Chapter Text
“The meeting of the We Love Sherlock Holmes Therapy and Drinking Society shall come to order.” Said the well-dressed woman with the severe blonde hairstyle sitting at the head of the long table at the back of The King’s Head Pub. “Secretary Lestrade, will you read the minutes of the last meeting?”
Lestrade, quickly swallowing the last of his first, but not his last, ale, flipped open a sleek black binder, identical to ones being held by everyone at the table. He pulled out a sheet of scribbled notes and read,
“Three of us had unpleasant exchanges with Sherlock before the last meeting, one got a thank you and one got breakfast in bed.”
The eye roll and twisted mouth were not recorded but they too matched the rest of the table, excluding one blondish man who blew his nose and coughed “I had a fever; he burned the toast by the way.” There was no sympathy in the crowd.
“The minutes having been read does anyone have anything to add?” She paused, “Hearing none, I move that the minutes be approved, do I have a seconded?” A pale girl with long honey brown hair piped “Second” as she sipped her Cosmo. “Moved and seconded. All in favor?” Everyone nodded.
“New business?”
The sleek man with the umbrella coughed lightly,
“The Chair recognizes Mycroft.”
“Thank you Madame Chair, I would like to read into the record the highlights of our text exchanges over the last two weeks.”
“Please, do, and Secretary Lestrade, please, for the love of my eyesight, PRINT.” Lestrade grunted and twisted out a new lead for his mechanical pencil.
“I begin with the 16th last. I texted my brother on a case of serious import. His reply ‘Really Mycroft, have all your MOD men gone soft in the head. I shudder for the Empire’ When asked if he would cease his prattle and come help he replied ‘would rather have leeches attached to my eyes, piss-off, you know who did it if you’d put down the cake and THINK’
The man with the cold and the blonde shook their heads and most chuckled. Other people’s interactions with Sherlock tended to be either horrifying or hilarious.
“You have the Chair’s sympathy, when I emailed inviting him to Christmas with John he made me swear I was sober or he would be so bored he’d set my house afire.” Sipping her diet soda, she smiled, the Chair, known less formally as Harry Watson, she’d been working through different stop drinking programs and was currently without drink for over a year.
“The sodding arrogant…” John began before a serious harrumph from Lestrade reminded John of
Rule #1: We do not get angry on the behalf of others. It is not for us to know why someone loves SH, or why they tolerate that which they do tolerate. We tolerate that which others would not tolerate. It is the members’ duty to console and uplift, wherever possible. Criticising SH is like complaining about a volcano one chooses to live under. It gets one no forrader.
John, sniffing loudly, settled down but glared into his glass. Being roommate and chief recipient of a variety of abuse and neglect from SH (as well as the primary beneficiary of his rare moments of human connection) didn’t make hearing the git rag on his sister any easier, although Harry could and did take very good care of herself in that department.
“Next?” Harry glanced around looking for volunteers. Molly Hooper smiled, “He said I was not a half bad lab attendant.”
“Congratulations Mary, that’s the first backhanded compliment of the new quarter!” They all lifted their glasses in a toast as Lestrade made a specially note.
The little sweet faced lady who had hired Sherlock once to make sure her absolute horror of a husband got the electrocution he so greatly deserved patted Molly on the arm. Mrs. Hudson, longsuffering and adoring landlady to SH and John had not seen SH in the last two weeks, but had a contribution anyway.
“When I was cleaning up a bit in the kitchen yesterday, there were seven livers, human livers, in plasticware in the oven. I know it’s never used but honestly, the OVEN.” She shook her head. While all had their special moments of frustration, no one wanted to be the one to ever clean up after SH. John had the grace to look ashamed. “Sorry Mrs. H., I meant to leave a note, but he pulled me out so fast on that forgery case…” Mrs. Hudson tut-tutted and sipped her g&t.
The waitress came round with more drinks and more nibbles and they took a break from the sharing portion of the meeting to relax and enjoy each other. Quite often, though many of them saw each other nearly every week, it was hard to find time to chat when whirlwind Sherlock was blowing through their lives. The Society was born shortly after The Return. When he returned from the dead, and they all had weeks of chaos reinstated in their lives, they realized that, no matter how much any of them had grieved, no matter the unrestrained joy of having HIM back, the sudden There were a list of rules, dues and a secret hand signal that they all knew but never dared share in the presence of the man himself. They had successfully kept this whole thing a secret for nearly a year. They felt chuffed beyond words.
John knew that the Society, his sister’s mad scheme to surround John with people while making John feel like he was helping take care of those same people, had been tenderly concerned after the Fall. Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Harry had all nearly smothered him with unsolicited and at times unwelcome attention. John suspected even Anthea, Mycroft’s gorgeous and able assistant stopped by once or twice without her boss requesting it.
John sipped his beer while lightly touching the grief of those nearly three years without Sherlock. The madness of the first few months, the silence and depression of the months after that, the intervention of Harry, nearly causing John to punch Harry in the face...
“If you weren’t in love with him, you wouldn’t be this distraught you know.” She’s muttered almost without his hearing it. “What? What did you just say?” John bit out at her. She was sober, but she was freshly so and just as spoiling for a fight as he. “I said, you globby wet mess, that had you told him you loved him, you might not be as fucking rotten miserable as you are right now. You didn’t though, and that’s a fucking pity, but he knew. I know he knew.” John had roared and grabbed Harry by the collar of her white dress shirt, “What makes you such a fucking expert?” She laughed at him, “Expert in unrequited love, a Lesbian? Closeted for the first 23 years of her bleedin’ life? No, what the fuck would I know about THAT?” and she shoved him onto the couch, kneeling over him hand on his shoulder. “Look brother mine, what I don’t know about carrying a torch, pining away, crushing or whatever the fuck you want to call it, isn’t worth fuck all. I see how sad you are, and I know you think you let him down, don’t you fucking move John Hamish Watson, till I’m done. I know you think you let him down, but I don’t think so.”
They had already begun wondering, if Moriarty was dead, and it appeared he had killed himself before Sherlock fell, why Sherlock jumped anyway. John was convinced that Sherlock had despaired over the loss of his reputation and added to that John’s possible doubts, made it all too much for him to stand.
John was near tears again, balling his hands into fists, looking at Harry and wondering if he could get her off him without hurting her. He spoke very calmly and slowly, which made Harry nervous but she knew how to take a punch and decided it was worth the risk. “Harry, he jumped after I left, he killed himself, “ and his mouth stopped making sounds. He buried his face in her shoulder, gasping.
“I know love, I know. But think about it. Think about the pool. You said there were guns trained on you. That bastard said that he would burn the heart out of Sherlock. Think, what was Sherlock’s heart?”
“His work,” John began. “Maybe, but remember, Sherlock said ‘I’ve been reliably informed that I do not have one.’ And that bastard said ‘We both know that’s not true.’ What if there were still guns trained on you? C’mon John, what would Sherlock give his life? You. Maybe his brother, maybe Mrs. Hudson, but definitely YOU.”
John wrapped his arms around himself. The blackness was closing in, the roar in his ears loud. Harry might be right. But knowing any of this did not make it easier to breath, in fact it seemed worse. Then Harry started in again, “Now listen you dumb git, a man who was 10 times smarter, a helluva lot more handsome and of more worth to the world than you’ll ever be DIED, so that you could go on being John Watson. Now are you going to wallow around like a hog in a trough or are you going to figure out what you are going to do to make yourself worthy of this?”
Cold had washed over John. Dear God. How can I get up every day knowing my best friend is dead and I am not even close to being able to fill his shoes? He didn’t want to think, didn’t want to try anymore.
But Sherlock had died. And maybe because of that, John, needed to live all the more.
It had taken more time. But finally he had stopped lurking around like Banquo’s Ghost. He took a full time job at a clinic. He dated, infrequently, mostly to feel slightly normal, all women, because that particular bit of Harry Logic he was not going to sift through. He was coolly pleasant, efficiently physical and so emotionally distant that he had repeat dates with only the most self-centered and never a third because there was only one self-centered jerk he ever wanted to spend time with again. And that was never going to happen.
And then.
He and Harry had been out to dinner. Harry’s Logic: twice a month with the sister whether they said boo to each other or not. She growled when he tried to beg off, “Present yourself for inspection John Watson or I’ll keel-haul you.” “That’s the navy you nit. See you at 7.”
Two years and 4 months after Sherlock Holmes had flown off the roof of St. Bart’s hospital, crushing himself and John’s heart, a long slender hand appeared out of a dark blue coat and clutched his shoulder. “John.” Deep, sonorous, touching places in John’s body he did not acknowledge could be so touched. He half rose, crying out. Harry sat, gobsmacked, unmoving as Sherlock took John’s shoulders and smiled, that half-devil, half-angel smile. John had frozen like a mackerel, and if Sherlock hadn’t been holding him, he would have collapsed like an accordion. As it was Sherlock barely got him upright in the chair.
The dizzy months of rejoicing, renewing the friendship, returning to life as before. All that had been glorious. Their friendship unbreakable now. But the time away from the reality of Sherlock, the day to day of Sherlock, his experiments, his violin, his sulks, his tempers, his ability to drive one round the bend, was taking its toll on everyone.
And so they began meeting, a quick drink after work, a fast breakfast before. Watch the game on Saturday, anything to be able to check in with one another, to make sure that they were still sane and that Sherlock, while still Sherlock, wasn’t going off on any tangents that would endanger himself or John (very much).
“I said John, it’s your turn to suggest a topic for the next meeting, did you have one?” Molly smiled at him woolgathering. John coughed and said:, “Ah, yes actually, I do, next time, everyone should bring in a story that beings: “I came closest to strangling Sherlock when.” They all laughed loudly. Nodding appreciatively.
“The chair heartily approves.” Harry smiled. “If there is no other business?” Looking around she saw none, “Very well, everyone remember to have a story next time, and don’t forget your dues next meeting…”
A figure swathed in a dark coat over a dark suit swirled up from nowhere, “And is this a Branch of the Women’s Institute or a cabal to undermine me in some way?” The thunderous voice washed over them all with scorn and anger.
No. Shit. Sherlock. John looked at Sherlock, the speech he had prepared in readiness for this eventuality ready. Daunted but unwilling to give in to the wrath in those storm grey eyes,
“Sherlock, stop this at once. All these people love you and you should be grateful that we can get together and blow off steam rather than individually plotting to kill you when you’ve given us our fill of brilliant arrogance.”
Mycroft raised his voice, “Sit down, Sherlock, we have something to tell you.”
Thrown by the collusion of his best friend and his archenemy, Sherlock flopped into a chair, for all the world exactly as he would do when he was 15.