. He was rather addicted to the thrill of the hunt and the prospect of challenging prey and he was, in his own way, brutally clever about how he wanted to accomplish his goal. So they all spent a 48 hour deadly cat-and-mouse game with a talented, ruthless sniper who took an unholy delight in maiming his chosen prey before killing them off. And for once, Lestrade saw Sherlock completely devoid of the normal enjoyment that he took in solving a challenging case. This was a man simply intent on finishing what had been started over a year ago at St. Bart’s, a man determined to take his life back and to preserve the lives of the ones closest to him. Sherlock did mention that Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson had been under threat as well. Lestrade, however, knew, that this time, the only one being threatened now was John. Of course, the outcome of this entire debacle is well known, with some truths carefully bent. The media had a field day with this - Sherlock Holmes returned from the dead, his reputation restored by the unflagging faith of his blogger, the new evidence unearthed about that fateful day at St. Bart’s, the people Sherlock had helped and come forward with the proof of Sherlock’s skills as a detective and the incredible I believe in Sherlock Holmes movement that spread all over the world. Colonel Moran, ruthless killer, was brought down through the efforts of the Metropolitan Police after a dramatic shoot-out in the mansion of well-known gambler Ronald Adair, who had been found murdered some time earlier. It was later determined that Moran had killed Adair, his first victim upon his return to London. D.I. Greg Lestrade’s report carefully conceals the fact that it was a bullet from an AWS sniper rifle that killed Moran, after a face-off between two very talented, very skilled and very deadly marksmen. His report also does not mention certain pertinent facts that Lestrade has unearthed from John Watson’s Army career, which includes the reasons why said doctor is in possession of a certain medal and thus is entitled to certain courtesies and honors. He also does not mention how a certain ex-Army Captain came in possession of an AWS sniper rifle, brought by the provenance of a certain minor official in the British Government. And this last scene Greg witnessed would not even make it into John Watson’s blog. Sherlock had railed against his older brother for giving John the rifle and claimed that he had an alternative plan to bring the Colonel down once and for all.John said nothing, as he’d been doing since Sherlock’s return. He’d simply stood there, assembling the weapon with quick, practiced efficiency, ignoring Sherlock’s ever-escalating rant. Lestrade knew perfectly well that the two daft gits were meant to have a talk, The Talk and it was long overdue but there simply wasn’t time. And Sherlock was plainly terrified that they never would have that time.“Let him go,” Lestrade finally said, knowing that he had to say something because John would not, could not, because there was more than a year’s grief and rage and helplessness and nightmares simmering there and if John spoke now, Lestrade was fairly sure that the other man might finally break. “He can do this, Sherlock. We both know that he can.”Sherlock ignored him and rounded on John instead, snarling: “I will not watch you die!” And at those words, John simply looked at him and Lestrade himself couldn’t bear That Look and he wasn’t even the one meant to receive it. And he wasn’t sure how Sherlock coped but he heard the other man draw a quick, ragged breath and then, with eerie composure, managed to simply say, “All right. We will end this. Together.” Sherlock was as good as his word. And though it would be quite a long while before the true story of Moran’s death and the end of Moriarty’s criminal empire would ever be told, what mattered was that it was finally over. One would think, after all this suffering, after months of grief and pain and worry and heartbreak from both sides, that Sherlock and John would finally end this dance that they’d begun from the very first moment they clapped eyes on each other in that lab at St. Bart’s. They didn’t. Lestrade and by extension, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Mycroft and fairly everyone else caught in the orbit that was Sherlock-and-John would watch the two hopeless idiots carefully, cautiously dance around each other again. Nobody wanted to remark on how reluctant John seemed to be to let Sherlock out of his sight, how carefully he watched his surroundings with a soldier’s wariness, alert for any possible threat. Nobody wanted to remark on how Sherlock seemed to wait, to anticipate for John to speak back to him when he rattled off his deductions and it wasn’t even as if he was craving John’s actual praise, something John had been so generous with before. Sherlock would simply talk to him, would say anything, obviously wanting John to talk back, to hear his voice. John, who had always been known to snark back at Sherlock, to call him an idiot if necessary, who had been known to give him all these silent eloquent looks of exasperation, amusement, naked affection, was quiet and withdrawn. Far quieter and more withdrawn than he’d been when he thought Sherlock dead, if that were possible. And nobody wanted to remark on how several times it looked like Sherlock wanted to reach out to John, to take hold of his hand, to touch his elbow or shoulder or the small of his back. Lestrade would often catch Sherlock making that gesture and then stop and then try to hide the look of longing on his face. Sometimes, Lestrade wondered how it felt to love and be loved like that. His own marriage, he felt, was more a product of simply conforming to the expectation that he’d want a wife and children - a family, one day. Small wonder that his marriage failed. But this? This was something special - anyone with a working set of eyes could see it, bloody observe it to the smallest detail. Give it time, Lestrade wanted to tell him. Give him time and a little space, Sherlock. Don’t push him, don’t rush things. It was still hard to watch, though, this slow, careful, painful dance. Everyone knew, even though they jumped a few miles ahead in the conclusion, how well they had worked together, how much Sherlock-and-John fit. But they had been broken and they were slowly mending together, but there were still jagged pieces here and there, rough edges, things that were still left unsaid and undone. Sometimes, John’s hand would shake, the way it had before he’d ever met Sherlock, the way it had when he thought Sherlock was dead. And then one day, while Sherlock was in the midst of dictating his latest deductions to Lestrade (accidental death, a game of erotic asphyxiation gone wrong, look for the mistress), he’d simply taken John’s hand, pressed it briefly to his chest, next to his heart and set it down again, their hands still clasped together. The gesture was done in an almost absent manner and it was John’s startled look that drew Sherlock’s attention. “Problem?” he asked John, looking honestly bewildered. “It’s fine. It’s all fine,” John said hastily, bemusement followed by shy pleasure chasing across his face. Lestrade pretended not to see a thing. It took, however, a blessed long time for Sherlock to own up to the truth and finally, Lestrade could barely stand it and told him in no uncertain terms to, “Stop being an absolute tit, man up and tell him.” Amazingly, Lestrade felt better for saying it. Unfortunately, he wished he had the sense to take a picture of Sherlock’s absolutely gobsmacked expression afterwards. Then, came the interesting video footage of John, Sherlock and the delighted neighborhood of Baker Street, courtesy of a certain minor official of Her Majesty’s Government. Which, of course, ended up with Lestrade winning the pool at last. Well, that was a pleasant bonus. The point, really, was that Sherlock-and-John were once again whole and if they finally had the sense to admit what everyone in the whole of Britain had seen (and the rest of the world, if the internet was to be believed), then that was even better. And if Lestrade had to put up with a little bit of unholy giggling at crime scenes and the occasional, surprising displays of affection from one formerly aloof Consulting Detective, then that was perfectly fine. Today, he’d been called in on an apparent assault on John Watson by a thug apparently belonging to one of those drug groups with dreams of becoming a big-time crime syndicate. While drugs wasn’t exactly Lestrade’s division, they had been working on pinning a few murders of some local dealers and junkies on this group and apparently, someone called Sherlock in as a favor. Lestrade shook his head - apparently, people still had yet to get the memo that John Watson was not an easy mark. Then again, the man was still doing an effective job of being nothing more than Sherlock Holmes’ blogger. Personally, Lestrade suspected John’s jumpers had some sort of magical ability to confer “I am a harmless nobody” on a fellow - it was the only rational theory he’d been able to come up with so far. In fact, the thug was still muttering about “the fucking wolf in the fucking wooly jumper” when Lestrade had interviewed him, which only reinforced his theory. The D.I. spotted Sherlock coming with a Tesco’s bag over to the nearby tiny sandwich shop, where John was sitting. For all his ability to command attention, Sherlock had a remarkable talent for getting by unnoticed and if Lestrade hadn’t been used to having a certain Sherlock-and-John radar where those two were concerned, he would not have seen Sherlock present John with that Tesco’s shopping bag as if it were the crown jewels. Lestrade snorted at John’s epic Give-me-strength expression, which was quickly smoothed away when Sherlock bent to kiss him briefly on the forehead and then a longer and much definitely leisurely kiss on the lips. Lestrade turned away, grinning. Yeah, the world was right as rain again. *** Open the door To a room I’ve never been before Counting all the books I’ve read so long Something is wrong where love has gone If I should cry Thinking of the love I felt inside Don’t misunderstand nothing’s the clue I cry for youCause of love it’s true When does love Speak words above evolving pain Like if these tears turn to rain Endlessly calms the sea For you and me If you’re so cold If worlds just hold If I want to lean I’m here for you If you - “If You,” OST The Vision of Escaflowne PICTURE SOURCE: Aithine.org (Well, the base, obviously - I just opted to mess around with the picture a little. Heh.) The song inspiring the title of this ficlet is from the anime The Vision of Escaflowne. It’s a lovely song which y’all can listen to HERE - the vid is not mine, btw.](https://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m9gamedgNq1rcgyrwo1_1280.jpg)
If You
Predictably, the return of Sherlock Holmes was filled with enough drama and action to practically qualify for a bloody Hollywood blockbuster.
Obviously, the first sensible thing that Dr. John H. Watson, former Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, did upon seeing his best friend returned from the dead, the man he’d mourned for more than a year, was deck him. Judging from the rather nasty cut and beautiful bruise forming on Sherlock’s much-commented upon cheekbones, Dr. Watson had a rather formidable left hook.
Unhappily, neither man did the next sensible thing, which had been obvious to anyone who had been in their general orbit in the span of time that they spent together as flatmates and partners, which was snog each other senseless. For all the time that John denied that he was Sherlock’s boyfriend and that he was most emphatically not gay, it was evident that his world was entirely shattered when Sherlock took that apparent fatal leap from the roof at St. Bart’s. For all the time that Sherlock spent emphatically not saying a blessed word every time someone took their relationship as something more than platonic, it was evident that his world would have shattered if Moriarty had followed through on his threat to kill John.
Yeah, Greg Lestrade had pretty much most of the story at this point and while he was not a deductive genius after the caliber of a Sherlock Holmes, he was still a Detective Inspector of the Metropolitan Police and he was perfectly capable of making a logical conclusion after having all the facts.
The conclusion being, of course, that both Sherlock Holmes and John Watson (well, to be fair, Lestrade was rather heavily biased towards John’s favor) were bleeding idiots.
To be honest, it was a bit of a circus when Sherlock first returned from his apparent “death,” what with the news that James Moriarty’s right-hand man and the deadliest of all his assassins, ex-Colonel Sebastian Moran, was in London with every intention of finishing what Moriarty began. While he was nowhere near the genius his partner and boss had been, he was, however, a formidable warrior in the ranks of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces. He was rather addicted to the thrill of the hunt and the prospect of challenging prey and he was, in his own way, brutally clever about how he wanted to accomplish his goal.
So they all spent a 48 hour deadly cat-and-mouse game with a talented, ruthless sniper who took an unholy delight in maiming his chosen prey before killing them off. And for once, Lestrade saw Sherlock completely devoid of the normal enjoyment that he took in solving a challenging case. This was a man simply intent on finishing what had been started over a year ago at St. Bart’s, a man determined to take his life back and to preserve the lives of the ones closest to him.
Sherlock did mention that Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson had been under threat as well.
Lestrade, however, knew, that this time, the only one being threatened now was John.
Of course, the outcome of this entire debacle is well known, with some truths carefully bent. The media had a field day with this - Sherlock Holmes returned from the dead, his reputation restored by the unflagging faith of his blogger, the new evidence unearthed about that fateful day at St. Bart’s, the people Sherlock had helped and come forward with the proof of Sherlock’s skills as a detective and the incredible I believe in Sherlock Holmes movement that spread all over the world. Colonel Moran, ruthless killer, was brought down through the efforts of the Metropolitan Police after a dramatic shoot-out in the mansion of well-known gambler Ronald Adair, who had been found murdered some time earlier. It was later determined that Moran had killed Adair, his first victim upon his return to London.
D.I. Greg Lestrade’s report carefully conceals the fact that it was a bullet from an AWS sniper rifle that killed Moran, after a face-off between two very talented, very skilled and very deadly marksmen. His report also does not mention certain pertinent facts that Lestrade has unearthed from John Watson’s Army career, which includes the reasons why said doctor is in possession of a certain medal and thus is entitled to certain courtesies and honors. He also does not mention how a certain ex-Army Captain came in possession of an AWS sniper rifle, brought by the provenance of a certain minor official in the British Government.
And this last scene Greg witnessed would not even make it into John Watson’s blog.
Sherlock had railed against his older brother for giving John the rifle and claimed that he had an alternative plan to bring the Colonel down once and for all.
John said nothing, as he’d been doing since Sherlock’s return. He’d simply stood there, assembling the weapon with quick, practiced efficiency, ignoring Sherlock’s ever-escalating rant. Lestrade knew perfectly well that the two daft gits were meant to have a talk, The Talk and it was long overdue but there simply wasn’t time.
And Sherlock was plainly terrified that they never would have that time.
“Let him go,” Lestrade finally said, knowing that he had to say something because John would not, could not, because there was more than a year’s grief and rage and helplessness and nightmares simmering there and if John spoke now, Lestrade was fairly sure that the other man might finally break. “He can do this, Sherlock. We both know that he can.”
Sherlock ignored him and rounded on John instead, snarling: “I will not watch you die!”
And at those words, John simply looked at him and Lestrade himself couldn’t bear That Look and he wasn’t even the one meant to receive it.
And he wasn’t sure how Sherlock coped but he heard the other man draw a quick, ragged breath and then, with eerie composure, managed to simply say, “All right. We will end this. Together.”
Sherlock was as good as his word.
And though it would be quite a long while before the true story of Moran’s death and the end of Moriarty’s criminal empire would ever be told, what mattered was that it was finally over.
One would think, after all this suffering, after months of grief and pain and worry and heartbreak from both sides, that Sherlock and John would finally end this dance that they’d begun from the very first moment they clapped eyes on each other in that lab at St. Bart’s.
They didn’t.
Lestrade and by extension, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Mycroft and fairly everyone else caught in the orbit that was Sherlock-and-John would watch the two hopeless idiots carefully, cautiously dance around each other again. Nobody wanted to remark on how reluctant John seemed to be to let Sherlock out of his sight, how carefully he watched his surroundings with a soldier’s wariness, alert for any possible threat. Nobody wanted to remark on how Sherlock seemed to wait, to anticipate for John to speak back to him when he rattled off his deductions and it wasn’t even as if he was craving John’s actual praise, something John had been so generous with before. Sherlock would simply talk to him, would say anything, obviously wanting John to talk back, to hear his voice.
John, who had always been known to snark back at Sherlock, to call him an idiot if necessary, who had been known to give him all these silent eloquent looks of exasperation, amusement, naked affection, was quiet and withdrawn. Far quieter and more withdrawn than he’d been when he thought Sherlock dead, if that were possible.
And nobody wanted to remark on how several times it looked like Sherlock wanted to reach out to John, to take hold of his hand, to touch his elbow or shoulder or the small of his back. Lestrade would often catch Sherlock making that gesture and then stop and then try to hide the look of longing on his face.
Sometimes, Lestrade wondered how it felt to love and be loved like that. His own marriage, he felt, was more a product of simply conforming to the expectation that he’d want a wife and children - a family, one day. Small wonder that his marriage failed.
But this? This was something special - anyone with a working set of eyes could see it, bloody observe it to the smallest detail.
Give it time, Lestrade wanted to tell him. Give him time and a little space, Sherlock. Don’t push him, don’t rush things.
It was still hard to watch, though, this slow, careful, painful dance. Everyone knew, even though they jumped a few miles ahead in the conclusion, how well they had worked together, how much Sherlock-and-John fit. But they had been broken and they were slowly mending together, but there were still jagged pieces here and there, rough edges, things that were still left unsaid and undone.
Sometimes, John’s hand would shake, the way it had before he’d ever met Sherlock, the way it had when he thought Sherlock was dead. And then one day, while Sherlock was in the midst of dictating his latest deductions to Lestrade (accidental death, a game of erotic asphyxiation gone wrong, look for the mistress), he’d simply taken John’s hand, pressed it briefly to his chest, next to his heart and set it down again, their hands still clasped together. The gesture was done in an almost absent manner and it was John’s startled look that drew Sherlock’s attention.
“Problem?” he asked John, looking honestly bewildered.
“It’s fine. It’s all fine,” John said hastily, bemusement followed by shy pleasure chasing across his face.
Lestrade pretended not to see a thing.
It took, however, a blessed long time for Sherlock to own up to the truth and finally, Lestrade could barely stand it and told him in no uncertain terms to, “Stop being an absolute tit, man up and tell him.”
Amazingly, Lestrade felt better for saying it.
Unfortunately, he wished he had the sense to take a picture of Sherlock’s absolutely gobsmacked expression afterwards.
Then, came the interesting video footage of John, Sherlock and the delighted neighborhood of Baker Street, courtesy of a certain minor official of Her Majesty’s Government. Which, of course, ended up with Lestrade winning the pool at last.
Well, that was a pleasant bonus. The point, really, was that Sherlock-and-John were once again whole and if they finally had the sense to admit what everyone in the whole of Britain had seen (and the rest of the world, if the internet was to be believed), then that was even better.
And if Lestrade had to put up with a little bit of unholy giggling at crime scenes and the occasional, surprising displays of affection from one formerly aloof Consulting Detective, then that was perfectly fine.
Today, he’d been called in on an apparent assault on John Watson by a thug apparently belonging to one of those drug groups with dreams of becoming a big-time crime syndicate. While drugs wasn’t exactly Lestrade’s division, they had been working on pinning a few murders of some local dealers and junkies on this group and apparently, someone called Sherlock in as a favor.
Lestrade shook his head - apparently, people still had yet to get the memo that John Watson was not an easy mark. Then again, the man was still doing an effective job of being nothing more than Sherlock Holmes’ blogger. Personally, Lestrade suspected John’s jumpers had some sort of magical ability to confer “I am a harmless nobody” on a fellow - it was the only rational theory he’d been able to come up with so far. In fact, the thug was still muttering about “the fucking wolf in the fucking wooly jumper” when Lestrade had interviewed him, which only reinforced his theory.
The D.I. spotted Sherlock coming with a Tesco’s bag over to the nearby tiny sandwich shop, where John was sitting. For all his ability to command attention, Sherlock had a remarkable talent for getting by unnoticed and if Lestrade hadn’t been used to having a certain Sherlock-and-John radar where those two were concerned, he would not have seen Sherlock present John with that Tesco’s shopping bag as if it were the crown jewels. Lestrade snorted at John’s epic Give-me-strength expression, which was quickly smoothed away when Sherlock bent to kiss him briefly on the forehead and then a longer and much definitely leisurely kiss on the lips.
Lestrade turned away, grinning. Yeah, the world was right as rain again.
***
Open the door
To a room I’ve never been before
Counting all the books I’ve read so long
Something is wrong where love has gone
If I should cry
Thinking of the love I felt inside
Don’t misunderstand nothing’s the clue
I cry for you
Cause of love it’s true
When does love
Speak words above evolving pain
Like if these tears turn to rain
Endlessly calms the sea
For you and me
If you’re so cold
If worlds just hold
If I want to lean
I’m here for you
If you
- “If You,” OST The Vision of Escaflowne
PICTURE SOURCE: Aithine.org (Well, the base, obviously - I just opted to mess around with the picture a little. Heh.)
The song inspiring the title of this ficlet is from the anime The Vision of Escaflowne. It’s a lovely song which y’all can listen to HERE - the vid is not mine, btw.