Chapter Text
When John is eighteen his mother takes him out for his birthday: a quiet affair involving dinner and some sort of action movie. He doesn't remember most of the outing, but what he does remember is coming home for cake only to find his father passed out in the den, snoring loudly and shouting in his sleep. They spend the night on the stoop, voices hushed as they speak into the warm summer air. His mother's face is painted in the harsh yellow lamplight, the thin lines around her eyes and her mouth softened as she sips her tea and smiles into the mist. She looks unbearably young.
John stares at her for hours, listening to the soft sounds of her voice as she rambles about his coming of age: medicine, the future, his sister, the past. Harry stumbles in at four in the morning, lipstick smeared across the corners of her mouth, faded in the centre and rubbed into the grooves. Her eyes are dark as she pushes past them and ambles up the stairs. John's mother says nothing.
"Why?" The word is out of his mouth before he can stop himself. He is too young to know better.
His mother smiles and shakes her head, sleep clinging to the corners of her eyes. Moisture gathers along her lashes. "Some people are born heartbreakers; some are born to have their hearts broken. I always knew which kind I was, Johnny." She takes a sip of darjeeling, leaving space for him to respond. John does not know how, and she closes her eyes and turns her face towards the street. "In the end, you choose the heartbreak you can live with."
John sees that Harry takes after their father; sometimes he wishes his life was that simple. But in twenty years John will wake up aching in a London flat and know exactly which kind he is, too.
----
"I knew you'd turn up."
John wants to laugh. Wants to shake him by the shoulders. All that intelligence, wasted.
"This is how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever."
Sherlock's eyes are a dead-on tracer into his psyche; John can feel him poking around, working his fingers through the gears. He's too exasperated to be afraid; too foolish. "Why would I do that?"
"'Cause you're an idiot."
Sherlock smiles, the light of the sirens glowing off of his curls in a fair irony of a halo. He works his lips over to banish the expression, but John already has the image memorised. Shadows sharpen the stark lines of his face. "Dinner?"
John bites back a wild laugh as Sherlock turns, already leading the way. He nods. "Starving."
----
"I knew you'd turn up."
John has run it through in his mind a thousand times, and each time it makes less and less sense. John had just met him, shot a man for him, defended him against a drugs bust and felt like an idiot. What was it about Sherlock Holmes? He wonders if Sherlock was showing off, but that isn't quite it. There is a person Sherlock presents himself as, and then there is who he is. Sometimes John loses the line between the two; the Sherlock that made breakfast after John was stabbed and the blade scraped his scapula and the Sherlock that winked at him when they first met. Who is the Sherlock that dances like a trained professional, the detective on the case who learned the steps online or the public school boy who has known it since he was twelve? John cannot imagine Sherlock taking lessons in anything.
The first time they met, Sherlock smiled and said thank you. Sherlock's phone works in the lab; he does not use niceties. He could have stolen the money for the flat if he wanted to. He could have made the money any number of ways. The little twist of his eyes at the end of his grandstanding, not quite exasperation: the way he spun away from the door. There is a man that Sherlock wants people to believe he is, or perhaps a social crutch that he uses to manipulate people. John wonders how often Sherlock uses it on him.
Two months after Sherlock's miraculous resurrection, John comes home to find Sherlock sprawled across the couch, asleep, chest rising and falling with the slow rhythm of his breathing.
John nearly has a heart attack. He stands in the doorway to the living room for a full five minutes before he gets his breathing under control, before he remembers that Sherlock is not dead, that Mrs. Hudson is downstairs, and it's all fine. John is fine. Sherlock is fine.
Eventually John draws up the strength to move into the room, toeing off his shoes and running a hand over his mouth. There is white powder dusting Sherlock's hair, clinging to his fingertips and caught in his eyelashes. He looks like he has stumbled out of a snowdrift, and John stands over him for what feels like hours, examining the slow slope of his nose and the uncharacteristic softness around the eyes. He runs a hand through Sherlock's hair and brings it up to his face to examine in the dim light filtering in from the kitchen. Talcum powder. John lets out a soft sigh.
"Did you think it was cocaine?"
John startles at the dry, roughened voice, blinking down at his flatmate. Sherlock's eyes are black slits, brows creased with sleep and amusement. John reaches out to smooth the wrinkles from his face without thinking.
"Go back to sleep," he replies, and Sherlock hums softly. He turns his back to John and curls into the sofa. After a moment John leaves and returns with a blanket. He tucks the corners in and turns off the lights.
----
Sherlock is the kind of man who was meant to break hearts; spectacularly and completely, as with all things Holmesian - a red splatter across the inside of the clavicle and branching down the sternum. Sometimes John stares at pictures of him - snuck on holidays and while he slept, a bare handful of shots cataloguing their time together - and wonders at the sharp angles of him, the beauty of his mind and body set against the sharp contours of his psyche, his manic tangle of frustration, the way he slices people apart with his words. Sherlock collects broken hearts the way people preserve butterflies; Victor, Molly, Jim, Irene, packed away into newspaper clippings and the body parts he stores in the fridge. John thinks of a red splatter on pavement, blood branching out across the cracks of concrete and spilling down into the gutters. He wonders if he counts as part of the collection.
Once, he wondered if Sherlock picked Barts to ensure that John would never forget him, but he knows that Sherlock is cleverer than that. John would not need a reminder.
"You're still upset with me," he observes in December, voice pitched at careful disinterest.
John looks up over the steam haze of his takeout box, shrimp halfway to his open mouth. Sherlock is bent wrong-side-up over the sofa, head hanging down against the carpet. His curls brush the floor as he taps a rhythm against the wallpaper with his toes.
"It's nearly been four months," Sherlock adds helpfully. He turns to look at John, face struck strange upside down. "How long is it going to take?"
John sets everything down on the coffee table and moves to sit next to him. Sherlock's hand wraps around his knee. All John can see of his face at this angle is the long line of his throat, broken by the sharp point of his Adam's apple and the clear line of his jaw. John braces his head against the back of the sofa and breathes deep.
"We're okay," he murmurs, and Sherlock's hand tightens around him. "It's fine. It'll be fine."
"Liar."
John laughs. "Look who's talking." And then, softer, "Idiot."
Sherlock's ankle rests to his left, a jagged line cut across the protruding bone. Sherlock came home with more scars than he'd left with, but John has not asked about any of them. He knows what it means to be broken. Sometimes he wishes it had been him instead.
"Why?" he breathes, old enough to know better. It is out of his mouth before he can stop himself.
Sherlock hooks his heels around the back of the sofa and uses his hand on John's leg to pull himself up. He twists to lie on his back, curls an inky spill against the couch cushions and grazing John's thigh as he stares up into his face. His brows furrow at what he finds there.
"Oh, John," he chides. His voice is fond. "No."
John flicks his tongue against the cracked skin of his lips. "Sherlock-"
"You met me and then shot a man with barely a day in between." Sherlock's eyes are sharp, too close to escape. John stares down at him with his heart in his throat. "Why?"
"I-... to save you, and-... that wasn't what we were talking about."
Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Isn't it? You held no remorse. You'd killed before. You will again.” He carefully ignores John’s unamused snort. “But you were doubly glad because you felt that you had saved me in a spiritual sense. That you had protected my innocence in some way by preventing me from having to commit murder myself."
John frowns and tips his head back against the cushions again; he can't think and look at Sherlock at the same time. "Not spiritual," he protests weakly.
"Irrelevant. You understood what I meant." Sherlock exhales sharply. "Caring is not an advantage, John. You would have been a distraction."
John's jaw juts out of its own accord as he straightens to look down at him. "Sherlock. I could have helped you. I could have-... I thought you were dead, I had to go back to my therapist and I was miserable, Sherlock, you can't-"
"I can." Sherlock's voice is dangerously flippant, and he stands with a flourish of his dressing gown and an angry whirl. John aches to grab a hold of him and shake him, hard. Idiot, he wants to shout. You idiot. "Don't tell me I don't know what it was like for you, John."
He is gone before John can respond.
----
Christmas Eve finds John slipping over frozen puddles, the flutter of Sherlock's coat far ahead of him as they chase a mid-level member of a major crime syndicate through the crowds of the West End. They duck into a theatre, Sherlock bellowing 'Police!' at the top of his lungs as high-end socialites and fascinated tourists are shoved in every direction. John makes his usual apologies as he trails behind, breathing hard and trying to see through the crowd. They stumble down a staircase and into the basement, and John loses them in a maze of hallways and prop boxes.
"Sherlock?"
No answer.
"Sherlock!"
"Oh, do hurry up!"
John follows the breathy sound of his voice left and down another hall. The fluorescent bulbs crackle unsteadily, creating strange shadows behind crates and miscellaneous set pieces. A loud crack sounds from the other end, followed by a familiar cry.
"Sherlock!"
When he pushes through the mess he finds Sherlock's silhouette, back curved as he stoops over an unconscious man sprawled across the cold grey floor. A bruise is already developing on the man's cheekbone, and John curses softly and moves forward to check the suspect's vitals.
And then Sherlock turns around and there is blood all over his temple, streaming down his face in bright red rivulets and suddenly 'Oh, Jesus, no' and Sherlock is bleeding and John. Cannot. Breathe.
Somewhere, someone is speaking to him, but all John can see is red; his vision has gone, heart thundering hard against his chest as cold fingers grab him, press hands to either side of his face. His fingertips are pressed to a warm, healthy carotid, and John gasps and smells iodine and formaldehyde, chocolate digestives and tea and the crisp scent of home, Sherlock, Sherlock alive. He lets out a bracing sob.
"John, John, John please..." Sherlock chants, and John gasps and buries his face into Sherlock's goddamned scarf, inhales deep, sweat and fear, and refuses to be embarrassed. Sherlock stiffens for a moment before rubbing small circles across his shoulders, and all the while John tries to catch his breath and remember that It's Fine, Everything Is Fine, Sherlock is Fine, and Sherlock will not stop whispering "I'm sorry."
----
"He got you good, didn't he?" Greg laughs later. They are perched on the back of an ambulance as per usual, wrapped in orange shock blankets and shivering in the cold. Sherlock's jaw tightens as he glances towards John.
"He deserved it for running off on his own," John mutters. He knows his ears are red at the tips, eyes swollen red, but he hopes Lestrade will credit it to the cold.
Greg chuckles. "Fair enough." He glances out into the busy street, swarming with police trying to keep the crowds clear. "Well. He's definitely going to flip, so we should have Malone in custody within a day or so. There's no way for him to flee the country now that there's so much scrutiny. I expect the theatres are safe now."
Sherlock sneers. "Yes, because the well-to-do socialites are so starved for entertainment. What a pity you'll never see their property returned." His tone could cut diamonds. John smiles wryly and watches him stretch. "You won't be able to hold Malone without testimony, so I'd advise you to make sure he isn't killed." He pauses before tossing the blanket aside. "John isn't feeling well. We're leaving."
Greg frowns. "Now wait a minute, I still need your-"
"I could have a concussion, remember?" Sherlock points to his forehead, and John stifles the urge to laugh. "We need to return home immediately. Happy Christmas."
Sherlock strides off to hail a cab, and John shakes his head and stands. "Happy Christmas, Greg."
The detective smiles wryly. "I expect to see you at the yard within the next two days," he warns. And then, because he is actually rather good at his job despite whatever Sherlock says, "You alright, there?"
"'Course," John mutters, slinking after Sherlock. He doesn't dare look Greg in the eye.
----
John is not surprised to wake up gasping at four the next morning, covered in sweat and trembling down to the very meat of his bones. For the past year he has dreamt more of bloody pavements and dark torture chambers than Afghanistan, Moriarty a grinning Cheshire standing over a bloodied body mangled beyond recognition. In the strange half-dream state that exists after a night of frantic violence and two hours of nightmares, he is similarly unsurprised to find Sherlock perched at the foot of the bed, long torso bent over John's as if to shield him or perhaps to examine the images flashing through his eyes. The bow of his violin dangles languidly from one hand, the other wrapped around John's ankle and brushing lightly over the bone there. John hums a mangled hello.
He cannot see Sherlock's expression in the darkness, the only light streaming in from the hall and painting a stripe across his ear, his hair, the fine ridge of his cheekbone. John has the sudden urge to trace it with his fingers. With the half-awake logic of dreams, he does.
Sherlock closes his eyes and leans into the touch before pulling away again, leaving nothing but the phantom feel of cool curls against his fingers and John wondering if he is still sleeping. He whispers softly, "You should move out."
What? John scrambles up in a panic, snapping into full awareness. He reaches out to grab hold of Sherlock's arm. "I'm sorry, I'll try- I mean, I didn't mean-"
"Shhh." Sherlock presses him back into bed, face hidden in the dark. He smooths a hesitant hand over John's forehead. "I meant you should leave. Me. It would be best for you-"
"No."
Sherlock pulls back, putting space between their bodies. It is the exact opposite of what John needs, and he is unreasonably glad when Sherlock's hand returns to his ankle. Thoughtful strokes run over the bone.
"Please," John whispers blearily, and Sherlock sighs and says nothing.
Then, once John cannot keep his eyes open, "I'm sorry."
John wishes Sherlock would stop apologising. It would make it easier to forget that everything is wrong between them. He opens his mouth to tell him this, but he never manages to get the words out.
When he wakes up he is utterly alone.