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“If people bring so much courage to this world, the world has to kill them to break, so of course it kills them. The world breaks everyone and, afterward, many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break, it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these, you can be sure it will kill you too, but there will be no special hurry.”
Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms
The late June breeze ruffles his hair as he limps past the Odeon in Leicester Square, avoiding bumping into the tourists attempting to fit their hands into the bronze prints of famous film stars scattered about. He doesn’t even have a particular destination in mind - he just needed space, air. Human interaction that doesn’t involve actually speaking to anyone. That gets him out of the four walls of his bedsit that feel closer than they have any right to.
He stops for a moment to listen to a busker do a rather good cover of a James Taylor song -
And then he sees him.
Crossing the square like a man on a mission, as was always his wont, bobbing and weaving between the masses with an ease that John envies. His dark, curly hair shines in the unusually bright sun and it takes John a moment to realize he’s stopped breathing. In fact, his jaw has dropped and his eyes are wide, bordering on tearing up from the sting. He looks, for all intents and purposes, like he’s seen a ghost.
In a way, he has.
It’s been two and a half years since he last laid eyes on Sherlock Holmes. Even the name brings an ache to his chest that has him putting his hand over his heart and rubbing hard. He’s following him before he even registers he’s moved.
The past 30 months seem to have been kind to him. Certainly kinder than they were to John. Sherlock will be 20 now, yet only slightly different from the lanky 18-year-old John met during his last year of uni.
It’s tough work, trying to match the boy’s pace with his walking stick and John rubs the sweat beading on his brow away with the back of his hand. Sherlock always was a whirlwind of energy, keeping John on his toes (in more ways than one), but he manages it. Luck is on his side when Sherlock pauses at a crosswalk, too busy scrolling through something on his phone to notice that the light’s turned green. John lengthens his stride until he’s standing right behind him, at which point, every ounce of courage he’s gained over the past two minutes immediately deserts him.
Into battle…
“Sherlock,” he murmurs, placing a gentle hand on the boy’s arm because John knows how he gets lost in his mind and tunes out the world.
What he doesn’t expect, though, is Sherlock jumping and skittering away from him, shrugging him off as if John’s palm had physically burned him.
“Whoa, hey,” John says, immediately raising his hands and letting his walking stick clatter to the ground. “It’s just - it’s just me.”
“John?” Sherlock asks, taking a moment to gather himself, and something must be seriously wrong for the genius to question the obvious.
“Yeah. Hi,” John murmurs. “You all right?” Sherlock’s staring at the ground and trying to get his breathing under control.
“Yes, fine,” he mutters, blinking back up and frowning at John. “What are you doing here?”
“I was just - ” he gestures vaguely to the square, “ - and I saw you walking - ”
“I thought you were supposed to be getting shot at,” Sherlock interrupts. His tone is, well, not annoyed, but not much better either.
“Yeah, well,” he shrugs and bends down with a grunt to pick up his stick. “Got shot.”
Sherlock’s eyes (those beautiful, all-seeing eyes) scan him up and down and John doesn’t even shift under the scrutiny. He’s missed it, truth be told. And it’s his own damn fault.
It was John’s decision to get on a train with a standard-issue Army duffle slung over his shoulder and a firm resolve not to look back and watch the boy on the platform get further and further away. With Sherlock just going into his second year of uni and John off to the war, they had decided a clean break was best, but John would be lying if he said that thoughts of Sherlock and the ten months they spent together before he departed weren’t the sole reason he survived those long Afghanistan nights.
“Are you… all right?” comes Sherlock’s voice and John blinks back to himself, realizing that the boy’s face looks slightly concerned. Still guarded, but… softer. More reminiscent of that eighteen-year-old boy he left on the platform at Kings Cross.
“Yeah,” John replies, clearing his throat when his voice comes out hoarse. “Fine.” And only then, with Sherlock’s keen gaze staring at him, does he notice the faint bruise that’s more yellow than purple marring the soft, fragile skin beneath Sherlock’s left eye.
“Where’d you get that shiner?”
“Oh you know me,” Sherlock replies, and John knows forced nonchalance when he hears it. “Opened my mouth. Drew breath. That seems to be enough these days.”
John’s lips pull up into a half smile, remembering days long past and narrowly escaped pub brawls because Sherlock let loose a particularly biting remark about a bartender and his non-existent girlfriend.
“Well,” he begins, anger spiking at the thought of anyone placing their hands on the skin he once worshipped. And would do so again, if ever given the chance. “Be careful, you know?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes, but nods, shifting his weight and watching the once red light turn green again. Panic flares in John - he can’t leave yet. Not when he just found him again.
“Look, here’s, um, here’s my new number,” he rambles, pulling a napkin from Costa out of his pocket along with a pen. “If you want to, I dunno, get a drink or dinner or something. Catch up.”
He hands the hastily scribbled number over and doesn’t quite meet Sherlock’s piercing gaze. He doesn’t ask if Sherlock’s number is the same and Sherlock doesn’t offer it up.
It’s such a typical power play that it would make John smile if it didn’t hurt so damn much.
xxxxxx
“Did you pack the - ?”
“Yeah, I’ve got it,” John interrupts, smiling softly, lump already lodged in his throat. “I’ve packed it all.”
Sherlock nods and winces when an announcement for the 10:27 to Oxford blares over the speaker. He looks so fragile in the early morning light streaming in through the skylights. So much younger than the mere 18 years he already has.
John hitches his bag higher up on his shoulder and watches as Sherlock’s slump further and further with every passing moment.
“Hey, c’mere,” John finally murmurs, reaching out a hand for Sherlock’s and pulling him towards a secluded table outside Pret. He drops his bag and pushes Sherlock into one of the chairs, taking both of his hands and holding them on the table, not caring a whit who sees. He rubs his thumbs over the back of Sherlock’s knuckles, watching the pulse pound steadily in his wrist.
“I’ll write - ”
“No,” Sherlock shakes his head. “We agreed. Clean break. You have more important things to be worrying about over there than me.”
John swallows as his eyes swim. “Doesn’t mean I still won’t worry about you.” Even in the ten months they’ve been together, John knows that Sherlock has always been an ‘all or nothing’ kind of guy. And that’s what this is. All or nothing.
It fucking sucks.
“I love you,” he whispers and the fact that he’s saying it for the first time in the same breath as he’s saying goodbye breaks his heart in ways he didn’t think possible.
“Please don’t,” Sherlock replies. Begs, more like.
“It’s the truth,” John rasps, pulling Sherlock towards him, getting a hand on the nape of his neck and crashing their lips together desperately.
Sherlock makes a noise at the back of his throat not unlike a whimper and breaks away, but before John can complain, the younger man has come around the table and tumbled into John’s lap, burying his face in John’s neck.
John pretends he doesn’t feel the tears on either of their faces.
“Please don’t die,” is the whisper that eventually comes.
And John knows that’s as close to ‘I love you, too’ as Sherlock can get in this moment.
xxxxxx
It takes Sherlock two weeks to even text and John feels like he’s going out of his skin with every passing day. Now that he knows Sherlock walks around the city just like everyone else, he can’t fathom not seeing him again. He goes on more walks during those 14 days than he did in the entirety of the six months since he’s been back, just on the hope that fate will somehow strike twice and he’ll seen those curls towering above the crowd.
It’s a Thursday night when his phone chimes and John nearly ignores it, thinking it’s just another drunk text from Harry, but something makes him pause - that damn spark of hope - and he limps over to the chair and picks it up off the arm.
Could use your medical opinion. -SH
Of course he types out before deciding it sounds too desperate. He types Sure. What’s up? instead.
NSY. 8pm. - SH
NSY?
New Scotland Yard. -SH comes back immediately and John can practically see the eye roll and hear the sigh that accompanies the text. God, he’s missed him.
He almost asks why Sherlock needs his medical opinion in a building which no doubt has ready access to a plethora of doctors with varying specialities, but he bites his tongue because why ruin a good thing, and types out a See you there. before tossing his phone on the chair once more if only to fight temptation.
He glances at his watch and finds it’s only half past six, which means he can change his outfit at least three times before he has to go.
He ends up only changing his trousers once and his shirt twice, slipping his mobile and wallet in his back pocket before picking up his walking stick and hobbling to the door to spend the tube ride purposely not thinking of the time they spent together two-and-a-half years ago.
He fails at that spectacularly, sharp memories sticking him over and over in the most vulnerable of places: weekend lie-ins, takeaway picnics on the floor, heated snogs behind the stands of the rugby pitch, the occasional fancy dinner (candle included), a silence that was never awkward, a peace that was hard to find.
John pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes out harshly, banishing the feel of Sherlock’s fingers digging into his skin to the furthest reaches of his mind. He’s at St. James’s Park Station well before he’d like to be, fussing with the cuffs of the light jacket he really should have replaced years ago. But Sherlock had liked this coat - said it was soft when he rested his head on John’s shoulder - and John tells himself he picked it because it was literally the only light jacket he had and that he ran his finger over the worn seam at the shoulder to simply test for its durability and not at all for sentimental reasons.
The lobby of NSY is austere and not a little bit intimidating, but John strides up to the front desk like he belongs there, shoulders back, chin high, just like the Army drilled into him.
“Can I help you?” the bored-looking young woman asks as she files something away in the drawer beneath her desk.
“Uh, yes, here to see Sherlock Holmes?”
She pauses halfway through her task and actually looks at him for the first time, eyebrow raised skeptically. “Holmes?”
“Yes.”
“Sherlock Holmes,” she repeats, tone tinged with incredulity.
“Yes?”
“You must be John,” a voice says to his left and he turns to find a man in his mid-30s approaching him, hair already greying at his temples.
“I am,” John replies, reaching out to shake the hand that’s already extended towards him.
“Sergeant Lestrade. Sherlock’s working on my case.”
“Working on a case?” John blurts. “Certainly a step up from reading the Times and griping about everything you’re missing.”
“Oh he still does that,” this Lestrade chuckles. “Calls me every bloody Sunday morning.”
John barks out a laugh before sobering slightly. Those weekends full of lazy lie-ins are long since past. Sergeant Lestrade gets him signed in and then leads him to a bank of lifts, pressing the fourth floor when the doors slide open with a ‘ding.’
“Stop looking so tense,” Lestrade says after a moment. “You’re not under arrest.”
“Sorry,” John huffs out a laugh and, with it, the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “I’m still not quite sure what I’m doing here.”
“He needs your medical opinion, right?”
“Yeah, but - ” John gestures to the expanse of occupied desks in front of them as the doors slide open once more. “I’m pretty sure you’ve got that covered.”
Lestrade gives him a look that’s undecipherable as he leads him out of the lift. “He’s particular.”
John doesn’t know what to say to that, so he follows silently a pace behind, weaving in and out of the desks that make up the bullpen and half-heartedly listening to the chatter from the various coppers dotted about the place.
“We keep him in here,” Lestrade says as he points up ahead to a conference room with a closed door. The phrasing makes John laugh, as if Sherlock has been quarantined, but then he notices the wide berth the rest of NSY is giving that particular wing and ‘quarantined’ does seem to be an apt word.
Lestrade gives a perfunctory knock before opening the door without waiting for a reply. “Your Dr. Watson is here.”
“He’s not my - oh,” Sherlock stops as he turns and sees John standing in the doorway. He clears his throat and shuffles the papers in his hand, only meeting John’s eyes briefly before darting them away again. “Thank you for being prompt.”
“Well, you did say 8pm.”
“Right…” Sherlock manages, visibly swallowing and gesturing to the pictures laid out on the table with the sheaf of papers in his hand. “Gunshot wound to the temple. Looks like your garden variety suicide, but something’s off.”
John hums and studies the photo that Sherlock slides over to him. A woman lies slumped over on the bed, head turned to the left, showing off the precise bullet wound in her temple.
“She’s right-handed?”
“Indeed.”
John frowns and leans down, eyes taking in every detail he can. “She was shot after the fact. Did you do a tox screen?”
“Waiting for the results,” Sherlock replies with a huff, as if he could coerce faster results through sheer force of will if he were running the tests himself.
“Look at the popped blood vessels in her cheeks,” John continues. “I’d wager she’d been vomiting pretty violently recently. Whoever shot her did a good job wiping her mouth, but they missed a bit right here,” he says, pointing to a small smudge near the corner of her lips. “I’d say she’s been poisoned."
“Oh!” Sherlock’s hands go up to his hair and he tugs. “Idiot!”
“Beg your pardon?” John blurts out.
“Not you. Me,” his ex snaps and John should be used to the harsh tone, but it’s been awhile and the reminder stings. Sherlock points a finger at Lestrade who’s been standing silently in the doorway watching the two of them and barks, “Bring the boyfriend back in and tell your moronic minions not to let him go this time.”
Lestrade rolls his eyes in a gesture that’s more fond and exasperated than miffed and goes to do Sherlock’s bidding. John watches it all unfold with his mouth slightly agape.
“Um, what just happened?”
“You just solved a murder.”
“What?”
“Well, helped solve a murder,” Sherlock amends as he gathers the papers that have been tossed seemingly haphazardly around the room. John flounders for a moment, unsure if that means his services are no longer required.
But John can’t leave. Not yet.
“So… why’d you call me?”
Sherlock snorts. “Have you seen what I’m forced to work with here?”
“But why me?” he pushes, because this is important. He knows it is, but Sherlock merely shrugs.
“Don’t trust them.”
“But you trust me.” It probably should be phrased like a question, but it comes out as a statement and one of wonder at that.
Sherlock makes a noise that’s neither confirmation nor denial and continues plucking the photographs that have been tacked to the bulletin board and tossing them on the table with the rest.
Silence hangs heavy and thick in the windowless room and John feels it suffocating him. His palms begin to sweat and the shirt that he so painstakingly picked out is feeling a little too tight around the collar.
It’s been two-and-a-half years. They should talk. They need to talk.
John inhales deeply and exhales slowly while Sherlock continues to whirl around the room like a human tornado, creating more chaos than cleaning it. John clears his throat as he steps further into his path of destruction.
If not now, when?
“Hey, I feel like we should talk about - ” but he doesn’t get out “what happened” because when he gently wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s wrist to keep his flailing arms from smacking him in the face, the boy hisses and pulls away but not before John gets a good look at the lurid, ugly bruise disappearing under the sleeve of his poncy shirt.
And all that crap about time stopping and ears ringing, it’s all true, because that’s exactly what happens.
And John cannot breathe.
“Oh my god,” he murmurs.
“Sorry,” Sherlock says, presumably for pulling away but John has moved past that already.
“Sherlock, what the hell is that?” He can clearly see the outline of at least three fingers in the shape.
“S’nothing,” he replies, attempting to pull his sleeve down and cover the mottled mark.
“Nothing?” John goes to reach for him again, but Sherlock ducks, leaving him to grasp at air. And then he remembers -
“Where’d you get that shiner?”
“Oh you know me. Opened my mouth. Drew breath. That seems to be enough these days.”
“Sherlock,” he snaps, out of panic more than anything else, falling back on the comforting ease of ‘Captain Watson’ without even thinking.
“Careless, really. I was crossing against the light, not paying attention per usual, and my boyfriend pulled me back.” The hitch in his voice before ‘my boyfriend’ would be unnoticeable to anyone. Anyone but John.
He blinks. “Your boyfriend?”
“Yes,” Sherlock whispers. It’s almost apologetic.
“Your boyfriend,” John repeats, because it’s honestly the only phrase his brain is capable of at the moment, but this time, Sherlock bristles.
“Yes, John. I believe I was told in no uncertain circumstances not to wait for you.”
This time, John’s silence can only be attributed to the large lump that’s lodged itself in his throat. It’s true and he can’t deny it. Score one for Sherlock Holmes.
“You just - you didn’t say anything.”
“Oh, should I have?” Sherlock laughs without humor. “John, this is the first time we’ve spoken, really spoken, in three years. I didn’t think I’d have to.”
“Then why did you text me!” he shouts, voice echoing off the bare walls and making John feel grateful the rest of NSY is in the habit of keeping their distance.
Well, the rest of NSY save one. A throat clears behind them and John turns to see Sergeant Lestrade standing in the doorway, eyes down, hands shoved into his pockets, trying to seem as invisible as possible. John sighs, turns back, and for the first time since he grabbed his wrist, Sherlock meets his eye.
“I don’t know.”
John swallows and sniffs, feeling like an anchor has just been dropped in the pit of his gut. The room’s gone cold, despite the sweat beading on his temple.
“You good here?” Lestrade says after a charged moment and Sherlock nods once.
“We’re finished.” The pronouncement is simple and yet shattering.
John opens his mouth, but the words won’t come as his tongue sticks to the roof of his dry mouth. So he turns and follows the Sergeant out of the conference room, aching to glance back with every step that carries him further away.
He doesn’t.
They make it to the lift and John stares at the ground as Lestrade punches the button. “Thanks for your help.”
John nods, but doesn’t reply. Finally, because the potential truth of the matter is too much for his emotionally compromised soul to handle alone, he voices the one thing that will be sure to haunt his dreams that night:
“He’s got a bruise on his wrist.”
When Lestrade next speaks, his voice is tight. “I know.”
xxxxxx
John finds it particularly hilarious that they’ve managed to discard all of their clothing save for their socks, and he giggles in post-coital bliss as he stares down the length of their bodies to see their white cotton-covered toes wiggling as their feet tangle with each other.
“We missed a bit,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss in Sherlock’s riotous curls as the boy splays across his chest, long fingers tracing the freckles at John’s shoulder.
“Dunno. Seemed pretty thorough to me,” Sherlock replies and John snorts.
“Not that, you git.”
“Mm. We had more important items of clothing to remove,” he replies, lifting his ankle for good measure, around which his pants still dangle. John barks out a laugh and causes Sherlock to join in as it rumbles through his chest.
“Yes, indeed,” John replies before going quiet once more. There’s been something weighing on his mind. Something he’s debated, weighing the costs and the gains and yet still coming to a parity in the tally. He presses another kiss into Sherlock’s damp curls and threads his fingers through the hair at his nape, absentmindedly twirling a lock. The boy in his arms could very well end up being the deciding factor.
“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asks after a moment and John sighs because it’s impossible to fool him.
“Nothing really. I just - “ he trails off and Sherlock tenses, lifting his head off John’s sternum and staring at him with those cerulean eyes which seem all the more iridescent in the low light.
“What?” he whispers.
“I’m - I’m thinking of joining the army.”
Sherlock stills, but John can feel the hammer of his heart against his sternum where it sidles up against his own. He sniffs and puts his head back down, but the tension in his body does not abate. “Why would you do something as stupid as that?”
He’s going for nonchalance, but John can hear the tremor in his voice.
“Because they’ll pay for my medical training. And give me real world experience.”
“You can’t get real world experience at any of London’s hospitals?” he clips.
John’s not sure if Sherlock realizes his fingers are digging into his bicep but he runs his hand up and down the boy’s back as if calming a skittish horse.
“I can, but - money’s a big factor, babe.”
Sherlock scoffs and John tamps down the spike of anger he feels. Just because the posh git has never had to want for anything in his life doesn’t mean the rest of the world functions the same.
“Yes, money, Sherlock,” he says, trying and somewhat failing to keep the bite from his tone. “It’s what makes the world go ‘round. And pays for a medical degree.”
Sherlock lifts his head and flicks his wrist. “I’ll pay for your medical degree.”
John’s lips part and his eyebrows hit his hairline. “You did not just say that to me.”
“What’s the big deal?” Sherlock asks, but John is already shaking his head and sitting up, not caring that the blanket barely covers his naked lap. “You could finish your training here and get a position with - “
“The big deal is that, unlike you, the majority of the world wasn’t born with a silver spoon up its arse!” The words come before John even realizes he’s saying them and the ensuing silence sounds louder than the shout itself.
Sherlock, for his part, looks like he’s been slapped. His features are slack, but his eyes are hard, and John sees it for what it is: fear. Fear for John physically, yes, but fear for this relationship that, even after a scant couple of months, is more precious to both of them than anything.
“Sherlock - ” he reaches out but the lanky teen scoots out of his reach, immediately grabbing his pants and tugging them on, followed swiftly by his trousers and jumper.
“Where are you going?” Something heavy settles on John’s chest, pressing the air from his lungs and making his heart clench.
“Home,” Sherlock spits.
Home. The word hits John like a punch to the gut. Half of Sherlock’s things have migrated to John’s flat and the boy spends the majority of his waking and all of his sleeping hours there, but home it is not. Apparently.
“Sherlock, please. Let’s talk about this - ”
But the slam of the door is all he gets by way of a reply.
xxxxxx
John thinks there’s a cruel kind of poetry in the fact that the last words Sherlock spoke in his presence were, “We’re finished.”
He makes it three weeks with no word from him before he breaks and heads over to his old flat on Montague Street, where he’s told by the new uni student occupying it that Sherlock hasn’t lived there in six months. He left no forwarding address because of course he didn’t and the “Sorry, mate, can’t help you,” he gets instead (sincere though it is) does nothing to ease the ache in John’s chest.
By the time the text comes through two days after that, John has thoroughly given up on ever hearing from Sherlock again.
Dinner? -SH
It’s embarrassing how quickly he smashes send on his reply.
When?
John holds his breath as he stares at the ellipses signaling that Sherlock is typing. It goes on long enough for John to be concerned both about the length of Sherlock’s response and his own potential oxygen deprivation, so when the text ends up being a succinct Now? - SH, he feels a thrill of excitement and yet a pang of confusion.
It’s the question mark that does it. Sherlock isn’t one for niceties, always stating a request in the form of a demand.
Where? Brevity seems to be the name of this game.
More tense moments staring at the mocking ellipses pass before the next word comes through. Singular, again.
Angelo’s? - SH
Another question mark. Another trip down memory lane. Angelo’s. John hates how the reminder of their first proper date causes something akin to a supernova to explode in his chest. Sherlock has a boyfriend. Sherlock doesn’t need him. Why the hell would he pick this restaurant of all places? It’s not like London is lacking.
Perfect. he types out instead, swallowing down his anxiety and telling himself he’s not allowed to change his shirt more than once this time.
He splurges on a cab and gets across town to Northumberland Street in record time, giving himself a moment to take a breath as the cabbie eyes him in the mirror.
“Alright, mate?”
“Yeah. Yeah, good. Cheers,” he manages as he hands over the money, pulls the handle, and opens the door. He daren’t look to see if Sherlock is already at their table in the window, witnessing his crisis of confidence.
Smoothing down his shirtfront, John limps up and opens the well-worn door, wincing when a familiar voice booms:
“Do my eyes deceive me?”
He manages a tight smile that grows more and more genuine as Angelo bounds down between the tables, arms outstretched as if John were the Prodigal Son returneth.
“Because that can’t be John Watson walking through my door!” he shouts as he wraps his burly arms around John’s shoulders and lifts him clean off the ground, not commenting at all on the walking stick held tight in John’s right hand. Bless him.
“Hello, Angelo,” he murmurs sheepishly, trying to not let the pain in his shoulder show on his face.
“Shoulda known you were the one he was waitin’ for,” the restaurateur whispers with a conspiratorial wink, nodding towards the window where John now knows Sherlock is sitting without having to turn. “Been there for ten minutes already.”
That piqued his interest. Ten minutes. It barely took John twenty to get there, which means Sherlock was already in the area. Perhaps he lives nearby.
After one last bracing breath, he turns and catches the gaze of the one man who’s been both his heaven and his hell. With a less-than-subtle nudge to the back from Angelo, John stumbles forward, managing to steady himself with his walking stick before hobbling over to the table and sliding onto the bench.
“A sit-down dinner that’s not takeout. I feel like I should ask what the occasion is.” He tries for levity and fails, pulling his napkin into his lap and flushing as Angelo proceeds to place a candle on the table with a flourish.
“So good to see you back together again.”
“We’re not together,” Sherlock replies succinctly and, after nearly three years, it shouldn’t hurt as much as much as it does, but then again, John’s feelings towards the boy across from him have never been predictable.
The first thing he notes is that, even in early August, Sherlock’s sleeves are buttoned up as tight as can be. There’s no trace of the bruise that tilted his world on its axis almost a month ago. At least not that John can see. Not that Sherlock is willing to show. And then a thought occurs that nearly has John retching into the bread basket: what if there are more?
He studies the boy he used to share his bed with, noting the sallowness of his skin and the purple half moons beneath his eyes. The dullness of his hair and the stain marring his bespoke shirt just to the left of his buttons. The Sherlock he knew would never deign to be seen out in such a state, despite having spent many a weekend in nothing but a pair of John’s pajama bottoms and his old rugby jersey. When it becomes clear that Sherlock will not be speaking first, despite having been the one to arrange this, John clears his throat and rips a roll in half.
“So...” he begins, dipping the piece of bread into the saucer of olive oil, hoping to quell his roiling stomach. “Why now?”
Sherlock shrugs and fiddles with the napkin in his lap. “Bored.”
“Where’s your boyfriend?” The question is out before he can swallow it back and John is at least grateful that it didn’t sound as bitter as it tastes in his mouth.
“Working,” Sherlock replies, snagging the other half of John’s roll from the bread basket.
“What does he do?” He really doesn’t care and yet he can’t help but ask. He hates that he wants to gobble up information on the man who’s taken his place like a starving man at Christmas dinner.
“He works for a financial firm.”
“Oh,” John blurts. “He’s not a student, then.”
Sherlock raises an eyebrow briefly before returning his gaze to his plate. “No. In fact, he’s older than you.”
It causes a jealous fury that John has no right to. He was in his final year at uni when Sherlock was in his first. The age difference seemed large at the beginning, as all age gaps do when you’re young, but John’s friends took Sherlock under their wings and Sherlock’s friends (few and far between though they were) were adequately intimidated by the pre-med rugby captain who’d come to collect his boyfriend out of the labs whenever he lost track of time.
Knowing that someone even older is in Sherlock’s bed every night makes John clench his clammy palm around his fork. Does this man know how Sherlock takes his tea? Does he know that Ten is his favorite Doctor? Does he know that he prefers the left side of the bed, but will wake sprawled out diagonally and hoarding all of the blankets? Does he know that he claims to be infallible and yet is one of the most emotionally fragile people John has ever met?
“How long have you been together?” His voice comes out raspy and he tries to swallow, but his throat is too dry.
“Almost a year. Off and on,” Sherlock murmurs, almost apologetically. “He’s an old family friend.”
John nods, but his words desert him. What can he say to that? He tries to think of something but he can’t hear anything over the shattering of his already-splintered heart.
Angelo saves him by placing a plate of burrata on the table and uncorking a bottle of chianti. After countless dates here, he knows their order by heart.
John picks up his glass and takes a healthy sip. Sherlock would surely judge him for it if he weren’t doing the exact same thing.
“What about you?” he finally asks and it’s the closest Sherlock will ever come to asking about the war. About the catalyst for their undoing.
John busies himself with dishing out tomatoes and cheese, choosing instead to play the ‘oblivious’ card. “What about me?” He can practically feel Sherlock roll his eyes.
“Your limp’s psychosomatic.”
And John can’t help it, he snorts. “I did miss that,” he says, warmth flooding his voice as he finally meets those eyes again.
Sherlock blushes just the way John loves and ducks his head.
“Go on, then,” he urges, stuffing a bite into his mouth. “Tell me why.”
Sherlock leans back and crosses his arms over his chest, lips quirking into a sly smile. “The limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic.” Here he pauses, all bravura vanishing from his face. “Wounded in action, then.”
John smiles sadly. “Got it in one.”
Sherlock’s eyes scan him, probably trying to find the location of the actual injury so John saves him the trouble.
“Left shoulder. Shot through the back, exit wound here,” he says, tapping just below his clavicle.
Sherlock stares at it as if he could see the angry scare through the cotton of John’s shirt. What he asks next brings a level of shame John thought he was finished feeling when it comes to Sherlock Holmes. “How long have you been back?”
“Uh, just about - just about seven months.”
Sherlock huffs out a breath and drops his head, folding in on himself as if he’d taken a punch to the stomach. John starts to reach for him before abruptly pulling his hand back. That’s not his place anymore.
He’s saved once again by Angelo bringing their main courses - seafood risotto for Sherlock and pappardelle with wild boar ragu for John - and the man’s timing is so impeccable that John actually wonders if he’s got their table bugged. He wouldn’t put it past him. Get rid of the accent and Angelo looks like he wandered off the set of The Godfather.
John takes his first bite and groans, but Sherlock has gone back to staring at the the left side of his chest once more. He swallows and smiles wryly, but he should know by now that his attempts at levity have only done more harm than good. He should know this, and yet he speaks anyway:
“Is this the part where you say, ‘I told you so’?”
Sherlock’s gaze snaps to his so quickly and his eyes narrow so severely that John actually drops his fork.
“If you think I’d say that to you upon your return from fucking war then you know me even less than I thought you did.”
This time, when John reaches out, he doesn’t retreat at the last moment. “I’m sorry, bad joke,” he says, placing his hand on Sherlock’s. “That’s not what I - ” but he cuts himself off and shakes his head. Idiot. They’re in dangerous waters now and the wine is just starting to hit, making everything seem warm and fuzzy. Making the bad decisions seem a little too tempting.
“I know every inch of you,” he eventually whispers, hand still gently working to unclench those beautiful violinist’s fingers. “Every goddamn, glorious inch.”
Sherlock audibly swallows and allows John to open his palm before he seems to surprise them both by gripping it tightly. “How close did you come?”
John tilts his head. “To dying?”
Sherlock nods but John can see the brief wobble in his lower lip.
“Very.”
The wobble becomes more pronounced so John takes his free hand and puts it over their entwined ones. “Hey, hey. None of that. I’m here. I’m alive.”
“I’m glad,” Sherlock manages.
They’ve come to an understanding of sorts, a ceasefire, but there’s one more question that John needs to ask.
“This boyfriend…” he begins, holding up his hands placatingly, as if to say this comes from a sincere place, “ - is he good to you?”
“Good enough,” Sherlock vaguely replies and John knows that’s the only answer he’s going to get tonight. So they split tiramisu and move on to safer topics: Sherlock’s classes, his arse of a brother, John’s sister. Work and school and family - the topics that people stick to when they don’t want to talk about much of anything.
Angelo nearly convinces them to get another bottle of chianti, but their better angels win out and so he shoos them away with a promise to return as soon as possible. He even murmurs a “Chin up, lad,” to John as he limps by.
“Ta,” he quietly replies, before turning to the boy in front of him who looks even paler in the summer moonlight. “Do you live nearby? I’ll walk you.” He taps the stick against his thigh. “Need to loosen up anyway.”
Sherlock hesitates for the briefest of moments, but it’s enough to tangle John’s stomach into knots. “Sure. Just a few blocks.”
They meander quietly, but it’s not the kind of oppressive silence they encountered at NSY. It’s not quite comfortable, but content. Enough, for now.
Sherlock eventually begins to talk about a website he’s building to organize his findings, but his explanation of his analysis on the 243 types of tobacco ash is interrupted as he comes to abrupt stop in front of a grey stone townhouse.
John eyes blow wide as he takes it in. There’s only one name on the door - Trevor - so this financial firm twat must be doing very well for himself.
“This is where you live?” he blurts out, not disguising his awe at all.
“Yep,” Sherlock replies, popping the ‘p’ slightly, already digging around for his key, but it’s for naught because the door swings back a moment later and a guy fills the doorway: late twenties, maybe, blonde hair, dark eyes, sharp features. Taller than John, but slighter. It’s a fact that John can’t even relish; not when Sherlock is stepping sideways and actively putting distance between them.
“Who the hell is this?” the new guy asks.
“Victor, this is my friend John Watson. We went to uni together.”
John pretends he doesn’t feel Sherlock go completely tense next to him, nor does he flinch at the term ‘friend.’ He supposes it’s kind considering what they’ve been these last few years, but it’s still horribly inadequate for all they are. Were.
“You’re John Watson?” this Victor replies just shy of a sneer as he looks him up and down.
John straightens and crosses his arms, hooking his walking stick over his elbow. “Last I checked.”
Victor makes a non-committal sound and focuses that dark stare back on Sherlock. “Where the hell were you?”
“You said you had a meeting. We just grabbed dinner.”
“Dinner,” Victor repeats.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Angelo’s,” John replies and Victor’s eyes flash for a moment before narrowing. John feels like he’s made a spectacular tactical error.
“Thought you didn’t like Angelo’s.”
“It was my request,” John jumps in again. If he fucked it up once, the least he can do is try to right it.
Victor hums, but his gaze never strays from Sherlock, like a bird about to swoop in on its prey. “Get inside,” he eventually orders and the boy is quick to comply, eyes not even shifting in John’s direction as he mounts the stairs of the stoop.
“Good to meet you, James.”
“John,” he snaps.
“Right,” Victor replies with a smile as he clamps a hand down on Sherlock’s shoulder none-too-gently and steers him into the house. “Take care.”
The door slams shut and John can only stand there on the pavement, not caring how ridiculous he looks. But then the curtains flutter as a light is turned on in the downstairs sitting room and he realizes that being caught loitering out here might only make things worse for the boy inside.
Oh, Sherlock, what have you gotten into?
With a heavy heart, he begins to make his way down the block, continuously turning back just in case Sherlock changes his mind. Just in case the door opens and he runs back out.
He doesn’t.
“Is he good to you?”
“Good enough.”
John swallows down bile and winces as the ache in his chest matches the one in his leg. Because walking away from Sherlock in this moment is like walking away for the first time all over again.
He barely lived through it once. He’s not sure he can manage the feat again.
xxxxxx
There’s a boy on the dance floor who looks like he just stepped off the pages of Lord of the Rings and wandered into a GQ spread on his way from Rivendell.
John leans against the bar and nurses a whiskey neat, watching the sweaty masses dance to a bass beat that seems to rattle his skull. He tells himself he’s too old for the club scene, but Mike had begged, it being the last fancy dress party in the lead up to Halloween. His costume is really rather pathetic: white shirt, black vest, blue trousers. Give him a pistol holster pilfered from a cowboy costume, and he is Han Solo, at your service. He’s not sure who the kid on the dance floor is supposed to be. Given the heavy makeup, lack of shirt, braces, and bow tie, he’d guess the Emcee from Cabaret, but the scope of his musical theatre knowledge is narrow at best, passed on by an ex-girlfriend who left uni for the West End and never looked back.
The Elven Emcee seems to be having the time of his life while simultaneously ignoring everyone around him. Not quite unlike John at the moment. People try to get closer, but he rebuffs them, throwing his arms up in the air and closing his eyes, letting the music take hold once more. Most people take the hint, but there’s a guy dressed as Frankenstein who can’t seem to get it through his thick, green skull.
John watches as he puts his hands on the Emcee’s waist for the third time in as many minutes and is pushed away with an elegant but firm hand to the chest. Frankenstein crowds in once more and John finally has had enough. He downs the rest of his drink and thunks the glass down on the bar, wiping his mouth as he follows the boy with his eyes as he makes his way out of the middle of the dance floor and to a quiet corner with Frankenstein hot on his heels.
As he gets closer, he can start to hear snippets of their conversation as they shout to be heard over the music.
“C’mon, babe, one dance,” Frankenstein is saying. “I guarantee I can show you a good time.” He tries to grind up on the boy who looks both incredibly vulnerable and yet entirely disgusted and John picks up his pace as he places a firm hand on Frankenstein’s shoulder and pulls him away.
“There you are, love!” he says to the Emcee, insinuating himself in between the boy and the arsehole in front of him. “Been lookin’ for you everywhere.” He brushes a kiss across that sinfully sharp cheek and pulls away just far enough to raise his eyebrows as if to ask ‘Go with it?’
Those wide blue eyes soften and he gives a bit of a nod before sliding his arm around John’s waist and pulling him in to press a quick kiss to his lips.
“Well I’m right where you left me.”
“Silly me,” John murmurs with a wink, finally opening up to address the man across from them. “Hi, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m John.” He doesn’t stick his hand out and Frankenstein doesn’t offer either.
“Should have said you were taken, you fucking cocktease.”
“What the fuck did you just say?” John steps forward, fists clenching, but the boy wraps an arm around his waist from behind and presses his lips to his ear.
“Not worth it,” he breathes and John shudders, the tension still thrumming within him now mingling with rapidly growing arousal.
“You’re right. Not worth it at all,” he spits and watches as the man stumbles away.
The boy holds him tighter, a brief squeeze or half hug, before he lets his arm drop, allowing John to turn and face him once more.
“Thank you,” he says, the flush on his cheeks apparent even in the strobing lights of the club.
“My absolute pleasure,” John replies, stepping back and putting space between them. What he doesn’t expect, though, is for the boy to reach out and hook him by his belt loops, pulling him flush against him once more.
“I’m Sherlock, by the way,” he breathes against his lips.
“John,” he gasps, letting his hands skate up Sherlock’s bare back and trace the edges of his braces.
Sherlock chuckles and whispers, “I gathered,” before leaning down and nuzzling at John’s neck, pressing a chaste kiss on his thudding pulse point. “My hero.”
xxxxxx
There’s a Costa open late just around the corner and John decides that if he isn’t going to sleep tonight, he might as well let caffeine aid the anxiety attack threatening to claw its way out of his chest.
He gets a black coffee and takes a seat on a stool in the window, resting his elbows on the small bar there and letting his head drop into his hands, just trying to breathe.
He had imagined his reunion many times with Sherlock. Many ways. Perhaps they’d break their rules and write, mutually agreeing on a pre-arranged meeting upon John’s return. Perhaps Sherlock would actually call in a favor to his brother and find out what train John was coming in on and meet him at the station. They were fanciful thoughts, but they caused more pain than John could bear so far away. Nothing had prepared him for this, though.
He’s not sure how long he sits there - long enough for the barista to give him a heads up that they’re closing and if he should want a refill, the time is now. John takes him up on his offer and alternates between watching people pass by outside the window and the barista wipe down the tables methodically. He downs the last of his coffee and gets up to toss the cup when a familiar silhouette stalks by:
Blonde hair, dark eyes, sharp features. Taller than John, but slighter.
Victor.
The look of fury on his face morphs his features into something almost unrecognizable, something grotesque, but after this man put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and squeezed hard enough to make the boy wince, John would know him anywhere.
He presses his face to the window just in time to catch Victor stride around the corner, and John is out the door and running in the opposite direction, back towards that bloody grey stone townhouse that represents all he’s lost out on.
Jogging up the steps, he bangs on the door before ringing the bell, unsure whether Victor’s brisk walk was just a turn around the block or an all-night affair. Either way, John doesn’t want to be here when he returns and he sure as hell doesn’t want Sherlock within a five mile radius.
“Sherlock! Open the goddamn door!”
There’s a thud, followed by a groan. Eventually, Sherlock manages a feeble, “Go away.”
Panic rises and he presses his forehead against the painted wood, hand sweaty but firm on the knob. “I swear to god, I will break this door down. Do not think I won’t.”
He hears more shuffling before finally the deadbolt lurches and the knob turns under his palm. He steps back if only so he doesn’t pitch forward, but he nearly does so anyway when the light from the streetlamp hits Sherlock’s face.
His bloody, rapidly bruising face.
“Christ,” he breathes. “Oh Christ, Sherlock.” John steps forward and gently cups his cheeks in his hands, running a thumb over Sherlock’s split lip as his other traces his cut brow and rapidly swelling eye. “I’m going to fucking kill him,” he manages, voice utterly broken.
“Don’t,” Sherlock replies, shaking his head, eyes filling with fear. “He knows people, he’ll - ”
“Shh, shh, okay,” John soothes, pressing a kiss on the only bit of Sherlock’s forehead that looks unharmed. “C’mon, we’ll get some stuff together. You’re coming home with me.”
“He’ll find me.”
“Over my dead fucking body,” John growls, gently moving Sherlock back and propping him up against the wall. He’s favoring his side, which means the bastard got a few hits or kicks in to his ribs. “Which way is the bedroom?”
The boy points a trembling finger towards the stairs. “First door on the right.”
John nods and takes them two at a time, banging the door back and inhaling sharply at the sight of the king-sized bed. The bed that Sherlock shared with someone who wasn’t him. With someone who would dare lay his hands on him in anger. He has half a heart to ask Lestrade what the minimum is for justifiable homicide, but that can wait.
Instead, he hits the light and opens the closet door, recognizing the half of the rack that belongs to his former boyfriend. Grabbing a duffle from atop a shelf, he begins shoveling the clothes into the bag without ceremony, not caring that Sherlock will likely grumble over the state of his shirts. He heads for the dresser next, opening the drawers until he sees a t-shirt he recognizes. In fact, it’s technically John’s, but Sherlock kept stealing it so John bequeathed it when he left for basic training. The fact that it’s still here makes something inside John’s chest warm. Something that feelings remarkably like hope.
He goes into the bathroom next, recognizing Sherlock’s razor and preferred brand of toothbrush and dumping his poncy shampoo in the bag on top of the rest of it, before hiking it over his shoulder and thundering down the stairs.
“What else?”
Sherlock hasn’t moved from his place up against the wall, so John slowly approaches him and leans forward so he can meet his downcast eyes.
“Sweetheart, what else is there?”
“Some science equipment in the back shed,” he rasps. “He - he didn’t like me having it in the house.”
“Okay,” John licks his lips and swallows. “I’ll send someone over to get it. Is it locked?”
“Padlock. Combination 28-10-15.”
John pauses and stares, but Sherlock won’t meet his gaze. It’s their bloody anniversary. The date of that stupid party when Han Solo followed an Emcee across a dance floor and upended his life with four words: “There you are, love!”
“I’ll call someone to come get it, okay? Right now, I’ve gotta get you out of here. Can you walk?”
Sherlock nods and allows John to get an arm gingerly around his waist as he readjusts the duffle on his other shoulder. Blood is still seeping from various cuts and abrasions on his face and John mentally catalogues the supplies he has in his bedsit, wondering if he’ll need Mike to drop off some more as he raises his arm for a cab.
He doesn’t even realize he’s left his cane in the Costa until they’re halfway across town, Sherlock’s beaten body tucked under John’s arm, protecting him from the dark of the night.
“Christ,” the cabbie blurts as he finally gets a look at Sherlock in the rearview mirror. “He all right?”
“Pub brawl,” John mutters as he digs out his mobile. “You should see the other guy.” He scrolls through his contacts until he gets to Mike’s name and taps it. Mike, bless him, answers on the third ring.
“John?”
“Mike, I need a favor.”
“What's up?”
“I’m sorry to do this, but I need you to pick up some stuff at a flat in Marylebone and drop it off at my place, no questions asked.”
“John, don’t - ” Sherlock begins, but John hushes him with a kiss to his head for a good measure.
“Of course,” Mike replies, all seriousness, probably sensing the barely-masqued desperation in John’s tone. “What kind of stuff?”
“A microscope,” he replies, glancing at Sherlock for confirmation. He gives a small nod and John raises his eyebrows, waiting for Sherlock to let him know what else is there.
“Couple of notebooks, a bunsen burner,” Sherlock murmurs.
John relays the info to Mike who responds with a breathy, “Bloody hell. Is this Sherlock-related?”
John sighs but his voice breaks. “Yeah, you could say that. Please, Mike.” He gives him the address and the combination, wondering if the date sounds familiar to him too, but Mike doesn’t say so either way.
“Not to worry. I’m on it.”
“You’re a saint,” he says, attempting to pour every ounce of gratitude he feels into those three meager words before he clicks off.
He glances down at Sherlock who’s still slumped into his side, but his gaze hasn’t strayed from the passing scenery.
“You’ll never have to go back there again,” he murmurs but Sherlock merely shrugs before hissing in pain.
“I tried to leave before. He found me.”
John clenches his jaw if only to keep his grip from tightening on the broken boy beside him. “He’ll have to go through me.”
They pull up outside of his bedsit and John helps Sherlock from the car before pulling the duffle onto his shoulder and leaning in through the window to pay.
The cabbie, however, having clearly overheard John’s conversation, waves off the fare.
“Seriously?” John asks.
“You clean him up,” the cabbie says. “And don’t you let him go back, no matter what he says.”
“Right. Will do,” John replies, thunderstruck. “Thank you,” he blurts at the last minute, garnering a brief nod from the cabbie as he drives away. He turns to Sherlock who looks infinitely younger than his scant twenty years and holds out an arm, allowing the boy to lean against his side once more. “It’s not much - ”
“But it’s not there,” Sherlock finishes for him.
“Exactly.” John is grateful that his building has a lift, despite how dodgy it is. It seems to be working this evening, though, and he hits the button to the third floor, finally getting a good look at Sherlock under the flourescent lighting.
“Christ, he really did a number on you.”
“I’ve had worse,” is the quiet reply that nearly buckles John’s knees.
“Please don’t say that. God, please - don’t - don’t tell me that.” Tears are threatening to fall, but he can’t do that yet. Maybe later in the quiet of the loo, but not now. Not in front of Sherlock.
The lift’s door slides open with a squeal and John leads him down the hall to 3B, unlocking it and kicking it open before stepping back and allowing Sherlock to enter first. He’s glad he thought to put away his clean laundry and do the dishes that afternoon.
John drops the bag out of the way in the galley kitchen before leading Sherlock over to the toilet. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Sherlock goes willingly, sitting on the toilet seat John lowers and not even commenting when John’s fingers begin to deftly undo the buttons of his ruined shirt. It’s a journey they’ve made countless times before, but John is shaking and he fumbles a couple of times before the well-made cotton parts. As is his wont, Sherlock doesn’t wear a vest beneath it and John can’t help his gasp as he gets a good look at the rapidly forming bruises that pepper Sherlock’s ribcage.
“I should call Lestrade,” he murmurs and it takes a Herculean effort to keep his voice calm and even.
When he doesn’t get an immediate ‘don’t’ from the boy in front of him, he stands with a grunt and heads to the kitchen under the guise of grabbing an ice pack from the freezer, pulling his mobile out of his pocket as he goes.
Lestrade had given him his number after they met at the Yard. After John said, “He has a bruise on his wrist,” and the Sergeant replied with a weighty, “I know.”
Sherlock’s been beaten. And not
for the first time.
Lestrade’s reply is immediate:
Fuck. Is he safe?
I have him.
Keep him there. I’ll put a warrant out
and grab a statement from him in the
morning.
Wrapping the ice pack in a paper towel, John returns to the toilet to find Sherlock exactly as he left him: head leaning back against the wall, eyes closed. He opens his one good eye as John enters and wordlessly holds out his hand for the ice pack.
“Let me mop the blood off first,” John murmurs, grabbing his kit from beneath the sink and snapping out a pair of gloves.
“Not many bodily fluids we haven’t shared, Captain,” Sherlock muses. John smirks and pushes his hair off his face, gently tilting Sherlock’s chin towards the light.
“I don’t think this will need stitches. I’ve got some butterfly closures here.”
“Goody.”
John knows the forced bravado is a cover for just how vulnerable he feels so he lets the tone slide, grabbing a piece of gauze and soaking it with antiseptic.
“This is going to sting.”
“I have no doubt,” Sherlock replies, but the bite is gone, as if he’s too tired to keep up the charade. He hisses a bit as John begins methodically cleaning him up. When his swollen eye is clean and his brow butterflied, John presses the ice back to his face and holds it there until Sherlock’s hand brushes his to secure it.
“Got it?” he whispers.
“Yeah.”
John then moves on to the rest of him, applying a plaster to a cut near his hairline, palpitating his kidneys, and feeling his sides to ascertain for any breaks.
“Well, the ribs are definitely bruised, but I don’t think broken.” He holds a penlight up to Sherlock’s eyes and watches his pupils dilate. “And I think you might have a mild concussion, so I’ll wake you up every couple of hours just to make sure you stay coherent.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“What won’t?” John frowns, leaning back as Sherlock stands and sways on his feet. John gets a hold of his hips, merely to keep him upright, but the boy walks away, leaving John to scramble after him.
“You,” Sherlock replies. “Waking me up.”
“Pretty sure it’s standard procedure for head injuries,” John says warily, watching as Sherlock makes a loop around the room, processing his new surroundings, cataloging it.
“Did you get Lestrade?” he asks abruptly and John clears his throat.
“Yeah. He’s going to come by in the morning to take your statement.”
But Sherlock shakes his head and pulls his mobile out of his pocket.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling Mycroft. He has a spare room. Or eight.”
But John knows how deep Sherlock’s disdain for his brother runs. “What? Stay here.”
“It’s fine. I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”
“Sherlock - I want you to stay.” He expects to get many responses in return but bitter laughter is not one of them.
“You want me? You don’t want me,” Sherlock sneers. “You didn’t then and you don’t now!”
“What are you talking about?”
Sherlock’s pacing like he’s itching for a fight, and John knows his next words are likely to hurt, but that does nothing to prepare him for what comes next:
“I was just a fuck to you!”
John’s stomach roils and it takes him a moment of wordless floundering before he thinks he can speak without vomiting. “How can you - ” his voice comes out hoarse, “how could you possibly think that? Leaving you on that train platform was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life!”
“Then why didn’t you find me!” he yells, voice breaking. “I saw you. Four months ago in Piccadilly. I saw you. And I realized you were back and that you didn’t call so what the hell was I supposed to think?”
John looks down at himself in loathing, shrugging sadly as he gestures to his bum leg and his mangled shoulder. “Who would’ve wanted me?”
“I would have!” Sherlock roars, before collapsing on the sofa and burying his face in his hands, body shaking with silent sobs.
“Jesus, love,” John whispers, dropping to his knees in front of him and pulling him to his chest. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” He peppers the boy’s hair with kisses, mindful of his injuries, before pulling back and cradling that precious face in his hands. “You, Sherlock Holmes, were the best thing to ever happen to me. The very best. Still are, if I’m honest,” he breathes, using his thumb to carefully wipe the tears streaming down those bruised cheeks. “And I’m sorry I left.”
Sherlock digs his teeth into his split lip, as if to ground himself. “Would you do it again?”
John sighs and looks down. “I don’t regret the Army. Despite everything, it trained me. I’m Dr. John Watson because of it.” He leans in and presses their foreheads together, just breathing for a moment. “But I would have fought harder for you. I would have said ‘sod the rules, I’m writing you every damn day. I wouldn’t have let you go so easily.” He pulls away and stares into those blue, blue eyes. “I love you.”
Sherlock hiccups and nods, causing fresh tears to spill over. “I love you too. God, I do.” He crashes his face into John’s chest and John wraps his arms around his shaking shoulders. “Don’t ever leave me again.”
“I won’t,” John promises. “Not ever.” And he tightens his arms around the boy just drive the point home.
They end up on the floor with John sitting cross-legged and Sherlock sitting sideways in his lap. It’s a position they’ve been in many times at many a post-rugby party and at-home movie night.
“What else did he do to you?” John asks after a heavy moment, barely audible even against the shell of his ear.
“It can wait,” Sherlock replies just as quietly. “Nothing damaging long-term.”
“You don’t know that.” John, perhaps more than most, knows the effects of wounds you cannot see.
“Nothing you can’t fix, then,” Sherlock murmurs in reply. “Speaking of…” he nods down at John’s leg, which he sits upon. “Told you it was psychosomatic.”
John chuckles into his hair, pressing another kiss and offering up something - anything - to anyone listening that he’s been granted the opportunity to so once more. “That you did.”
Sherlock tucks his head in the crook of John’s neck again, despite the fact that it probably hurts his ribs to do so, and tangles his fingers in the back of John’s shirt, now stained with Sherlock’s blood.
“Thank you for waiting for me.”
“Of course.”
“I don’t just mean tonight.”
And John pulls away, because he needs to see Sherlock for this. He needs to look into his eyes as he makes this promise. “From now on, wherever you go, I follow.”
Sherlock smiles, even as his eyes water. “Even to grisly crime scenes?”
“Especially to grisly crime scenes,” John replies with a laugh.
They have a long road to travel and deep wounds to heal, but he finally feels at peace for the first time since they last were in this position: sat outside a Pret in the middle of Kings Cross Station, saying ‘I love you’ and ‘goodbye’ in same breath.
Which is why he wants to start over...
“Hello,” he whispers.
“Hi,” Sherlock replies.
… together.