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It’s not funny at Bakerstreet anymore. It’s been a long time since it had last been genuinely “funny”. It was more... weird, weirder when Mary was around. John had always felt… replaced? Not entirely. He had still been present, still been involved but… outdated, rather? Yes. Like an outdated model of a phone or a toy. He couldn’t offer as much as the newer model. That had been fine. Mary and Sherlock had gotten along and what more did he want? It had stopped being “fun” though. Had felt more like a necessity, like the polite thing to do. That’s what he’d been doing all this time, wasn’t it? What was the polite thing to do? Until he’d stopped doing that, of course. With Mary… gone. What reason had he left to be polite? Sherlock wasn’t, why should he be?
Sherlock.
Yes, well.
Sometimes John thought of the harpoon. For no reason. The time, with the dead pig, remember? When he’d sat in the underground with that bloody thing? He hadn’t found it funny then but in retrospect? He missed that. Even missed the body parts in his fridge when he came home. He missed yelling at Sherlock about it, knowing full well it wouldn’t have any effect.
Funny, really. He would never have expected those memories to make him sad. Not even after the fall. Now he knew, everything was in reach, but nothing would be the same if he did reach out for it. He knew why, too. He’d known it for years, but they had never said anything, had they? With Sherlock, silence had been enough conversation. He’d suspected it was the one polite thing Sherlock had done. Not say anything.
Mary had come along and John had found himself cornered. He hadn't wanted this. He had loved her, he still did. But sometimes you know it doesn’t go that deep. And sometimes it goes much deeper than you want it to.
Like in that cage in Baskerville. He’d wanted out but the fear that kept him there was bigger than him. He wasn’t Sherlock. He did care what people thought and he didn’t want to hurt anybody. He never wanted to hurt Mary, but that woman in the bus… She hadn't known any of it. She could have come and gone and he could have let her and it wouldn’t have hurt. He could have pretended he wasn’t caged, that he could leave and that his intangible demons weren’t waiting for him.
Funny really, how he had felt so much worse when he'd told Sherlock than when he had wanted to tell Mary. And not because she was no more.
“John?”
Mrs. Hudson opened the door to her flat and looked at him with wide, worried eyes.
“Aren’t you coming in?”
That’s right. He’d been standing in the rain for a bit now. The door had been open, they had probably expected him. Mrs. Hudson was looking after Rosie today, after all. John placed the umbrella next to the door, he hadn’t even opened it. His shoes were soaked and squeaked when he walked up the stairs to 221B.
“John? What about Rosie? Won’t you take her up with you?”
John's step faltered. That’s right. He’d almost forgotten about her. Or at least sometimes he wanted to. She reminded him too much of Mary. It made him sick.
Sherlock stood next to the window, had probably stood there and watched John for the past… how long had he been there? Five, ten minutes? More?
“Are you…?” okay? Alright? Fine?
“Yes, yes.” No.
He clenches and unclenches his right fist- since when was it a fist again? The violin case rested next to the window. Come to think of it, when was the last time he’d seen Sherlock play it?
“It’s getting a little dusty… uhm… Cup of tea?”
Had he always been this easy to read? Maybe he shouldn’t have come because of this. Maybe it was better to just… keep going like he always had. One day he might even find somebody else…
“John?”
“Uh-um yes.” He kept his voice quiet, fearing it might break. Ever since that day at Bakerstreet, he seemed to have lost control over his tears. He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried like that. Must have been a little boy. Now he seemed to be unable to stop.
Sherlock still hadn’t moved to go make tea. He seemed to be at a loss, not knowing what to do with himself.
“John, I…”
“It’s okay, Sherlock.” He couldn’t look him in the eyes, however, and had to turn away his eyes aimlessly taking in the mess that was thei-Sherlock’s flat.
The skull, the slipper- who knew, maybe he had a new stash of cigarettes in there – the dagger and the three or more envelopes it held pinned to the mantelpiece. Those had always turned out to be the best cases in the end.
“Here… I’ll just put it on the table.”
Oh, the tea. Had he been standing here for so long again? Funny.
Sherlock sat down on his chair, likely fully expecting John to do the same, but John kept standing. So long in fact, that his tea was undrinkable by the time he took a deep, telltale breath. Sherlock, fidgeting slightly in his seat, was unsure what to make of this. He tried catching John’s attention more than once. Neither eye-contact nor movement nor clearing his throat unnecessarily brought him out of his stupor.
“John?”
“I’m going to make a deduction.”
Sherlock, surprisingly taken aback, frowned and sat up straight.
“Oh, okay, that’s… good.”
His eyes really were magnificent. Had John every told him that? Likely not, at least not that he could recall.
It was quiet again, so quiet that Sherlock was bothered by his own loud breathing. He was nervous somehow, he didn’t believe he had a reason to be. John’s last deduction had been a pleasant surprise, albeit mostly unnecessary.
“And if my deduction is right,” This is a bad idea. “… you are going to be honest with me, okay?”
Sherlock took in his stiff posture, his shaking fist, the determined crease of his brow and his almost breaking voice. Did this have something to do with Mary? With Rosie? It was obvious this was about somebody dear to him, important to him. He didn’t seem mad, but Sherlock couldn’t think of anything he had not told John, or of anything he had done that might warrant such a reaction.
“…alright.”
“The…” Fuck, just stop! You’re a grown man, you’ve known who you are for over thirty years now, damn it! You’ll regret it. You’re confused. You’ll want to take it back.
“ ‘The man we both love’.” He knows what you want to tell him, you know? He’s always known. He’s Sherlock Holmes, of course he’s known. You know why he never said anything. You know that he would have said something if he felt this way. You’re making a fool of yourself, even significantly more than you usually do. This is how friendships end. And if this friendship ends, who do you have left? Mrs. Hudson and Molly aren’t enough, you know that. You want back to that tiny flat? Cane next to your bed, gun in every drawer? You know you won’t make it long in that big house with only you and Rosie. Hell, who knows how long you’ll get to keep her for. Do yourself a favor and go back to old times. Say something else, have a laugh and move back in. Is it really worth risking everything?
John’s eyes lifted until they found Sherlock’s. He was still sitting up straight, barely moved now. John found himself happy that he had shaved. He probably hated Sherlock’s beard as much as Sherlock had hated his. He didn’t know how he would react. He’d heard people say ‘his silence spoke volumes’. Sherlock’s silence, on the other, hand was just that. Silent. Still.
“You…” You’ll regret it. You’re wrong. He would have said something long ago.
“You…” He’s your friend. Just your friend.
Then again, when is Sherlock Holmes ever just?
“You love me.”
There. He had said it and their eyes had remained on each other, but despite all the worry and all the fear nothing had changed.
“…John…ehm…what can I say really...” Sherlock, for once, found himself at a loss for words. Then again, he was unable to really stay silent as well. “…good deduction.”
John’s breath was shaky as he carefully lowered himself into his chair. He should say he loved him back, shouldn’t he? But something told him, Sherlock knew. He always did.
“…since when?”
Sherlock smiled then and somehow that made everything alright.
“You’d be surprised.”
When Mrs. Hudson came to bring Rosie a while later, she found the two in their chairs doing nothing but drinking tea in each other’s company. It reminded her of the old times.
Funny.