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John walked down the street, his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, his head down and his collar turned up to protect against the wing. This was his life now. Stifling loneliness and anger were his constant, unwanted companions. Guilt and self-hatred made frequent guest appearances, as well.
Rosie wasn’t his child.
Mary was an assassin, who’d been sleeping with god knows who, and getting up to god knows what, while John had been blissfully ignorant.
Sherlock was… well, wherever Sherlock was, he supposed. Probably out solving crimes and being his usual brilliant self. Wherever Sherlock was, he didn’t have the space, or the time, for John in his life anymore.
John couldn’t really blame him for that.
He’d never felt so utterly stupid in his entire life. When Sherlock had first come back from the dead, John had been so angry, but so, so relieved that he was alright, that he was alive, and that he was safe.
And then Mary had accepted his unasked proposal, and John was getting married to the wrong person.
He’d known it while they planned the day, had known it as he said his vows, had known it as he fought back tears during Sherlock’s best man speech. He’d known it, but he’d pushed that knowledge as far away as he could, because this was the life that he was supposed to want.
He was supposed to want the wife and the kids and the goddamn picket fence. He was supposed to want a nine to five job, meals on the table when he arrived home, quiet nights cuddling with the missus on the sofa. He was supposed to want the normal, boring, dull, suffocating life that he’d married into, and Sherlock… Sherlock didn’t fit into that.
John hadn’t realised it at first. Mary had been clever, he couldn’t deny that. Smarter than John, at any rate. Weeks and months passed, and slowly, surely, she managed to isolate John away from everything that came along with Sherlock Holmes.
Crime scenes were off limits. Chasing criminals through the familiar streets of London was certainly not something that a responsible father should be doing. It was reckless and irresponsible, she said. What if Mary and the baby needed John, and he was off being kidnapped or something?
Sherlock hadn’t even seemed to be phased by the growing distance between them. It was like the separation hadn’t even registered for him. He didn’t call, didn’t text, and he’d ignored all of John’s attempts to contact him.
Shaking his head to himself, John turned into the cemetery where Sherlock’s headstone still stood. It was a place he’d often visited before, whenever he needed clarity, or peace. This would be the first time he’d been there since Sherlock had come home.
He hadn’t needed it until now, he’d had the real Sherlock there to give him the clarity and peace he’d needed. The clarity and peace that only Sherlock could give him.
He stood silently in front of the black gravestone, his eyes tracing the familiar letters. It didn’t bring him the peace he craved. Perhaps it was because he knew now that Sherlock wasn’t lying beneath the earth. He couldn’t expect an empty coffin to bring him any comfort. Sherlock wasn’t here anymore, and so the area held nothing for John.
With a silent sigh, John left the cemetery, his insides still twisting up with the raw emotions that followed him everywhere as he made a start on the long walk back to the house he shared with his wife, and a child that wasn’t his.
He’d arrive late, probably get yet another lecture about his absence, and then he would lie still in bed beside Mary, unable to sleep, wishing with all of his head that she was someone else, or that he was somewhere else.
…
“He’s been walking through London for almost a month, on a daily basis,” Mycroft explained quietly, gesturing to the surveillance on his laptop screen. “I’m not quite sure what to make of it, but if you’ll remember what he was like after the incident at St Barts… this is not much of a departure from his behaviour back then.”
Greg frowned. “But that doesn’t make any sense. He knows that Sherlock is fine now, why would he be so depressed again? Do you think that he’ll make another attempt to—”
“I should certainly hope not,” Mycroft replied. “The results of such an action would devastate Sherlock beyond anything he's been through in his life, and he’s already been having a hard time since his return. As for John, I haven’t been able to get much intel since this started, but I have reason to believe that Rosamund isn’t actually John’s daughter.”
“Jesus Christ! Can the poor bastard never catch a break?” Greg groaned, slumping back in his chair. “Does Sherlock know about any of this?”
Mycroft shook his head. “Not as yet. I wasn’t quite sure whether or not to bring it up with him. He’s only just beginning to consult on cases again following their separation, and I’m not sure how this will affect him. As much as I wish to see the two of them happy together, I cannot help but feel that if it were to happen, it would already have done so. Would it not be cruel to continue to bring them together only for them to fall apart again?”
“They belong together, Myc. It might not be an easy thing for either of them to admit, but there’s no Sherlock without John anymore, and the opposite is even more true. John needs Sherlock more than he needs air. They’re just both too bloody stupid to see it.”
Nodding slowly, Mycroft leant on the desk. “I’ll visit with Sherlock this evening and show him the footage. It will, perhaps, spur him into action.”
…
Without planning it, Regent’s Park became John’s destination the day following his visit to Sherlock’s grave. He’d been correct in his assumptions as to what would happen on the return home, and he was expecting much the same for the coming evening.
The predictability of it was somewhat comforting in a twisted way.
Mary had threatened divorce when John’s lack of reaction angered her further. It had been the only thing she said that had gained her a reaction from him, and he was quite certain that it hadn’t been the reaction she’d been looking for.
He’d asked her plainly how she was attempting to divorce him from a marriage that wasn’t even binding. Mary Morstan wasn’t a real person, therefore, neither was their marriage. She’d then threatened to leave him and take Rosie with her, screaming in frustration when John had raised his eyebrow at her and then looked pointedly at the door before he left the living room to pour himself a scotch in the kitchen.
That had been the last of the conversation, and when he’d slipped into bed hours later, his head spinning slightly from the amount of scotch he’d had, he’d settled on the very edge of the mattress and she’d left him alone.
She’d apologised that morning, of course, blaming it on hormones and begging him to spend the day at home with her. He’d ignored her and left early, his head still pounding from a hangover, and his stomach turning at the thought of spending any more time than necessary near her.
That had all been hours ago, and as the sky darkened around him, he was faced once more with a long walk back to a place he hated. Dizziness plagued him—had been plaguing him all day—and he knew that if he actually wanted to make it back to the house, he’d have to eat something.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, and he knew that that was probably more than a bit not good, but he just couldn’t find it in himself to care. If he thought that he could just stop eating, stop drinking, stop feeling, stop thinking, stop breathing, he would do it in an instant.
Every day that passed him by added more cracks, and he didn’t know how long he had left until he was irreparably broken. He could only hope that it wouldn’t take too long.
“John?”
Looking up, John was surprised to see Greg watching him with concern in his eyes.
“Oh. Hey, Greg. How are you?”
“I’m good, mate. You?”
Shrugging his shoulders, John didn’t answer.
“You look dead on your feet,” Greg added, when it became clear that John wasn’t going to say anything else. “Do you want a lift anywhere?”
“No, thanks. I, uh, what are you doing here?”
“Crime scene,” Greg replied, nodding to the house behind him. John realised that there was police tape strapped across the gate and nodded.
“Sherlock will be here soon. You should hang on for him,” Greg suggested, softly.
The thought of Sherlock’s imminent arrival sent a shiver of fear up John’s spine, and he shook his head roughly. Sherlock didn’t need to see John like this. Heaven forbid the genius think that he had some sort of responsibility to fix his friend.
“I was just heading home,” John murmured, quietly. “I should go. Good to see you, Greg.”
Before Lestrade could argue with him, John walked on, his pace quicker than it had been to try and put some space between himself and the crime scene. He hated that he wasn’t in the cab that would surely be pulling up shortly, hated that he wouldn’t be there to hear Sherlock spouting off his usual brilliant deductions.
As he reached the end of the street, he could have sworn he heard his name being called, but the fast movements had made his dizziness worse, and his eyes were blurring at the edges.
He swayed on his feet, stopped walking to lean against the closest available surface. Blackness threatened and he slumped against the wall, his legs trembling in an attempt to hold his weight.
He heard his name called again, louder this time, but it was no use. Giving into the blissful silence that beckoned, John knew no more.
…
John blinked against the bright lights, the steady beeping of the heart monitor assaulting his ears. Bloody hospital. Of course he was in the bloody hospital.
Before he’d even fully woken up, he was treated to Mary’s dulcet tones.
“... how you could be so bloody stupid! You have a wife and child, John! You can’t keep on abusing your body like this! You really prefer walking miles and miles every day instead of being home with us? Am I really that bad, John? Do you really hate me that much?”
She was in fine fettle, and John barely held his eye-roll.
“Are you done?” he asked, his mouth dry. Sitting up slowly, he reached over to the portable table and pulled it closer, pouring a cup of water out.
“No, I’m bloody well not done, John! What on earth were you thinking?” she demanded, stopping at the end of his bed, her hands on her hips, glaring for all she was worth.
“Clearly I wasn’t,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Can you tell the doctor that I’m awake, and that I want out of here, please? And where are my clothes?”
She gave him a dirty look but picked his clothes up off the chair and tossed them on the bed. “They aren’t planning to release you until you’ve eaten and your blood sugar levels are up. I imagine they’ll want to keep you overnight.”
John snorted, but he didn’t reply. He'd sign himself out A-M-A if he had too, because there was absolutely no way he was staying in the hospital overnight. Shucking the hospital gown off, he dressed himself quickly. He was just putting his jacket back on when Mary reentered the room with the doctor in tow.
“I’m told that you’re eager to leave, Dr Watson?”
“Something like that,” John agreed, nodding briefly. “Are you going to sign me out, or do I need to sign myself out?”
“I really must stress how important it is for you to remain here and let us monitor you, Dr Watson,” the doctor argued. “You were unconscious for close to two hours. This isn’t just a regular fainting spell.”
“It’s lack of nourishment and lack of sleep,” John replied. “I know what the problem is, and I’ll make sure to avoid it in the future. Really, I’m fine, it was just a bad oversight on my part. Poor judgement, stress, whatever you want to lay it down as. I’m fine.”
“Very well. I’ll have the nurse prepare the Against-Medical-Advice papers for you. You’ll be able to sign them at the main desk on your way out.” The doctor shook his head. “Please look after yourself, Dr Watson.”
“Thank you,” John replied, briefly shaking the doctor’s hand.
“John?”
John glanced at Mary. “What?”
“Sherlock is in the waiting room. He’ll see you on your way out.”
“Why is he in the waiting room?” John asked, frowning. “Not that I particularly want him to be here at the moment at all, but he’d never been one to not be in my room when I’ve been brought in for whatever reason.”
Mary paled slightly under his gaze, and he shook his head.
“You banned him from the room, didn’t you? Christ, Mary, could you be any more selfish, or domineering?”
“Why were you with him, anyway?” she asked, rallying herself. “You told me you weren’t investigating anything with him, anymore!”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” he growled. “But for your information, it was a coincidence. I ran into Greg at a crime scene that he’d called Sherlock into. I didn’t know he was even here until you told me. You still have no right to tell him that he’s not allowed in my hospital room whenever he damn well pleases!”
She followed him from the room, mumbling that of course it was her right, as his wife she could tell people they weren’t welcome whenever she wanted. He ignored her, stalking down the corridor to the desk. The papers were ready for him to check and sign, and he could see Sherlock from the corner of his eye, watching carefully.
Signing his name, John took a deep breath before he turned to the consulting detective.
“Sherlock,” he greeted flatly.
“Are you okay?” Sherlock asked, looking over John with a critical eye, concern evident all over his face.
“Fine,” John replied. “You needn’t have come here, Sherlock. Greg said he needed you at the crime scene.”
“John…” Sherlock frowned. “You collapsed in the street. I was hardly just going to pack you into the back of an ambulance and forget about you, was I?”
A fresh wave of guilt hit John at the pure hurt he heard in Sherlock’s voice. He was about to apologise when Mary butted into the conversation, her hand snaking around John’s arm.
“Well, thanks for the help, Sherlock, but I need to get John home. We’ll see you,” she said, brightly, falsely, her voice making John cringe as he shook her grip off.
“You go on home, I’ll be there later,” he told her, stepping away when she reached for him, again. Turning to Sherlock, he added, “It’s… good to see you, Sherlock. Sorry I worried you, but really, I’m fine. I’ll… I should go.”
Without looking back at either of them, John left the hospital, ignoring the threatening dizziness. He walked with purpose to a Chinese restaurant down the street, checking briefly behind him in case either of them had followed him before he slipped in the door.
He was seated at the back of the restaurant by his own request, and he ordered a pint of lager and a glass of water along with his usual curry order. He didn’t particularly feel hungry, but he knew that if he didn’t eat, he’d only wind up back in the hospital, and that was the very last thing he needed at the moment.
God forbid he gave Mary any more ammunition to lecture him with.
His drinks arrived first, and he forced himself to drink half of the water first. He was about halfway through his meal and contemplating leaving when he saw Sherlock enter the restaurant, his eyes scanning the tables in search of John. With no time to hide, John didn’t bother trying, instead he violently stabbed a piece of chicken from the plate.
Sherlock sat down facing him, his face blank, his eyes searching.
“What’s going on with you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” John replied, quietly. “Nothing is going on. Nothing is ever going on. Haven’t you heard, Sherlock? I have normality now. I have dull, and boring, and normal. Everything I ever wanted.”
“Something has happened to you. Mycroft and Lestrade have shown me some footage. You’re spending your days walking the streets. You’re not eating. You’ve been drinking far more alcohol than you usually do. You don’t contact anyone, you barely speak to your wife, and you haven’t bonded with your daughter. You’re neglecting your health, you’ve lost far too much weight, and you’re falling into a rather severe depression. So, I’ll ask again, John. What’s going on with you?”
John snorted, pushing his food around his plate. “You just told me what’s going on, Sherlock. I’m not really sure what you want me to add.”
Huffing with frustration, Sherlock leant on the table. “I don’t understand what went wrong, John. You were supposed to be happy with Mary. That was why I didn’t fight for you to stay with me when I returned. You were getting what you wanted with her, and you were supposed to be happy. I didn’t let you go for you to fall apart like this! I don’t understand where I miscalculated… I need you to explain, John. I need to know what went wrong.”
John shook his head. “I haven’t got the energy for this conversation. What do you need to hear, Sherlock? Just… just tell me what you need to hear, and I’ll say it, and you can carry on with… whatever it is that you’ve been doing.”
Sherlock tilted his head slightly, curious. “It’s not about what I want to hear, John. I want to know what’s wrong with you. Maybe I can help you fix it.”
“Unless you’ve got a time machine handy, there’s really nothing you can do. Just… let it be, okay? Everything will be fine. It is fine. I’m fine.”
Draining his pint, John gestured to the waiter that he was ready for the bill. He avoided meeting Sherlock’s eyes as he paid quickly, before he made his way out of the restaurant without a backward glance.
Footsteps behind him were the only warning that Sherlock had yet to take the hint and leave him alone. He really should have expected as much.
“John. Please. Just… stop. Stop, and talk to me, please.”
Later, John will say that it was the ‘please’ that did it. He stopped, leaning against the wall, Sherlock in front of him.
“What’s wrong, John?” Sherlock whispered, standing closer than necessary, his warmth comforting to John in a way he’d been searching out during all of his weeks walking on the streets of London.
“Everything.”
“Come home with me. We can sit and talk. I’ll do anything I can to help you, John, you know I will,” Sherlock all but begged, his fingers twitching as he moved to take John’s hand in his one.
John put his hand in his pocket quickly. The panic at the thought of physical contact almost made his legs buckle. He couldn’t handle that right now.
He wasn’t sure he could handle anything right now.
Thoughts and decisions and options chased themselves around John’s mind. He knew that he couldn’t continue on the way he was. It wasn’t fair to anyone; not himself, not Rosie, certainly not Sherlock. Mary didn’t count, at least, not in John’s mind.
“Can you… give me a couple of days?” he asked, after a minute. “There are… things that I need to deal with first. Then, I promise, Sherlock, we’ll sit down and I’ll tell you what’s going on. I promise.”
“I can help you,” Sherlock replied, softly.
“I appreciate that you want to,” John told him, honestly. “But this is a mess that I caused. I need to sort it out myself.”
“If… if that’s what you need,” Sherlock agreed, eventually. “Two days, John. Don’t make me wait any longer, okay?”
John smiled a tired smile, noting how unfamiliar such a simple motion had become. Then again, he didn’t have much to smile about, these days. “Two days. I’ll text you. Promise.”
…
“Where the hell have you been?” Mary demanded, when John let himself into the house they shared.
John ignored her, walking up the stairs to the bedroom. He pulled out the biggest suitcase and started loading his clothes into it, barely paying any attention to what he was actually packing.
“What are you doing?”
“Packing. I would have thought that was fairly obvious,” he muttered, passing her to enter the bathroom, grabbing his shaving kit and his shower bag. Tossing the two of them into the suitcase, he rounded the bed and emptied his bedside drawers into it as well.
“Oh. Oh, I get it. You saw Sherlock, and now you’re going to toddle off back to Baker Street because you can’t face up to the responsibilities of being a husband, and a father? Is that how it is, John? You’re just going to abandon your family?”
“I already abandoned my family, Mary. I just didn’t realise it at the time. But no, I’m not going back to Baker Street.”
Mary sighed. “John, I know that things have been hard lately, but we can get through it. We can be happy together, like we were before. John, you know I love you… and Rosie needs her daddy. You can’t just walk out on your daughter, can you?”
“If Rosie needs her daddy, then perhaps you should call him, Mary.”
The words lingered in the air as John finished tossing the last of his clothes into the suitcase. He glanced at Mary to find her staring at him with wide eyes, shock written plainly all over her face.
“How did you find out?” she asked, her tone much quieter now.
“Were you ever going to tell me?” he replied. “Were you ever planning to tell me what the little girl who should have been mine was someone else’s daughter? Or were you just going to leave me in the dark?”
“You can’t say that you’re happier for knowing, can you?” she growled. “I made a mistake, John. Are you really going to destroy our lives for one mistake?”
“A mistake? Really, Mary? A mistake? That’s all you can call it? For fucks sake, are you even a real person? Do you have emotions at all? You let me believe that I was a father!”
“You could be! Biology doesn’t have to matter!” she shouted back, pacing. “Who told you? Was it Sherlock? No, I bet it was his older brother, the fat, meddling twit. I bet it was. Fucking Holmeses don’t know when to keep their fucking noses out of other people’s business!”
John shook his head. “Oh, because you’re so fucking virtuous? It was you who told me. Or, rather, the letter in your bag told me. Neither Sherlock nor Mycroft are aware of the situation at the moment, as far as I know.”
Mary shook her head. “So that’s it? You’re just going to walk out on me? On us?”
John nodded. “I’m doing what I should have done weeks ago. Months ago, probably. I wish you all the luck, Mary, but I’m done. I can’t… I just can’t any more. This isn’t fair on anyone.”
She sat down on the bed, a hand running through her hair. She suddenly looked tired, and John could certainly empathise with the feeling, even if he had absolutely no sympathy for her. He didn’t think she had the right.
“I do love you, you know,” she murmured. “I’ll start the divorce proceedings. I know that you said you don’t need a divorce because of my past, but… I’d like to keep my identity. My reasons for becoming Mary Morstan are the same now as they were when I did it, and Rosie needs stability. Please.”
“I don’t want a divorce. You were pregnant with another man's baby when we got married; I believe that’s grounds for an annulment. I’ll contact my lawyer in the morning and ask him to start the proceedings.”
“Okay, fine. For what it’s worth… I am sorry, John.”
He nodded. “Me too. Look after Rosie. She may not be mine, but… well.”
“I will.”
…
Hey, are you home? JW
Yes. Are you on your way? SH
Twenty minutes out. JW
Chinese or Indian? SH
Whatever you want is fine, Sherlock. JW
Thai is it. SH
…
“Oh, John, it’s lovely to see you,” Mrs Hudson gushed, smiling widely as she embraced him.
She’d been the one to open the door when he’d knocked and he returned her smile with a tired one of his own, wrapping his arm around her briefly.
“It’s good to see you too, Mrs Hudson.”
“You go on upstairs, dear, he’s waiting for you.”
John climbed the stairs slowly, trying to calm his over-excited heart. It was pounding so hard in his chest, John wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock could hear it over his footsteps.
“Why didn’t you use your key?” Sherlock asked, as soon as John walked through the door to the flat.
John frowned. “Seemed a bit… presumptuous, I suppose.”
“Nonsense. You have a key for a reason, John. Come and sit, I made tea.”
John nodded vaguely, sitting down on the edge of what had once been ‘his’ chair. Now he was here, he didn’t really know where to start. Sherlock waited patiently, curled up in his own chair, one arm wrapped around his legs, and the other holding his tea, balanced on his knee.
“I, uh. Filed for annulment this morning. Of the marriage, I mean. I moved out last night. She… Uh. I mean. It’s…”
John trailed off, at a loss of how to describe the horrible details of everything that had been going on in his head and in his life over the past few months.
“Annulment?” Sherlock asked, tilting his head slightly. “On what grounds?”
“She was pregnant with another man when we got married,” John forced out. “Rosie isn’t mine.”
Saying it to Sherlock seemed to make the statement truer than it had been in John’s mind since he’d found out the truth. Embarrassingly, the world around him seemed to blur as tears filled his eyes.
“Oh, John, I’m so sorry,” Sherlock gasped, setting his cup on the table so that he could lean forward and capture John’s hand in his own. “When did you find out?”
“A few weeks, a month… I don’t know.”
“So… you’re leaving? Mary?”
John nodded. “I can’t stay there. It’s… that’s not the only reason, but it’s… certainly the deciding factor.”
“What other…”
Sighing, John glanced up to meet Sherlock’s eyes briefly. “You… You have to let me get this out, okay? Just… don’t interrupt.”
When Sherlock nodded his head to show his agreement, John took a deep breath. With his eyes on their joined hands, he tried to explain every mistake he’d made in a way that Sherlock would understand.
“When you came back, I was so happy to see you. So, so happy, Sherlock. I know that I was angry, and I still don’t apologise for punching you, but I honestly don’t think I’ve ever felt the level of pure joy in my whole life as I did the moment that I accepted that you were actually right there. Alive. When you came to the restaurant… you know what I was about to ask Mary to marry me.”
John shook his head. “I didn’t get time, but then, the morning after, she told me that she would marry me, and she put the ring on her finger, and that was that. I was getting married. I didn’t… I wasn’t planning on asking her the day after. The only thing that was on my mind was you. I couldn’t…
“And then, the wedding was being planned, and we were going out on cases, and I just… Mary was everything that I was supposed to want, you know? The wife, the house, the kid. None of it measured up to what I thought it would be. Or maybe I’m just… ungrateful? I don’t know. I don’t know much anymore, if I’m honest.
“I didn’t notice at first, you know? The way that she was isolating me. I was stupid, I guess, but I really didn’t see it.”
John sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. You were—you are—my best friend, and I’ve treated you abysmally. I’d absolutely understand it and deserve it if you never wanted to see me again. You should know what no matter what happened before, or what happens in the future, if you ever need me, I’ll be there in a shot. I love you.”
He stood up, squeezing Sherlock’s hand before he let it drop.
“Where are you going?” Sherlock asked, his voice soft and full of emotion.
“Hmm? Oh. I figured that I would head back to Harry’s. It’s been a long few days, and I have to move tomorrow.”
“Move? Where are you moving too?”
“I found a flat just outside London. It’s small, but it’s near a hospital, and I’m pretty sure they’ll take me on there.”
“How am I supposed to be able to call you if you’re outside London?” Sherlock asked, standing up. “Come home, John. Back to Baker Street. Back to me. Just… just come home.”
John shook his head. “I can’t. Not… not yet at least.” Rubbing a hand over his eyes, John let out a sigh. “For all the time that I’ve known you, I’ve let you down time and time again. The way I am at the moment… the way I feel… I’m terrified that I’ll let you down again, when that’s the last thing I want to do.”
Sherlock stepped closer, so that he was right in front of John. “You’ve never let me down, John. Unless you have a legitimate reason for moving outside of London, the only way that you could make me unhappy would be to not come home.”
“Sherlock…”
“Just come home. Please. I miss you.”
…
John lay on the lumpy sofa in Harry’s living room, staring up at the smoke stained ceiling. His thoughts were, of course, on Sherlock. When he’d left Baker Street earlier that evening, he’d promised to think about returning to 221B.
He wanted to, of course he did, but could he cope with it?
Could he return to being so close to what he could never have. He’d long since admitted to himself that he was a bit in love with Sherlock. He’d admitted that back when Sherlock had been dead, when it had been safe to admit it.
When Sherlock came home, John had already been living with Mary, and he hadn’t had to face the constant temptation.
It wasn’t like he could ask Sherlock not to walk around the flat in next to no clothing, or god forbid, repeat the exercise with the sheet, because then Sherlock would know that there was something new about John to figure out, and he’d never let it be.
He seemed to have made it a mission in life to know everything there was to know about John. Flattering in its way, sure, to have so much of the attention of the mad, gorgeous genius, but unsettling when there was something that John would very much like to keep to himself.
His phone beeped in the silence, making John jump.
You said if I need you, that you’ll be here in a shot? SH
John stared at the phone for a moment, reading and rereading the words on the screen.
Yes. Of course. Whenever. JW
Seconds ticked by, and John grew more and more tense in the waiting silence.
Then please, John, for the love of all that is holy, come home. I need you here, with me, always. Please. SH
John’s body was moving before his mind had ever caught up, throwing things into the suitcases he’d stowed in the corner of the room. His phone dinged again where he’d thrown it onto the cushions of the couch, and he realised belatedly that he hadn’t replied.
John? SH
Sorry, I was packing my things. JW
You’re coming home? SH
First thing in the morning. JW
There was a pause, and John sat back on the sofa, knowing that he was far too wired to try and sleep now.
The cab will be there in fifteen minutes. SH
Chuckling, John tossed his phone beside him. He felt… happy. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he actually felt happy.
Sherlock Holmes was a force of fucking nature, and John—despite his reservations of his own self control—was quite happy to once more be swept into it.
…
Sherlock was waiting at the door, fully dressed in black trousers and that purple shirt that John had always secretly admired on him.
He took one of John’s cases from him as he stepped out of the cab, and led the way up the stairs, dropping the suitcase by the door. John put the other one beside it, closing the door to the flat behind him.
Before he could say anything, Sherlock had him back up against the door, his large hands on either side of John’s head.
“Please, John, tell me that this is what you want,” he whispered, his body leaning towards John, only centimeters away from pressing against him.
John smiled, raising a hand to rest against Sherlock’s jaw. “I want you, Sherlock. In whatever way I can have you.”
The first kiss was chaste, just a pressing of lips.
Sherlock seemed to lose all control at the contact and shifted himself closer, pressing himself against John, and John further back into the door. He ravaged John’s mouth, gasping when they broke for much needed air.
John couldn’t believe what was happening, and he was seconds away from pinching himself to ensure that he wasn’t dreaming when Sherlock suddenly stepped back.
John blinked, barely managing to steady himself. He watched Sherlock pick up both of his suitcases.
“Sherlock… what are you doing?”
Sherlock ignored him and stalked to his own bedroom with the cases, shouldering the door open roughly.
“I don’t… I want you here,” he said, when John followed him. He nodded to the bed. “I want you here with me, so that when I wake up in the mornings, you’ll be here, and I won’t have to wonder if I dreamt it all.”
John nodded, shifting forward. He pressed a kiss to the back of Sherlock’s shoulder. “If that’s what you want.”
“What about what you want?” Sherlock asked, turning to face John, stroking a hand over his stubbly cheek.
John smiled, leaning into the hand. “I told you. I want you.”
A smile spread across Sherlock’s face, his dimples showing and making John melt.
“You’re home,” Sherlock whispered. “You’re really home.”
Nodding, John stepped into Sherlock’s embrace. “I’m really, finally, home. And I’m not going anywhere.”