Chapter Text
The timing isn’t perfect. I know that. The timing couldn’t be perfect. Two years gone, and I don’t know him as I knew him. Not down to his comings and goings. Before I might have timed him to the minute. But it is a good enough plan without that sort of thing. He does like me to surprise him (little crook of his mouth when I make him start)(not everybody likes that sort of thing, but he does).
Stand in the recess between Speedy’s and the flat (my flat)(our flat) to prepare for his appearance. Set my violin case at my feet and settle the tatty flat cap a little lower over my eyes (no chance Mycroft won’t recognise me if he spots me on CCTV but no matter).
Play through the scales first. I haven’t touched my violin in two years either. Feels rather dreamy to have it so close at last. The smell of the wood and rosin. The vibrations under my jaw. Sharp strings under my fingertips. I am a little stiff and clumsy, but my instrument is forgiving. Go into a Bach medley, and it is not the most beautiful music I have ever made, but it is serviceable, and there will be time for marvellous in our future.
I don’t know his tread anymore. Not amongst a river of strangers, and he is almost on top of me before I see him. Try and swallow my panic, but my fingers shake, and I go into my next piece so abruptly that my violin bleats and squawks in protest.
It’s a little nothing of a tune that I play. An original composition that hardly even merits the term. It’s only a minute or so, and not very interesting. I’d play it to myself sometimes when I was puzzling over something. He used to call it ‘Thinky.’ It’d stick in his head. He’d hum or whistle it hours later. Flattering.
There is a woman with him. Not near him as I first thought, but with him. John Watson stops dead in his tracks ten paces from me, and the pretty little woman at his shoulder stops too and raises a hand to his elbow, “John? What’s wrong?”
“Can you hear that?” John looks about him, and his eyes land on me. My mouth goes dry. I play on. John brushes past the touch on his arm and marches up to me, his face studiously casual. He stops at my violin case, one hand in his pocket (the left)(hiding his tremour). For a moment, I think he’s only going to tip me a quid and walk on. But he nudges the case aside, and steps closer. Very close. At the last moment, I find I can’t look at him. I shut my eyes, and even under my eyelids, they sting and run. Lower my head. But as I do, I feel him reach out toward me. I cringe back, but John lifts the cap off my head.
I open my eyes, “John.”
“You again, eh?” John murmurs almost tenderly, a rather anxious smile tilting his mouth. “Am I really so bad off?” He cuts a glance over at the woman behind him. “I’m not going to try it again. I know it was stupid. Violin’s a nice touch, though. That’s new.”
I swallow, “John?” My voice trembles. I lower my instrument (want to touch him)(stupid plan stupid stupid stupid stupid mistake). “This is not in your mind.”
John’s eyes fill as he looks into mine. He drops the cap at his feet and reaches out, cups my skull, glides his hand down to the join of my throat and jaw, and his cool, soft fingers find and rest on my speeding pulse.
“Mary!” John does not look away from me when he calls out.
His companion hurries forward and gasps when she’s in full view of my face, “Oh my god! You’re him! You’re Sherlock Holmes!”
John sags at her words. His eyelids flutter. I tuck my violin and bow under my arm and reach out for him. John sways. I slip an arm round his shoulders. He grasps my coat sleeve and lets me hold him upright.
“Jesus!” Mary reaches for John’s free arm. “John?” John nods and opens his mouth but seems unable to make himself speak. Mary looks at me, “Help me get him inside.” I nod numbly, hitch John a bit closer to me. He clings to my sleeve, his chest rising and falling against my side as I help him the few steps into 221 Baker Street.
…
I had already started to feel a bit more myself when they got me into 221B and helped me onto the sofa. Mary sat down next to me and checked my pulse, then shined a penlight in my eyes.
“Not a stroke then, just a shock,” she said cheerily, patting me on the shoulder.
“Give it time,” I rasped.
Mary laughed, “You okay? Need anything?”
I cleared my throat, “No. And er. No.” I looked round for Sherlock. He was lurking next to the mantel, looking rather terrified.
“I’m sorry,” he said when he saw me looking.
I clenched my fist, “You’re sorry?”
“Right this is none of my business,” Mary announced, her arms raised as if in surrender. “I’m going out.” Mary rose, grimacing sympathetically. “See you in a bit, sweetie. You just let me know if you want me to get tough with this one,” she cocked her head to indicate Sherlock, who was still wringing his hands by the mantel.
I tried to smile back, “Thanks Mary. See you later.”
“Text me if you need me. Just say the word, and I can karate him into next week.” She pulled on her jacket and picked up her bag.
“Thanks Mary, got a handle on it.” Mary walked out, giving me another little pat on my shoulder as she went by. I listened to her descending footfall with my eyes on the carpet.
When I looked up again, Sherlock had silently crossed the room and stood, swaying anxiously in front of me. Close enough to touch.
“Sorry,” he said quickly when I met his eye. “Sorry again. Sorry. I’m sorry.”
I tried to unclench my jaw, “Okay.”
Sherlock wet his lips, “Two things.”
“Yeah?” It came out as a gruff whisper, though it wasn’t meant to. “What?”
“Erm. It seemed so. Simple and clear. I practised in my head. I knew just what I had to say, and it’s all gone now.”
I folded my arms, “Two things,” I prompted.
“First. Well. Maybe it should be second. I don’t know it’s.” Sherlock trailed off and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Sorry I’m a bit scattered.”
“I’ve got all night.”
Sherlock made for his chair and hovered near it before glancing up at me. I got up and took my own chair, then nodded to him to indicate he ought to sit as well. “Thank you,” Sherlock sat and smoothed the lapels of his coat. A tan rain coat that didn’t look like his usual sort of thing at all. Something that might have come out of his disguises cupboard. In tandem with his shorn reddish hair, he looked rather like a street urchin wrapped in found clothes.
“What’s this coat?” I pointed at it.
Sherlock looked down at his chest, “Charity shop. Mycroft’s got my other. I haven’t been to see him yet. I wanted to come to you first.”
“To explain yourself,” I reminded him.
Sherlock nodded, “To explain myself. John, I.” He leaned forward, hands clasped near his chin and began to speak very quickly, “He was going to kill you. Moriarty. Unless I jumped. He told me so. He was going to kill you. There were snipers on you and on Lestrade and on Mrs Hudson. And you were on your way there already, and I had to. He would have murdered you like Carl Powers and the museum guard and the old woman and all the others. It was the only way I could save you. He’d have. He’d have killed you.” I let him gabble til he ran out of words and then he just sat rocking slightly and rubbing his hands together. “Sorry,” Sherlock said again after a long silence.
I nodded. “There was a second thing.”
“I,” Sherlock reached out toward me but dropped his hand halfway along, “I tried to give you a clue. It was a magic trick. A disappearing act. I thought.” He hung his head, “I wished. That you might have. I almost. I’d almost been in touch a thousand times. I thought you might.”
“Thought I might what?” My voice was choked.
“Come and find me. Or try. Put yourself in danger. In more danger. Because of me. I. I had to save you, John. I had to. I’ve been over and over it in my head so many times-”
“Thought I’d do something stupid? So this is my fault?”
“No! I just. I didn’t want you getting sunk in my muck. It wasn’t. It was my problem, John; it wasn’t your problem.”
“Not my problem?” I palmed the arms of my chair, “You know for a genius, you can be remarkably thick.”
Sherlock frowned, “What?”
“Sherlock! I shot a man dead to save your life the day after I met you! I let you almost blow us up to stop Moriarty! You think I’d want to be saved like that! You think I’d want you to drown in the muck when I might have helped pull you out of it? I watched you die, and it was a lie! You let me grieve. For two years! How could you do that?”
Sherlock made a little gasp something like a sob and clasped his hands, “John, I’m sorry. I would never have done if there had been another way. Please. Forgive me, please. For the hurt that I’ve caused you.”
“You think you can just. Ask? And it’s easy, just like that.” I clicked my fingers.
Sherlock sunk his head into his hands and gripped his hair. “No.”
“Christ.” I sighed. “I wanted you back. I wanted you. Not to be dead.”
“I know,” Sherlock’s voice was thick. “I know.”
“And now you’re being so. Good and nice. So I’ve got to say it’s fine, even though you’ve behaved. Abominably.”
“You don’t have to say it’s fine,” Sherlock said dully. “If it isn’t, it isn’t.”
“The thing is,” I waited for him to look up at me. “I want it to be. But it isn’t.”
“Okay,” said Sherlock.
We were silent a long time.
“Well, I suppose. I should be going.” Sherlock rose from his chair, rubbing at his clipped hair and looking more like a lost child than I’d ever seen him.
“Going? Going where?” I pressed my fist into my thigh, knowing it wouldn’t be enough to stop Sherlock spotting the tremour.
“Well. It’s late. And. I’ve got to break into my brother’s house before the rain starts, and that will take me a little time.”
“You don’t.” I rose also, “You don’t want to stay?”
Sherlock blinked, “You don’t want me to go?”
“Well it’s your flat,” I pointed out.
“Not anymore. It’s yours now. Yours and Mary’s. Mary wants to karate me into next week; she won’t want me sleeping on your sofa.”
“Well you can’t have the sofa. Not unless you want to sleep on top of.” I paused and cleared my throat, “The sofa’s mine, actually. But your bedroom is empty.”
Sherlock frowned, “The sofa? You’re not sleeping with your girlfriend?”
“Mary isn’t my girlfriend; she’s just my flatmate.”
“Oh.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows and flicked his eyes over me, deducing. “Well, give it time. Women always do seem to find you attractive.”
“No, we’re just mates! She’s gay.”
Sherlock’s eyebrows rose even higher, “Gay? Is she? And you, er, worked that out for yourself, did you?”
“No, she told me. She’s out.” I stopped short, feeling rather conspicuous.
“Ah,” Sherlock dropped his eyes.
“Anyway, Mary’s bedroom is upstairs, and you can just. Sleep in your room. All your erm. Your things are all in there still.”
Sherlock’s eyes were bright when he looked up, “Thank you, John.” I shrugged. “Well. Good night. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Right. Good night. Sherlock.”