Work Text:
You drew stars around my scars
But now I'm bleedin'
Marked me like a bloodstain, I
I knew you, tried to change the ending
Peter losing Wendy, I
Running like water, I
And when you are young, they assume you know nothing
But I knew you'd linger like a tattoo kiss
I knew you'd haunt all of my what-ifs
The smell of smoke would hang around this long
'Cause I knew everything when I was young
I knew you'd miss me once the thrill expired
And you'd be standin' in my front porch light
And I knew you'd come back to me
You'd come back to me
- cardigan by Taylor Swift
Running away isn’t the cowardly thing, not always. It wasn’t black and white. I couldn’t have stayed there, couldn’t have done it, without breaking down entirely. Twenty-five months’ worth of pain crashed through me all at once, every wave and avalanche and moment of screaming alone into a pillow until my fingernails shredded through the cotton.
So I fled. Boots pounding against concrete, the wind whipping my hair into my face. His voice in my ears, calling after me. I’d never expected to hear him say my name again. I had never expected to run away from him.
“Y/N. Y/N!”
For the first night in weeks, I cried myself to sleep. And then the dreams came.
****
A knock on my door. I look up at the clock in the kitchenette automatically. 11.10. One more minute and I can make a wish.
I’m not going to answer the door, because that’s the stupid thing to do. I still pause my movie and walk over, stretching my arms above my head. Eye to the peephole. I know the man standing there, I recognise him just by the knot of his scarf.
“Sherlock?” The door swings open, creaking once it reaches the halfway point.
“May I come in?”
“Yeah.” He looks like a disaster. I’m not surprised. The tabloids have been destroying him lately, and he’s been keeping everyone except John Watson at a distance. I can’t pretend that distance doesn’t hurt. I texted him, on the second day, telling him he wasn’t a fraud, that I believed him. He’d read the text; hadn’t replied.
His cologne is faded, and old tobacco seeps from his coat. I take a breath, looking up at him as I relock the door. “Are you okay? It’s late, are you-”
He turns to me, takes a deep breath of his own, and my breath catches at the way he’s looking at me now, his eyes suddenly soft. My heart starts to race as he takes a step closer.
“I’m not okay,” he says quietly, his voice lower than I’ve ever heard it. I swallow. Behind him I can see the clock. 11.11. Make a wish, and I do - I wish you could be okay, Sherlock. I say it in my head, meeting his eyes.
“Can I do anything?”
His eyes dart from side to side. “No,” he says. Then, before I can protest - there has to be something I can do, even if it’s just making him a cup of tea - he takes another step closer. This one brings him close enough that the folds of his coat brush my bare arms. Can he hear my heartbeat?
He raises his arms and cups my face. I suck in a small breath. His hands are frozen against my flushing cheeks. Oh well, at least my face can be a useful radiator, even if it’s embarrassing. But all my flippant thoughts die when he exhales and begins, quietly:
“I know how you feel about me, Y/N.” Oh, well, that’s…really not good. Especially since I don’t know how I feel about Sherlock goddamn Holmes, most days. But he carries on.
“And I want you to know that I am not an ordinary man…”
“No worries, Sherlock,” I breathe, “I know that.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, presses in and upward. “I am not a man given to sentiment, or - or romance. But if there had been anyone in the world for me…” He smiles, then, and aren’t smiles meant to be joyful things? An expression of happiness? There’s nothing but pure sadness in this smile.
“It would have been you.”
I shake my head, emotion coiling up, hot and messy, through my sinuses and eyes and throat. “Sherlock, I-”
He pulls me closer then, his shoes bracketing my bare feet, tips my head up, and presses his lips against mine.
It’s unpractised, unguarded, surprisingly gentle. Instinct takes over - instinct and something like a protective urge. I curl my hand through his hair, my other arm sneaking inside his coat and around his waist. It’s not how I imagined kissing Sherlock Holmes would be. I’d imagined something between a tornado and a wildfire. This was like kissing a lighthouse. A guiding light home.
He breaks the kiss, pulls back and sets his hands on my shoulders, looking down at me. Emotion - actual emotion, something near tears, in those beautiful eyes. Haunted, fragile, lost; they’re all words that could describe him in that moment, backlit by my messy lamp-lit flat and the flickering colours of my paused TV.
Words. Words - say something. I open my mouth, and Sherlock smiles, then, fondly, with a touch of pride, like I’m the best thing he’s ever seen.
The best thing he’s ever let go.
He stoops again. Kisses my forehead. Squeezes my shoulders, his now-warm palms burning through the thin fabric of my cotton shirt.
Then - two swift movements - a click of door-latches - and he’s gone; vanished into the night.
Forty-eight hours later, he’s dead.
****
I woke up the way I fell asleep.
In tears.
****
Ten hours earlier…
Sometimes, an evening coffee was the only way to go. Sure, I might not sleep properly later. Maybe I’d stay up, scrolling social media, until well past midnight. Tomorrow-me might curse today-me for her poor life choices. But right now, after the day I’d had and the idiots I’d dealt with, a cup of coffee was the only way forward. So, with that in mind, I spotted a Starbucks and eyed up where I could cross the road. I could walk home with my fingers curled around a warm chocolatey cappuccino, giving myself a moustache of froth. And then I’d have that ravioli and some salad.
My stomach rumbled.
It was a busy evening, traffic stop-starting, bikes and scooters whizzing by, people walking fast, leaving trails of colognes and perfumes. I stuffed my phone in my pocket, zipped my jacket up tighter, spotted a traffic-light turning red and the way that all the cars came to a halt. Good, that’d make crossing easier.
I got my coffee. A businessman was coming in at the same moment that I was leaving, and I braced myself for him to push in first - he had the snooty nose and over-zealously gelled hair that screamed of arrogance. Instead he held the door for me and ushered me through. I thanked him with a surprised grin. That’d teach me never to judge someone by their nose or hairstyle.
I was walking against the general flow of pedestrians, like normal. So it was a surprise when someone popped up on my right.
It was even more of a surprise when they didn’t overtake me. They stayed in step with me. I prepared to scream (it was London, after all), and looked up from my coffee.
Looked all the way up a dark blue coat, a lighter blue scarf, and the lightest blue eyes I’d ever seen in a person.
My coffee fell. The lid burst off. Foam splattered across my boots. Splashed my jeans. All the air in the universe vanished in that split-second, leaving me gasping, choking, on nothing.
“Hello, Y/N,” Sherlock Holmes said calmly, the corner of his lips ticking up. “Surprise.”
The traffic came to collisions, metal crunching, glass shattering, engines screaming. Every pedestrian collapsed bonelessly and died. The world fell apart around me. All I could hear was my own heartbeat, the deafening unreality, how my fingers curled numbly on nothing.
“You’re, I… Sherlock. You’re - you’re d-dead.”
“Nope. Not any more. It got boring.”
I sucked in an unsteady laugh. It turned into a gasp. “I can’t be…this can’t be real.” There was no way he was there, because that couldn’t happen anymore. “I’m hallucinating.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. I’m right here,” Sherlock said impatiently. His voice. I’d never forgotten his voice, or so I thought, but I had, I obviously had, because every cadence from that deep rich baritone thrummed along my nerves, giving me goosebumps.
“No.” I shook my head. “I can’t believe this. You’re…but you died.”
“I didn’t.” Sherlock sighed. “I only returned to London yesterday. I was away. Destabilising Moriarty’s gangs.”
I swallowed. The traffic reorganised itself into rows of headlights and tail-lights. The pedestrians got up and carried on. I heard pigeons hooting.
“You’re alive?”
“Yes.”
I reached out my hand, tentatively. Sherlock watched as my fingers curled around the cuff of his coat-sleeve. Roughened wool, the texture familiar, like a taste I’d experienced as a child. His fingers flexed, his hand turning over. Some instinct made me twitch my hand down, our palms pressing together, fingers entwining. His hand was cold. He watched our hands clasp, hanging there, low, between us.
“I thought…” He looked up, blue eyes the same, the way I’d forgotten, because no photograph could ever capture the true glacial intensity of those irises. “I thought I should tell you before you found out online. Though apparently there’s already plenty of ridiculous rumours about me being alive. There’s even a club. Founded by…” His lip curled. “Anderson.”
Why did I want to laugh? “It’s not ridiculous if you’re not dead, you know.”
He broke into a genuine smile. “They wear deerstalkers at their meetings.”
“Oh, you’re right, that’s completely ridiculous.”
He let out a laugh, a bark of a laugh, and my smile burnt up behind my eyes with emotion, and then I was in his arms, hugging him, right there in the middle of the pavement.
Nose against his coat-collar. He smelt the same. Same cologne, same faded scent of tobacco. Something almost musty. Like disuse. There was a rich tang to his shirt collar, something expensive and masculine that I couldn’t place. His arms were vice-like around my waist, pulling me flush against him, his face pressed against the side of my head.
“Ohmygod,” I whispered into his collar. “You’re real. This is fucking real.”
“Yes,” Sherlock murmured, fingers digging into the back of my jacket. “Yes, it is.”
You’re real. You’re fucking alive. You’re hugging me, right now, in front of all these people who don’t care because they don’t realise how monumental this is. You didn’t die. You never died.
I remembered the last time I’d been this close to him, the last time I’d seen him, how I thought all chances of ever standing in his embrace again had been taken away from me by Jim Moriarty. But all the tears, the guilt, the regret, the grief, it had all been for nothing.
And with that, I tensed, my arms slackening slightly.
Two years. Two entire years. Every feeling that had led to me being gutted, destroyed, unable to function properly, a ghost of the girl who used to smile at the silliest little things, an echo of the girl who had found joy in one rebellious ray of sunshine in a cloudy twilight. Sherlock’s death had taken that away from me, forced me into a hardened shell, locked me up there with my worst feelings. And all along it’d been…
The rich scent of cologne was too much, cloying the back of my throat. A car beeped as it drove past. The chatter was too loud. Everything was too much. His grip was a cage. And I was slipping into a complete disconnect.
“Are you - Y/N - what’s wrong-” Sherlock began, voice alarmed, his arms falling away.
I stepped back. The concrete was soft, swaying under my feet. “I can’t fucking believe this, I can’t believe you’d - You just - Why did you leave-” Each word, a choked whine. Every second, hot panic building, making everything wrong.
“No,” Sherlock said. “No, Y/N, no, let me - No.”
“No?” I repeated. “No.”
“Y/N - You don’t underst-”
“You fucking dickhead, I understand all of it!” I yelled. People turned to look. “How - how-” My voice broke, face crumbling, tears tracing liquid fire down my cheeks. “How could you?”
He opened his mouth. Shut it. Began to lift his hand, and I watched it in slow-motion, pale knuckles uncurling, reaching for me.
I turned and ran for it.
****
It was hard to stop crying. In the end, I think I simply ran out of tears. I got up, rubbing my sore nose and eyes. My sleepshirt was disgustingly soggy from using it as an impromptu hanky. I ripped it off, grabbing clothes from my cupboard. Stripy shirt, my oldest jeans. I didn’t need to go out today and I sure as fucking hell wouldn’t be.
My face was a familiar sight in the mirror, blotchy, eyebrows knotted together, mouth turned down, eyes swollen and red. I knew that expression on my face. I turned away savagely, turning the shower on. This wasn’t fair.
That became my mantra - set to the rhythm of the warm water pattering down the drain, as the towel rasped against my skin, as I yanked a brush through my hair. This isn’t fair. This isn’t fair. Not fair, not fair, not fair.
I crossed the main room of my flat. My sock got twisted and I muttered a curse as I knelt, clumsily pulling it into its proper position. I wasn’t hungry. My stomach growled, rebutting that, but I ignored it. The idea of eating felt so utterly unappealing. I couldn’t sit here, spooning cereal into my mouth, while he was. While Sherlock Holmes was goddamn alive.
Grabbing the kettle, holding it under the tap. Why did I even feel like this? Shouldn’t I be happy? Overjoyed? The man I’d mourned, the man I’d told myself I could have loved, or did love, was back. Alive. Standing there and exchanging dry witticisms with me like he’d never gone away, never left himself for dead, never…never left me.
I flicked the kettle on and reached for my phone, where I’d abandoned it last night.
Sherlock Holmes, Hat Detective, is alive!
The Hat Detective returns from beyond the grave…
Grab your deerstalkers, London’s finest detective has been resurrected…
I scrolled through headlines and articles and social media posts. Pictures of Sherlock were everywhere. Most were from two years ago. One picture was of him standing outside the Starbucks yesterday. My stomach twisted. He’d been waiting for me.
Exhale. Theories were running wild, like always, coming from people with nothing better to do than speculate. The same people who’d trashed him twenty-six months ago were the ones jubilating now. I clicked my phone off, feeling sick. What right did they have to make fucking posts about how glad they were, complete with heart emojis and magnifying glasses and every stupid comments about how handsome he was?
The doorbell buzzed with that annoying little sound I’d selected, a grim noise that was my general mindset as a welcoming hostess. I looked up. No one can see through a solid door, but I could almost picture Sherlock standing there, in the morning sunshine, coated and scarfed and…And.
I pushed off the counter and walked over, every step unreal. Pulled the door open without checking first. If it was a mad-axe murderer, at nine AM on a Saturday, they were welcome to murder me.
It was Sherlock. The sunlight bounced off him, catching in his dark curls, reflecting in his icy eyes as he tilted his head, looking back at me.
Words were impossible. The silence dragged on. A rook cawed. A car drove past.
“Hello.” His voice was deep, bitten off with that customary curtness.
“Hi,” I whispered. I took a deep breath, forcing myself into an emergency reboot. “Do you…Er. Come in?”
He stepped inside, just over the threshold, brushing by close enough for me to smell his cologne. He was suddenly a huge presence in my flat as the door clicked shut. I put my hand over my thundering heart, looking back up.
“I…” I swallowed. “I don’t know what to say.”
“An offer for a cup of tea would be appreciated.”
My lips ticked up without my consent. “Would you like coffee?”
He rolled his eyes. I laughed.
In that second, I could feel another moment overlapping, our past selves standing in these positions. My hand came up, tracing my lips. That goddamn kiss. His gaze flicked sharply, watching me, his hand twitching.
“Tea,” I said, turning blindly, desperate to break out of the trap. The kettle was still warm. I drained the hot water into the sink regardless, pouring cold water into the top. I could feel his eyes on my back, burning hot enough to dry my wet hair. “Did you…When did you get back, then?”
“Two days ago.”
“Have you told the others yet?”
“Mostly, yes. Lestrade and Molly hugged me. Mrs Hudson fainted.”
“Oh, no.”
“John punched me. And you…” His voice trailed off.
I flicked the kettle on. Turned, crossing my arms over my chest. “And me?”
“And you.” He arched an eyebrow across my flat at me. “You ran away.”
I took a deep breath. “Maybe you need to work on your tactics. You clearly shocked us all. And hurt us,” I added bitterly.
Sherlock barked out a laugh. “Better hurt than dead.”
“Dead?”
“Yes. That day, on the rooftop - Moriarty had snipers on all of you.”
“All of us?”
“You. Lestrade. John. Mrs Hudson. Molly was the exception; he overlooked her. If I hadn’t jumped, and been ‘dead’,” Sherlock flicked air-quotes, walking closer; “then he would have had all of you killed.”
I exhaled, my knees suddenly weak. “Shit.”
“Yes. That was why it was so important that everyone believed I was dead.”
“I…Okay, I get that. But, two years, Sherlock? Twenty-five fucking months. Do you have any idea what we’ve all been through? Moriarty’s dead, we’re still here, surely you could’ve like, told us before now!”
“I was destabilising Moriarty’s organisations worldwide. A spiderweb, that’s what he built. It had spread, across all of Europe and some parts of America. Smaller organisations, subordinates with more evil intent than brainpower, compromised governmental departments…It was immense.”
“And enjoyable.”
“What?”
“Oh, stop it. I can see the fucking smile you’re trying to hide. You enjoyed it, the ‘game’, gallivanting around feeling like a hero, while the rest of us…the rest of us rotted here and grieved!”
Sherlock paused, on the edge of where the faded brown carpet turned to the linoleum tiles of my kitchen space. “Y/N…”
“You should have told me!” It burst out at a volume to rival the crescendoing kettle. “I should have fucking known before this, Sherlock! You should never, ever have let me think you were dead!”
“Do you not understand? An assassin would have killed you in cold blood, had you known. Even after my ‘death’, it was still not safe. Any inkling of foul play, and the assassins could have returned.”
“You don’t get to make that choice for me, though!”
Sherlock scoffed. “Of course I do. I made the choice to keep you safe. You had to believe I was dead for a bit - so what? I’m here now, everything’s fine.”
The kettle switched off, hot steam brushing against my elbow. “No, it’s not fucking - It’s not your choice, Sherlock! I would’ve chosen to know!”
“And the other three?” he challenged, raising his eyebrow again. “I suppose you had the right to risk their lives too, then?”
I bit back my retort, floored. Sherlock opened his mouth again, triumphant, and I pushed off the counter and took a step, jaw clenched.
“Maybe I’d rather have been dead than go through all of that, Sherlock! What if-” I took a breath, “what if I’d tried to kill myself, huh? You didn’t, you’ve got no clue what it was like, what I went through, how I felt. Imagine if I’d just…got lost and actually tried to commit suicide, just because I believed you were dead - what then?”
“Mycroft’s agents would have prevented-”
My laughter cut him off. “Ohmygod. Oh my god.”
“Y/N-”
“You had people doing surveillance on me.” He didn’t contradict me. I stared at him in disbelief. “I was being fucking watched?”
He watched me, looking like he dearly wanted to take back his words.
“What next? Cameras in here?” I waved my hand at the ceiling. “In my fucking bedroom, my bathroom? I suppose you saw all of it? Every time I was crying myself sick in bed, you just sat halfway across the world and watched footage of it?” My voice rose to a shout. “When I was grieving and ill and the days where I didn’t know what to do with my life because you weren’t in it - And all the time you were probably watching-”
“No,” Sherlock tried to cut me off, “no, Y/N, of course not-”
“Of course not?” I laughed. It didn’t sound right. “Nothing’s ‘of course’, Sherlock! You were meant to be dead, ‘of course’! But now look! Why the fuck is this happening?”
Sherlock glared at me, jaw tight, eyes glinting with fury. “Well, if you’d prefer me to be dead-”
“No, of course I-” I snarled at myself for saying ‘of course’, feeling like an idiot. “No, I do not want you to be dead!”
“I have to tell you, Y/N, that you’re giving off fairly mixed signals. Well done. Sounds like you want me dead, actually.”
“No, I don’t want you dead -”
He sneered, and my words kept coming.
“-I love you, you fucking bastard!”
The room collapsed under the weight of the silence. I could hear a high-pitched ringing in my ears. Sherlock was frozen, staring at me, lips slightly parted.
Something cold curled through my chest, behind my sternum, through my ribs, constricting my racing heart. Horror. I was horrified.
My voice was quiet now.
“Get out.”
Sherlock inhaled, like my voice had unfrozen him. “Y/N-”
“No. Get out.”
“You just said-”
I took a step closer, fists curling. “Get the fuck out.” He watched me, unmoving, his eyes preternaturally bright even though he was standing two feet to the right from the singular ray of sunshine cast through the room.
“I don’t want to,” he said, his own voice quiet.
I heard myself laugh. Felt my hand gesture toward the door. “Walk away, Sherlock. You know how.”
He inhaled. Lifted his hands to his coat collar, fixing it. I watched him turn. It took him four strides, four even unhurried strides, to get to my door. He didn’t hesitate when he reached for the lock. Sunlight spilled in, casting him in a warm glow. He didn’t look back.
The door shut.
He’d gone. He’d left.
I collapsed to my knees.
****
The first anniversary of his death is the worst day I’ve had in months, and that says a lot because they’ve all been fucking awful. I knew going into work would be better for me than staying at home, rotting in bed, crying and hating everything. What I hadn’t realised was that everyone would know it was his deathday. The news had released a special obituary in his memory. People at work were talking about him - but not to me. Behind my back, they whispered. Maybe they were trying to be considerate.
It hurt worse.
Now I’m standing on a tube as it passes underneath London, hot dusty air blowing through the ajar windows, watching the darkness turn to streaks of light, how the reflections of all the people are so vacant. We’re all wedged together - peaks of rush-hour. My elbow bumps a smart businesswoman’s handbag. There’s an old man standing in front of me, and if I lean three inches forward my nose will be buried against his overcoat. He smells of old tobacco - at least, I assume it’s him. It hurts.
A young man sitting on the end seat accidentally plays a few seconds of a loud video. People are talking. At the other end of the carriage, a baby wails irritably. The orange writing on the screen scrolls along - one more station left and then I can escape, though what am I even escaping from? Standing here, packed like untidy sardines with all these people, is maybe the calmest I’ve felt all day. The ache is like a bruise, a scar, but not an open wound.
One year ago, this exact time, I was on my bathroom floor, crying. I wonder where I’ll be next year. I don’t want to think about it.
The train pulls into the station, the wheels screeching. Everyone braces. I wait for the inevitable jerk-back moment as the train finally stops, years of practise meaning that I don’t have to put my hand on the orange pole - but I do anyway, because my balance, just like my mentality, is shit today. We all jostle for something to hold onto. The platform whirs by, covered in a mass of waiting people that’ll be lucky if they even fit onto this already packed tube. The train pulls to a slow halt, and my fingers close tighter around the pole.
A hand comes over my shoulder, covers mine. The train jolts to a stop, rougher than normal, and even those of us that were holding on stumble slightly. I sway backwards against someone, a man, the man whose hand is over mine on the pole. His hand lifts away at the exact second that I rush to pull mine back. The doors open and the old man in front of me exits, along with a few other people. I take a step forward into the vacated space and turn, my hand still tingling from the simple sensation of another person’s skin.
There’s no one there. I rub my hand, discomfited. I should feel creeped out. I should be worried. I automatically check my coat pockets, even though they were empty. But my mentality is so shit that I can’t help but think that person’s simple accident, grabbing onto the pole and my hand, was possibly the most meaningful human contact I had all day.
****
It’s a warm sunny day. I’m sitting on my bench. My weekend retreat: a rusty metal bench in the middle of a huge high-street. There’s an identical bench opposite. I walk here, get a coffee, sometimes a pastry, and read a book while the world goes on around me. It’s probably the healthiest habit I’ve adopted in the last seventeen months.
Sometimes I have interesting conversations. Every few weeks, there’s an old man with his newspaper; he’s good company. Apparently I’m good at crosswords, though I conceded defeat when I tried to do Sudoku with him. A few times I’ve met an old lady with a Bichon Frise, she’s all fire and anti-politicians and scandalous stories. She’s not here this weekend, because she’s gone to a LGBTQIA+ march with her granddaughter.
It’s still early, so window-shoppers are few and far between. The traffic is likewise scarce. I glance up once or twice, and the bench opposite is deserted. Until the third time. A man sits there, baseball cap pulled low, scrolling through his phone, one knee crossed over the other.
Out of caution, I check every few minutes that he’s not being suspicious. He isn’t. He sits there, scrolling, fiddling absently with the drawstring of his hoodie. I read an extra chapter than I normally do, just because…Not because he’s there. He’s not intriguing, he’s not doing anything interesting, but for some reason, his presence keeps me there for another fifteen minutes.
When I stand up and leave, he doesn’t look up.
****
It was him. It was fucking Sherlock Holmes. All those times, the moments when I never felt quite alone. It had been him.
It hurt more than it should have. I wanted to derive some kind of comfort from it, from the idea he’d been around, watching me, even touching my hand. But all I could think of was the way past-me had felt, how shattered she’d been. Past-me had already been betrayed. I wouldn’t betray her too by moving on too quickly and forgiving Sherlock’s betrayal.
His abandonment.
****
Three minutes to eleven, the next morning, was when he knocked. I knew it would be him. Maybe I had nothing to say to him - certainly, trying to think of words right now was useless - but I wanted to see him. That was the problem, with loving a man you’d thought dead. You wanted to check he was still alive.
I pulled the door open, already scowling, wincing against the bright light of another sunny day. Sherlock stood there, a complete copy-and-paste from yesterday, coat and scarf and curly hair and watchful gaze.
My eyes dropped to the colourful, yellow-and-white-and-red bouquet in his left hand.
“Ah, yes,” Sherlock said, proffering them. “Here.”
I didn’t take them. “I don’t know what to say to you, Sherlock.”
“I think you said enough yesterday.” There wasn’t a bite or jibe in his voice, just pure statement. I sighed.
“Yeah, I probably did.”
“Can I come in?”
“I suppose so.” I stepped well back, turning and walking inside, leaving it up to him to shut the door. “Why’ve you brought flowers?”
“I…I wanted to.” Sherlock sounded uncertain.
“I guess John gave you advice?”
“No, he’s not speaking to me at the moment. Still annoyed I kept him in the dark for two years. Like you. I suppose I should have expected it. I had hoped my so-called friends would be a bit more pleased to see me, but there you go.”
Guilt twinged through my belly. I whipped it away. With a mace. “We’re angry because we cared so much. You’ll just have to put up with it.”
“Have you seen his moustache?”
I blinked, glancing over my shoulder. Sherlock smirked as our eyes met.
I smiled back reluctantly. “Yeah. It’s…”
“It’s ridiculous. Mary doesn’t like it, either.”
“It’s definitely interesting.” I looked around for my singular, unused vase. It was on a high shelf. I gritted my teeth and stood on tiptoe, reaching up. It would’ve been easier to ask Sherlock to get it down. And I would have. But I didn’t.
This vase was hideous, like the neglected love-child of a earthenware condom and a china soup bowl. I brushed off the edge of a cobweb and switched the tap on, feeling it grow heavier with the water. Then I turned. Sherlock was already there, holding the bouquet out. I steadied the vase as he placed the flowers in, then I put the vase on the counter.
“Teamwork,” I said, then hated how sarcastic I sounded.
“Hmm, quite.” Sherlock shifted, looking uncomfortable. Good. He deserved it. “Why are you not dressed?”
“Oh my god. Now you’re coming here and judging how I’m fucking dressed as well?”
“No. No! I’m - It’s-” He waved his hand at my baggy shirt and soft cotton shorts that I normally slept in. “It’s not like you.”
“You don’t know what’s like me now, Sherlock.” I tried to tamp down my growing anger. Exhale. Refocus. “I had a late shift yesterday, then it overran as well, and I’m bloody exhausted. I was going to have a nap.”
“Oh.”
A silence fell.
“Y/N, I-”
“Look, I didn’t-”
We both cut ourselves off.
“Please,” Sherlock said, gesturing.
“I was just going to say…like, I’m not…You know I’m actually happy you’re alive, right? I don’t want you to think I want you to be dead.”
“Granted, I assume you’re happy I’m alive, but the evidence so far points entirely to the contrary.” Sherlock took a moment. Guilt swirled through my gut. “But I want to…apologize. It was never my intention to hurt you. I wanted to keep you - all of you - safe.”
“I know.” My voice was quiet. I studied the floor.
“What you said yeste-”
“No, no, no. I’m not - We’re not - Just pretend you didn’t hear that, okay?”
Sherlock’s lips twisted into a smirk. “Impossible. It’s locked into my memory palace now.”
I sighed. Rolled my eyes. “You’re an idiot.” I could hear my own smile.
Another silence fell, more soft. I sagged, exhaustion turning my limbs to a leaden jelly. “I’m so - so t-tired,” I yawned, holding my hand over my mouth.
Sherlock took a moment, then yawned as well. Then glared. “Stop giggling.”
“Sorry. I just infected the great Hat Detective-”
“Oh, for God’s sake Y/N-”
“-with the great Infectious Yawn Plague. Let me have my moment here.”
“Sure,” Sherlock said sarcastically. “Please, be my guest.”
I grinned up at him, then frowned, finally looking properly at his face. He was thinner, his cheekbones more angular. There were new lines on his forehead, and maybe a touch of grey in his black curls. And there were dark shadows, bruised smudges, under both of his eyes.
“What?” Sherlock said, narrowing said eyes.
“When was the last time you even slept?”
“Oh, you know me, Y/N, sleep is-”
“Necessary, even for you, so stop dodging the question.”
“Not for a long while,” Sherlock said, looking away stiffly.
“Since coming to London?”
“No.”
“So…before that?”
“No, since I was being held captive and tortured for information.”
“What?”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “It wasn’t exactly easy during those two years.”
I stared at him, aghast. “Tortured?”
“Yes.”
“Ohmygod,” I breathed. Sherlock watched me processing the information. You heartless selfish little idiot. “I’m so sorry.”
He cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. Mycroft got me out. No harm done.”
“No harm done-? …You know what? Come on.”
He studied my proffered hand sceptically. “Where?”
“Come. On.” As his fingers curled gingerly around mine, I started walking, towing him towards my bedroom. The bed was unmade, and there were several books scattered on the floor, but at least there wasn’t dirty underwear anywhere. The curtains were still drawn, but I hadn’t pulled the blind down last night, so sunlight streamed half-heartedly through the thin fabric.
“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, baulking in the doorway like a fitful horse.
“Coat off, scarf off, shoes off. We’re both knackered, so we might as well be comfortable while we do this.”
Sherlock raised his hand to his scarf, then paused, fingers entangled in the knot. “And what is ‘this’, exactly?”
“Talk through everything like adults. Because holy shit, Sherlock, there’s quite a lot to talk about.” I raised my eyebrows at him. “Chop chop.”
He half-sulked, half-smirked, then pulled his scarf away, laying it over the end of my bed. His coat followed, hung on the back of my door, over my dressing gown. I watched him toe off his shoes, nerves suddenly coiling through my belly.
You’re insane. You are actually insane. Well done, Y/N. He steps back into your life and that’s what pushes you over the brink into the screaming void of craziness. What are you even doing?
Sherlock looked up, his curls more tousled somehow. I took a deep breath, then turned and climbed into the bed, patting the space next to me.
Expression blank, he sat down next to me, swinging his legs up. The mattress creaked under the extra weight.
“Right,” I said, throwing the duvet over his knees. “I’m convinced I’m hallucinating all of this anyway, so we’ll just dive right into the deep end, shall we?”
Sherlock reached behind him for his pillow, propping it upright and then leaning back, hands interlaced over his stomach. I tried to calm my racing heart. It felt impossible. His shoulder was only a few inches away from mine and I could feel the warmth of his legs spreading under the duvet to mine. How the hell did he even have warm feet?
“Go ahead.”
I took a deep breath. Tried to say the words on the exhale, but it didn’t work. Sherlock’s gaze flickered to me when the silence stretched on.
“Oh, god damn it,” I growled. I scooted down in the bed savagely, turning away and pulling the duvet over my head.
“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked.
“I can’t look at you when I say this.” My voice was muffled. I closed my eyes, inhaled the familiar washing-powder scent of my duvet, and then pretended he wasn’t there. Even though he was. “You - Before you died. You came here, and you kissed me.” I just managed to stop myself from adding a ‘Remember?’ at the end.
There was a silence. I clenched my jaw, cheeks heating up against the pillow.
Then rustling. The mattress creaked again as Sherlock moved. I couldn’t tell what he was doing, except that he didn’t seem to be leaving.
A moment later, there was a heavy line of warmth curled up against my back, knees tucking into the backs of mine, an arm slung over my waist. I sucked in a breath, eyes wide.
“Yes.” His voice was deep, close to my ear. “I did. I wanted to know what it would be like.”
I rolled over. He moved backward to give me room, pulling his arm back. I turned my head to him, lips pressed together. “And? Was it…good?”
His lips twitched, gaze darting down briefly. “It was everything.”
“Oh.”
“So you…you wanted to…” I shook my head and restarted. “You wanted to know what it was like before you died, right?”
“Correct.” Sherlock’s blue eyes were piercing, even when one side of his face was squidged against a pillow. “I suppose it would be prudent to check you remember what I said.”
“You said if there was anyone in the world for you…”
“It would have been you.” His voice was suddenly gentle. I swallowed, unguarded.
“How do you know that?” I asked, my voice small.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…you’ve been travelling around the world, meeting so many people…How can it just, you know, be me? How can you actually make that decision?”
Sherlock screwed up his face. “I don’t understand. Since my two years’ away, meeting all those other people…I’m even more certain of it.”
He watched me smile, briefly. “Maybe you just haven’t met the right person yet, though. Maybe she - they - maybe they’re still out there somewhere.”
Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes. “Or maybe I have met them. Possibly I’m even with them, right now. Maybe the woman whose bed I am currently sharing is that person. Why are you trying to convince me otherwise?”
“Because…why would it be?” His eyes narrowed, perplexed, but I barrelled on. “I mean - you’re, like, the cool mysterious genius Hat Detective, alive back from the dead, and I’m…Just, why? Of all the people in the world, why would you - oh-”
Sherlock sighed heavily, and then put his arm over my waist again, scooting closer, downwards, his head landing on my chest with another martyred huff. I stared down at his curls, shell-shocked. Could he hear my unhealthily rapid heartbeat?
“Because you’re you,” he muttered. “Satisfied? I dislike all this…I’m - I have no idea, frankly, about how to cope with this talking business.”
I laughed shakily. “Okay. I get it. I think. I…don’t really understand. But you know…You…It was two whole years. It wasn’t easy.” I hesitated. “For either of us.”
“No. It wasn’t. But…” Sherlock nuzzled closer, inexplicably reminding me of a needy dog, a big jowly one, like a Bullmastiff crossed with a giant curly poodle or something. “It’s over now, and your bed is surprisingly comfortable.”
“Yeah it is.” I hadn’t actually planned on falling asleep with Sherlock, but now that we were here, it seemed like a good idea. I adjusted my position slightly, covering his hand with mine. “Good afternoon, Sherlock.”
He snorted.
****
It would take time. I knew that. Dozing on and off, falling into different positions, slotting against Sherlock in new ways, my eyelids too heavy to open, my body warm and slack with comfort, I knew that. I couldn’t just erase twenty-five months’ worth of grief and despair and emotional processing. But when Sherlock yawned and stretched like a cat, or shifted away to let me turn and immediately flopped back against me with a sleepy grumble, I also knew we’d be okay.
“Stay over,” I suggested at one point, pulling my pillow into a more comfortable position. He hummed an acquiescence.
“Takeaway. Chips,” he said out of nowhere, a bit later on. “When we get up.”
“Sure.” I smiled against his chest, fiddling with his shirt-buttons. “Look, we’re already domestic.”
“Pfft.”
“If this isn’t domestic, Sherlock, then what is? Doing the hoovering/dishwashing rota?”
“No. That’s marriage.”
I pulled back, gaping at him. He blinked muzzily down at me.
“Slow. Down.” I poked his chest in emphasis. “Ohmygod, slow down.”
“I’d say yes.”
“You’d - I’d - Wait, I’m doing the asking?”
Sherlock smirked. “Just whichever one of us gets there first, I suppose.”
My mouth fell open. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet, yesterday, I distinctly remember you saying-”
“You. Didn’t. Hear. That.”
He laughed. I tried to maintain the scowl, then gave up and reached for his face. “Shut up and kiss me.”
He did.
Healing. Taking our time. Drawing stars around each other’s scars. It wouldn’t be easy, but for the first time in twenty-five months, I felt it, the thing that came with feathers.
Hope.