Chapter Text
Rebuild
Sherlock wanted to drive back. He didn't want a driver or a police escort. He needed it to be solely him and John until they reached London. He would again be firmly in charge of their journey. He couldn't save John the torment of today, hell of the past month, but he could drive him safely home.
With each passing kilometer the stress eased a bit, just a bit. Their unspoken agreement to ride in silence lasting through each turn, change in direction, and new road. Ever so often they shared a glance toward the other, but never spoke a word.
Sherlock's mind was busy cataloging and deleting. He was calling upon established protocols to spare him further frustrations regarding the incident. He was also trying quite hard to not think about what would have happened if he hadn't gotten to John in time. As they neared John’s home, Sherlock reached out a hand and placed it on his shoulder, adding a brief squeeze. It would have to serve as voice to what he needed to say.
John gave him a tight smile and a nod. The familiar stormy blue eyes cast downward then turned back to the window without a word.
When Sherlock pulls up to John’s home and leaves the engine idling John ends the silence. He opens the car door without a glance back.
“You’re staying with me,” he says and exits the vehicle.
Sherlock can't find the strength to feign an argument against it. He nods, turns off the engine, and pockets the keys. Both men drag themselves slowly up the path with only John pausing to give a brief look around before picking up a fake rock, sliding out a key, and finally opening the front door. Sherlock smiles at the novelty, and does not mention the amount of break-ins that occurred because of such a device. Instead he follows John slowly inside, his eyes taking in so many details all at once.
He'd been here many times previously, even sleeping here once, but he hadn’t been allowed inside after Mary’s death. He wasn't allowed to see or help John. Instead he was sent away with a letter whose words cut him more than he thought possible. The idea that John would likely never again want him in his life was intolerable. The fact that he'd come so close to losing it all tonight was painful. He shakes his head, waits for the protocols to come into place again. He can't dwell. Not now, not ever.
Sherlock takes cautious steps around, as if any minute now John might decide Sherlock wasn't allowed to walk where she walked, touch things she had touched. The cloud of confusion settles over him even more now that he's here. Mary was his friend and John's wife, but there was always a mystery to her actions. The fact that her last one was to save his life after previously almost ending it is something he still cannot understand.
John flicks on a set of lights and walks up the stairs. Sherlock closes the door, chains it, then turns to take in their now illuminated home. He noticed Mary's presence didn't seem lessened. A grocery list in her handwriting sat on the counter. Her red coat hanging bright as ever. Sherlock's eyes cut to the scotch bottle on the table. Barring the idea that John hadn't gone through an entire bottle, the amount had decreased by 83% since the last time he was here. Then they'd shared a post-drink toast followed by a hazy game of charades. Sherlock hadn't faired well in the drinks department. At least not once it was paired with the muscle relaxant John slipped into his drink to make it easier to stitch Sherlock up. Sherlock had woke early in the morn and left before both John and Mary saw him...Before he was required to see them. He never accepted a drink from John in this house again.
In the sink Sherlock sees the mug Mary favoured and her favourite cereal poured in a recently used bowl. She was everywhere. Would John leave here eventually? Like he left Baker after Sherlock died... No, Sherlock thinks, not the same. Not the same by far.
He hears John’s soft steps down the stairs and turns to see him holding a blanket and pillows.
“Don’t worry,” John says. “These are for me.”
“No, I couldn’t.” Sherlock has been through torture many times in the past including earlier tonight, but the idea of sleeping in the same bed that John and Mary shared...there are things with which even he cannot contend.
“It’s…” John begins to speak. He swallows down his words and looks away. He takes a breath. Sherlock waits for him. He knows whatever John is about to say is important and he's finding the right, true words. “It’s been hard since she...so I don’t really sleep there much anyway...when I do sleep.” He ends with a sad smile, and doesn't quite meet Sherlock's eyes. “So you’re not really putting me out.”
With that he walks to the couch. He unfolds a sheet then a blanket. He adds the pillows at the far end. Sherlock doesn’t move.
John has made his case for why he’s not put out. And truth be told Sherlock feels his body will give in to exhaustion at some point. A bed would be nice, and John must know this. Yet he cannot, will not consent to this arrangement. As 221 B will be some time getting back to shape this will be for at least a fortnight.
Sherlock takes a step forward. A version of honesty on his tongue ready to save him. "It's just--"
“Or,” John turns to him. “This is actually a pullout.” John reaches down underneath and tugs at two long pulls. He leans up and back and the sofa turns into a pull-out bed. He begins rearranging the bedclothes to cover the full size.
It’s spacious enough for the both of them. They’ve bunked up together before so it’s nothing new,and part of him appreciates the idea of being able to watch over John.
Everything with Eurus is settled, but he can't help but think there's something else coming from Moriarty. A fail safe in case Eurus didn't fulfill their agreement. This is a worry. Of course this doesn't even begin to speak of the ache he feels right now. It's a mixed bag of good and bad really, this set up.
John seems to take his reticence hard though. His jaw clenches. His hand follows shortly after. He loosens it but repeats the movement.
Sherlock slows the moment and weighs his options.
- Sleep in the same bed as John and possibilities are multi-fold of likely poor outcome
- Refuse and sleep in the same bed John shared with Mary and outcome is solidly poor.
- Refuse and go to a hotel and outcome is solidly poor.
Before John finishes his third clench and unclench Sherlock nods his head in acquiesce and begins to undress. He turns away from John and takes off the Belstaff first, divests the trousers next. Finally his shirt is unbuttoned and removed He’s left in his boxers, waits for John to say something. The silence now is deafening, and he only hears his ragged breath. John says nothing, makes no sound. He walks away and Sherlock slumps down to the bed, waits.
John could feel many things right now, but anger is not one Sherlock expected. Perhaps it's still connected to the unhappiness regarding Sherlock's two year absence. Still it’s better than the pity Sherlock feared. That he could not take.
As John descends the stairs his gait is slow, changed. Somehow there is stress in him that wasn’t there before. Sherlock doesn’t turn towards him. The lights flicker off all around and John walks to him.
He tosses a tee gently to Sherlock. Sherlock knows this shirt actually. It's one of John’s almost threadbare shirts that he holds onto despite the fact that it probably should've been binned ages ago. The RAMC logo in the corner. Sherlock’s fingers trace the lettering as he hears John climb onto the bed and move underneath the covers.
Sherlock looks toward John. His back is to Sherlock. He’s obviously not asleep and his shoulders are tense, waiting. Sherlock slips on the shirt and tries not to focus on the feel of it on his skin. It’s such a light weight and yet it feels like an armor John has offered to him. Sherlock takes his place in the bed on his back and though he’s already warm he gets under the blankets as well. John doesn’t appear to be cold, but in case he is still feeling the chill of the water...well Sherlock can’t help but want to provide any heat he can, do anything he can to help ease him. After tonight John must feel renewed anger. Once again Sherlock’s life has brought pain to John's.
He knows John doesn’t need to hear what he could offer by way of apology. John, by his own words, no longer blames Sherlock for what happened with Mary. But Sherlock knows if he’d only, if he’d only.
Norbury, he thinks to himself. He won’t ever forget. Despite the fact that John has forgiven him for that and even if Sherlock were to find a way to excuse his behaviour surrounding her death he cannot forgive what happened to John at Sherrinford.
Sherlock’s sister tortured them. He hadn’t planned on that. What had he planned on? He would see her and then what? What was his goal? And does he need to tell John his worries of what's coming next?
“Did it happen when you were away?” John asks after long minutes. Sherlock wars between saying the obvious about the scars or explaining how John is forcing him to say the obvious about them. But he’s aware the desire for either is simply a way to avoid the subject. He can't always offer honesty about his life, but in this instance he can.
“Yes,” he says. He holds his breath and waits.
“Sorry.” John says. He doesn’t elaborate beyond that. Sherlock is both grateful and frustrated. There is still a conversation to be had. He knows what it’s like when they hide things from each other. It never ends well. No matter which side it’s on.
John turns over in bed, face towards Sherlock now. Sherlock is still on his back looking up at the ceiling. He could turn to look at John, but he does not trust his face nor his emotions right now. They’re both out of his control.
John reaches out a hand and lays it on his shoulder and squeezes, mimicking the motion Sherlock made earlier. But Sherlock isn’t stoic like John. He wants the reassuring touch. Sherlock reaches his hand to cover John’s. He takes a breath and waits. John doesn’t move or flinch back. Sherlock feels his heart break and rebuild. He can't ever lose the man next to him. He needs him more than he needs the next good case, or the feel of the drug coursing through his vein. Sherlock vows to always, always put John and Rosie first. He won't lose them. He can't.
Minutes roll by and neither moves their hands. Sherlock’s phone pings once, twice, three times then a few moments later it pings again. His parents. His mother always rapid fires out three texts each time. His father follows up with a sole addition.
“Want to check that?” John says, still unmoving.
“Mmm. No. My parents. Mother giving me her ETA for arrival, a reminder that I’m not required to meet them at the airport, and sending me her love. My father chiming in with the same information but in a sole text.”
“Ahh,” John smiles. Sherlock notices it out the corner of his eyes. He likes Sherlock’s parents. Sherlock never knew exactly why, but he enjoys the fact regardless. John removes his hand then. The warmth is immediately missed, but Sherlock tries not to focus on it. John turns to look at the ceiling along with Sherlock. “Jesus. They didn’t know.” He sighs.
Sherlock doesn’t know this to be a fact, but it seems likely. How they failed to mention her is not as odd as one would think. After he and John spoke about Mary the once he’s not brought her up since. John also does not mention his sister or other family either. A painful loss sometimes can be easier withstood with silence.
“Ya know um, Mary always wanted a sister.” John says this casually. Sherlock doesn’t hear pain in his voice like before when John spoke her name.
“Eurus might’ve changed her mind on that.”
Sherlock responds matter of factly. John laughs. Sherlock smiles wide. The sound of John laughing is a balm whose efficacy cannot be measured.
“Maybe,” John says. “God what it would’ve been to get those two together though. That’d be something to see. Mm.”
“John, are you perhaps imagining your deceased wife and my criminally insane sister in a cat fight?”
“Perhaps.”
“Please tell me there’s not mud involved.”
“Oh there’s an idea.”
“For God’s sake.”
John’s burst of laugh is bright before turning into a giggle. Appalling as it is, it’s infectious and Sherlock falls into silent laughter beside him. They somehow edge closer to each other as they giggle for a long minute.
“Are we ever going to talk about how I had a weird text affair with your sister?”
This stops the giggles from Sherlock. He shakes his head, but he begins speaking. “She became what she thought you wanted to gain your attention. A beautiful alluring lass who was soft and simple. The opposite to what your current life held.”
“Ahhh...right. Right. That's. Hmm. Right.”
Sherlock turns to John then. John is figuring something out. Sherlock narrows his eyes as he tries to figure it out too, but he comes up with nothing. He wants to ask, but he doesn’t. He huffs out a breath.
“Regardless,” Sherlock says. “Just as an FYI you’re not actually allowed to date my sister.”
“Same,” John says quickly. “Not that she’s your type. Not a dominatrix girlfriend.”
“For the last time I’m not…” Sherlock stops himself. Perhaps revealing this isn’t the best time. He changes his statement to “interested in a….” He doesn’t want to say romantic entanglements because that really isn’t true and repeating the lie will make it seem even more so. “Girlfriend.”
John says, “Ahh.” Then turns silent. A few moments later Sherlock notices his breath has evened out. He doesn’t move at all. Asleep. Sherlock watches him sleep for a few moments before he allows himself this indulgence. He reaches out his hand to take John's pulse. Fingers sliding to John's wrist. But John’s hand moves instead to intertwine their fingers. He tightens his hand around Sherlock’s, swipes the pad of his thumb over Sherlock's hand--once, twice, then doesn’t stir beyond that. Sherlock lets out a breath. He feels himself hope for just a moment and falls asleep.