Work Text:
In between the sports page of the London Times and adding films to his Netflix queue John skims through the NHS jobs website. It’s a habit, developed immediately after Sherlock’s resurrection. He doesn’t dislike his current job, is glad to have it, but he occasionally finds himself restless, wanting more than head colds, sprains, and repetitive motion injuries. Usually it’s a quick skim, then on to his email. But today there is a job at the London Veterans’ Assessment and Treatment Services working with veterans having difficulty adjusting to civilian life. John looks at the advert. They’re seeking a highly motivated doctor to complement the work of the existing speciality physicians to provide assessment and continuing care to patients.
John knows these patients. He knows what it’s like to carry a pack for miles through the Afghan countryside, admiring the beauty with one eye and on the lookout for Taliban snipers and land mines with the other. He knows how they sleep (not well), what they eat (a diet so low in fiber and fresh fruits and vegetables it would cause constipation in the most regular of individuals), what they miss about home (regular sex, beer, porn, solitude), and what they’ll miss when they get home (their fellow soldiers and Royal Marines, the adrenaline rush, the sense that they mattered).
This is the work he wanted to do when he invalided out of the Army.
Islington is on the same side of the city as Dagenham, but getting there on the Tube is nearly impossible. If he got the job, he’d likely have to move.
Westminster’s closer, an easier commute to and from home, the little voice in his head reminds him. Because 221 Baker Street still comes to mind when he thinks of home. Not Dagenham. Not Edinburgh. Westminster. But he doesn’t live there anymore.
The job would be closer to Sher — all he left behind. He scrolls through the advert again, uncertain. His mind’s peregrinations make him wonder if the job intrigues him, or if the black-winged, terrible beauty of the heartbreakingly impossible is circling back for him once again. Afghanistan. Sherlock. He’s a terrible judge of the possible, the sane, the typical. Working with traumatised veterans strains the most placid professional; even the mundane aspects of the job will push every button John has, could trigger his nightmares, the tremor, his leg.
He used to know himself. He used to follow his instincts with confidence. Troubled, he updates his CV, composes the application email, but saves it to his Drafts folder, then gets ready for bed. A text awaits him before he shuts off the lights for the night.
Coffee? SH
There’s another habit he can’t seem to shake. It’s almost a standing date, coffee with Sherlock before he sees Ella. He can manage seeing Sherlock for an hour or two, and if things go awry, well, he’s seeing Ella right afterwards. A couple of times he’s said no to Sherlock’s diffident question, just on principle. He’s regretted it afterwards, spent the afternoon out of sorts, spoken truculently to Ella.
Yes.
Same time and place? SH
Uncertain, John swipes his thumb across the screen before replying.
Yes.
+
“You cleared yet?”
John’s question has become a small joke. A very, very small one. The Yard has finally, albeit grudgingly, hastened the pace of their investigation into what led to Sherlock’s dramatic fall from the roof of Barts. Sherlock senses Lestrade’s hand in this, and responds by keeping scrupulously quiet about the stack of cold case files in his flat on Montague Street and his investigations into the human trafficking ring.
“Not yet,” Sherlock replies. John’s having tea today, with a couple of biscuits. He’s slept well the last few nights, then. A bad stretch means the bags under John’s eyes double up and he orders espresso, even in the late afternoon. It’s a vicious cycle, coffee and sleeplessness, but Sherlock keeps that to himself because John knows how caffeine affects the human nervous system, and he’s given no indication he’d welcome Sherlock’s attentiveness to his health.
Sherlock asks after Harry (still sober), John’s parents (still in Edinburgh), his work (still dull). John does not ask after Mycroft. Sherlock brought him up once and watched a brick flush creep into John’s face that suggested Mycroft should fuck right off and die. Mycroft pulled strings and negotiated access to a government lab, so Sherlock sticks to experiments, some of which are complicated enough to flummox John. The next week John had brushed up on the relevant chemistry, which touched Sherlock.
The conversation limps along, but for the moment, sitting with John, watching people come and go is enough.
A woman in the shop makes eye contact with John, and while John doesn’t smile back, he does take a second look. It’s an automatic response, one Sherlock dismissed before he fell because John quite clearly belonged to him, but now the smiles and sidelong glances make his heart sink.
“She’s flirting,” Sherlock observes dispassionately. John’s bisexual, not wearing a ring, and he’s clearly having coffee with an acquaintance. It’s in his body language, in the way he sits, the way he lets his gaze drift from Sherlock. John is heartbreakingly beautiful when one stops and looks at his weathered, harrowed face. He’s small, strong, deep, all stemming from his intense vulnerability. Next to him, Sherlock feels shallow, untouched. Pretty. Which isn’t much when one sits next to the physical embodiment of wholehearted.
“The more I broke the more women I could pull. Not sure why.”
“You pulled women.”
“Of course I did.” John’s looking out the window, not paying attention to the flow of the conversation that’s arrested Sherlock’s attention so completely. “It was almost as bad as it was before I left for Afghanistan. I’d go weeks without, then every night, twice a night if I could manage it. Classic avoidance tactic. Sarah for a few months before she figured out I wasn’t getting over you. After what I’ve done to her I’m lucky we’re still on speaking terms. I…regret that. Since then it’s been mostly anonymous blokes from the club. Men don’t try to make it all better. They just want to fuck.”
Sherlock’s coffee crawls hot and sour up his throat, then sloshes into the back of his mouth. He shakes his head, a quick, abortive jerk, then sets his cup down and swallows. Hard.
A friend would say, “Well done, you.” Or something similarly congratulatory at John’s successful testosterone-driven sexual encounters with strangers Sherlock suddenly discovers he hates and would maim, or perhaps kill, if given the chance.
That is wrong.
“Well done,” he manages. The phrase scours his throat like broken glass.
Which gets John’s attention. John’s face wars with itself: shock at Sherlock’s response, followed immediately by comprehension of Sherlock’s utter ignorance, then pleasure at having hurt Sherlock, then shame for that petty feeling, then regret for the sorry state they’re in. It’s the regret that sets the shifting lines and creases on his face. “Sherlock. I thought you were dead.”
John’s not justifying or explaining. He’s stating fact. And Sherlock’s an idiot. Did he really believe John, who inhabited his body and his emotions in every possible way, wouldn’t fuck anyone for years? Throw his sexuality on the pyre of their relationship, the one Sherlock gleefully doused with petrol and lit himself?
Yes.
How did he not know this?
Because he’s still self-centered, superficial, and stupid.
This time he’s the one to bolt. “I have…there’s an experiment…Lestrade…I have to go.”
“All right,” John says quietly.
Sherlock’s striding down the pavement away get away before he realizes he’s missed a key point. He didn’t know because Mycroft didn’t tell him.
Mycroft surely knew. Mycroft, with his CCTV cameras and his surveillance teams and his fingers in every pie in the British empire. Mycroft knew, and didn’t tell him.
He’s at the door to the Diogenes Club before he knows what he’s doing.
“Ah. Sherlock. To what do I owe — ”
“You knew.”
Mycroft is measurably (and unfairly) smarter than Sherlock, so he can deduce from Sherlock’s face what he means. He’s also far too smart to lie. “Yes.”
The rage inside him feels familiar. He’s seen it before, which helps him recognize it in himself. What is it? Oh, yes. It feels like…you fucking selfish machine. “You didn’t tell me.”
“No.”
There isn’t the slightest hint of regret on his brother’s face. “Because if I knew I might get distracted. Leave the job undone.”
“You needed him focused on you,” Mycroft agrees.
He might be crying. It’s a cold, damp day, and he walked rather than take a cab, so the hot tears on his face might be from the brisk wind.
“And because even as you were before, this information would hurt you. I wanted to spare you that, for as long as I could.”
No wonder Mycroft pestered John after Sherlock fell apart. Mycroft knew how he felt about John. Was Sherlock the only one not to see it, know it’s weight and heft and preciousness?
Yes.
Sherlock turns to walk away.
“We were too close to total victory, which is a rare thing in our line of work.”
“We?” Sherlock snarls as he spins to face Mycroft, illuminated by the light spilling from the open door to the club. “Victory?”
It’s unfair. He knows it. Hindsight and all that. He can’t blame Mycroft for using Sherlock as he was so willing to be used. But Mycroft is a safe target. Always has been. And Sherlock’s in no mood to debate the price paid for winning a major battle in the Sisyphean war against evil. The war had to be fought, there was always a price, but he could minimise his costs.
If he got the chance. Oh God. What if he didn’t?
“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”
His hand is fisted in his hair as he walks away.
John once said it was all fine. This is not fine. It’s not even in the vicinity of fine.
John’s text arrives as Sherlock walks through the front door to his flat.
I’m sorry.
You have nothing to be sorry for. I lie in a bed very much of my own making. SH
I’m not apologising. I’m commiserating.
Empathy (n): The ability to understand and share the feelings of another.
The man formerly self-identified as a high-functioning sociopath considers this for a long moment. They are in this together, oh yes they are, like soldiers, like new mothers, like exhausted residents in hospital. They are refugees walking the scorched earth of Sherlock’s war. But despite what Sherlock’s done, John is incapable of anything less than empathy. Perhaps he deduced Mycroft’s sleight of hand right along with Sherlock. John has learnt to assume the worst of the Holmes brothers.
Sherlock is staring at his phone, trying to construct a chemical formula complex enough to eradicate the image of another man inside John, moving over John, stroking his cock, kissing that miracle of a mouth as he shudders and gasps and comes, when another text arrives.
I can’t find an emoticon that conveys empathy. Second best:
The text stream ends with two yellow bubbles sporting not smiles but rather enraged snarls as they bounce gently, fat white-gloved digits extended in the two-fingered salute. Against all sense and reason, Sherlock laughs. It’s a short bark that holds not the slightest hint of amusement, and startles a neighbor down the street walking her corgi.
Fuck the world, the emoticon says. Fuck the fucking world and everything fucking thing it fucking throws at us.
This is not how Sherlock expected Sherlock and John together again to look or feel or behave. But it’s what he has.
Apt. SH
I thought so. Good night.
+
Sherlock rereads the string of messages and wonders if a friendship can grow from bubbles on a screen. Their Saturday afternoon coffee encounters grow less perfunctory, less formal. It’s time to risk dinner again.
Dinner? SH
The answer comes in less than five minutes.
Tired. Eat something.
Empathy aside, apparently dinner is still off the table.
+
O.O
O.o
o.O
o.o
Sherlock, why are you texting me incomprehensible symbols? MH
They’re emoticons. SH
-.-
>.<
:)
;)
Sherlock, I am in a national security meeting with the head of MI6 and the Secretary for Defence. MH
\./
:P
Sherlock. Cease and desist. MH
:P SH
Sherlock. MH
Do shut up, Mycroft. SH
+
I’m cleared. SH
Why is this not the headline of every major newspaper in the UK?
The Yard doesn’t feel the need to shout their errors from the rooftops. SH
Not surprised. Congratulations.
Thank you. Dinner? SH
Working late. Eat something.
Sherlock considers bringing a takeaway to John’s surgery, then discards the idea. He’s still a bad risk, but he is learning to be John’s friend. Friends respect boundaries.
+
Dinner? SH
Can’t. Drinks at the pub with a colleague moving to Liverpool. Eat something.
If you do the same. SH
Unlike you, I never forget to eat.
Eat something healthier than fried onion and beer. SH
Later in the evening John texts him a picture of a stir fry with chicken. Sherlock recognizes the kitchen table from his flat in Dagenham. Rather than meet Sherlock John had a drink, one drink only because it’s a work night, likely a pint, then went home to his lonely, badly lit flat in sodding Dagenham to make a meal by himself, then eat.
Without Sherlock.
Rejection despair humiliation —
But John texted him the picture.
— hope connection contact something you’d do with an acquaintance you wanted to encourage.
He files away the data, takes a picture of his own simple meal of whole wheat bread and cheese and an apple and texts it back. Protein, complex carbs, and a fruit. John would approve. Then he eats it. It’s sort of like dinner with John. Except it isn’t.
Perhaps coffee to dinner is too big a leap.
+
Lunch? SH
Tuesday?
Sherlock arrives fifteen minutes late to lunch blown in by the wind, hair in his eyes. The restaurant is crowded, and John is wedged into a corner, his gaze alternating between a menu and his watch. Sherlock removes his scarf and prepares to apologize profusely, but when John sees Sherlock, his stance sharpens immediately. “What’s going on?”
Nothing hovers on his lips until he remembers John’s admonition not to lie. “I’m in the middle of something with Lestrade.”
“You left a case to meet me.”
“We had a d — an arranged time and place to meet and spend time together.”
The wry look John gives him suggests he’s having as difficult a time labeling their encounters as Sherlock is. “What’s the case?”
“Woman found murdered in her home. No signs of forced entry. Obvious signs of a faked burglary.”
John’s eyes light up. “Cause of death?”
“Stab wounds to the chest.”
“Want some company?”
It is the first time John’s offered himself to Sherlock. He’s let Sherlock see him, talk to him, breath in his scent — chai tea and wool jumpers and the clinic’s hand soap — and watch his expressive face, but he’s never texted first, called first, or initiated an arranged time and place to meet and spend time together.
“We’ll never get a table,” John adds with a nod at the packed restaurant.
Sherlock’s heart is pounding under his tight shirt, jacket, and coat, the thuds of a trapped bird beating against his ribcage so sickeningly strong he thinks he might drop to his knees like he did in John’s flat. John’s eyebrows lift ever so slightly. “It’s just a crime scene, Sherlock.”
“Yes. Of course.” Sherlock wraps his scarf around his neck again. “Your opinion would be valuable. Anderson’s on forensics.”
“Still a git?”
“Yes.”
“Still won’t work with you?”
“Yes.”
“The more things change,” John mutters, then follows Sherlock out the door and into a cab.
The old gang, together again. There’s Lestrade, who’s gone totally silver, which inexplicably makes two of the crime scene techs giggle, and Donovan, who’s heavily pregnant. One look at her and John bypasses all the little reunion courtesies to beckon her into the kitchen for a full-on doctor interrogation, asking about swollen ankles and fingers, water retention, salt intake, blood pressure, and whether she should be on her feet ten hours a day. At the word pre-eclampsia Donovan’s face goes pale, and her hand goes to her belly. John shoots Lestrade a narrow-eyed glare as he beckons him over, and Sherlock catches a low mutter of she refused desk duty. It ends with Donovan agreeing to see her OB that afternoon and Lestrade promising to be a little more conscientious of a pregnant woman.
“You’ve got kids,” John says in a low voice. “You should know better.”
Lestrade holds up his thumb. “We’re talking about Donovan, yeah?” He adds his index finger and says, “What I know from two pregnancies is to never, ever tell a pregnant woman she looks anything other than great.”
Sherlock files that bit of data away.
“All right,” John concedes. “Good to see you.”
“You, too,” Lestrade says and hands him a pair of latex gloves.
Then there’s Anderson.
“You’re back?” Anderson says, his voice high and sardonic over the chatter in the room. “After what he did?”
The walls and floor vibrate with a dangerous electrical charge as goodpatientdoctor disappears; in an instant Captain John H. Watson, RAMC, takes up all the air in the room, and London, quite possibly in all of England. Sherlock, examining the family photographs organized on the bookshelves, listens with every cell in his being.
In his peripheral vision he sees Anderson put his hands up in what should be mock surrender but doesn’t quite make the mock. “My mistake.”
The sigh of relief is almost audible. Movement recommences, and Captain Watson becomes John, quiet, stable, small John. He drops to his knees by the body.
“Odd,” he comments when Sherlock crouches beside him. “They’re all clustered directly to her heart. If someone surprised her, wouldn’t the wounds be dispersed as she tried to fight off her attacker?”
“No sign of a break-in,” Lestrade says. “Her sister claims she was here for coffee, then left to go for a run. She’s babysitting the kids now. The officer we sent with her to pick up the kids said she gathered them up like a mother hen with her chicks. The husband’s off making arrangements.”
Sherlock extends an 11x13 montage of professional photographs featuring a small woman cradling an extraordinarily fat bulldog. The same woman appears on the periphery of the many, many family vacation photographs, never with a significant other. The dead woman’s photographs, by contrast, feature a growing brood of young children and her adoring husband. “Her sister,” Sherlock says quietly.
John looks at the body, then at the pictures. “Symbolically cutting out her heart?” he said. “Wanted what her sister had?”
Lestrade dispatches a car to pick up the sister for additional questioning. When they leave, John says, “What a prat.”
Sherlock knows who he means. “He’s asking a legitimate question,” he observes dispassionately.
“It’s not his question to ask,” John says huffily.
Sherlock looks out the window at London passing by, and smiles.
+
Could use your help. SH
At work. Ask Anderson.
Very funny. Likely to fracture hyoid bone by hanging? SH
Possible, yes. Likely, no. Depends.
It’s not common in hanging. More likely via strangulation.
Sherlock, answer your phone.
Straight drop or did the body pitch forward?
Sorry, was in sewers. SH
Why?
Don’t answer that. Did the body fall at an angle?
Straight drop. SH
Not likely then. More likely to fracture cervical spine between C2-3 or C4-5. Other than strangulation it’s not a common injury anymore.
Marks wrong for strangulation. Was it common? SH
Used to be in bare knuckle boxing. Hard punch to the throat fractured the hyoid. Victim died.
More common these days at martial arts tournaments. Kids horsing around without protective gear. Rarely fatal because the bone hasn’t ossified completely but scares the hell out of their parents.
John, you’re a genius. SH
I’m a physician with the NHS who treats adolescents.
Genius. SH
Don’t overdo it.
John slips his mobile into his pocket. He’s not a genius, but he’s applying for that job at the Veterans’ Assessment Center as soon as he gets off work. It’s just an application. Odds are good he won’t be contacted for an interview.
“She wasn’t depressed,” Sherlock announces to Lestrade, who is trying in vain to remove a layer of noxious sludge from the tread of his shoes. “She withdrew because she was afraid. Talk to the hapkido studio owner again, the one dealing steroids out of his office you said emphatically stated he didn’t fancy her.”
Lestrade’s brow furrows as he stares at him, then tosses the wad of filthy napkins at the bin. “We interviewed him. He has an alibi.”
“He’s lying. You should have taken me to the interview.”
Lestrade doesn’t deny it. “You pulled all of that out of a trip into the sewers.”
Sherlock holds out his phone, the screen containing the string of texts with John.
“Ah,” Lestrade says. “Good man, John Watson. A good man.”
“I didn’t see,” Sherlock says quietly, running thumb over the screen. “I observed, but I didn’t see.”
Lestrade may or may not understand what Sherlock means. Sherlock didn’t understand it himself until recently, but when it comes to this, he’s the idiot. He observed the particulars about John Watson — his fidelity, his heart, his strength of will, his compassion — but he didn’t see the whole man, much less cherish what John freely offered. Sarah Sawyer was right. He didn’t know what he had. He observed what he could use, and was blind to what he had.
“You’re going to just bin those shoes, aren’t you?”
Sherlock looks at his feet as if seeing them for the first time. They’re saturated with what goes down drains and into sewers, which has also seeped into his socks and soaked his trousers nearly to his knees. “Ye-es.”
Lestrade shakes his head and mutters something that sounds like five hundred quid.
“The suit, too.”
“To think I missed you. Come on. This time you sit in on the interview.”
“You said the Chief Superintendent still didn’t — .”
“Shut up and get in the car.”
Sherlock gets in the car.
+
Dinner? SH
Starving.
Sherlock stares at the text, not sure he isn’t hallucinating.
Where?
Options zip through Sherlock’s brain. Chinese. John likes Chinese. They had Chinese the night John killed Jefferson Hope to save Sherlock’s life. Meaningful, but perhaps not the right note. Angelo’s is always a good option but might bring back memories John wasn’t ready to have on the table, discussions about what’s fine, which Sherlock now knows does not include faking one’s suicide in front of one’s lover to prove one is more clever than a psychotic consulting criminal, then disappearing for years. A good French place just opened, but John’s not thrilled with French food. He ate it because Sherlock liked it, but this time Sherlock will choose to please John, so Japanese is also out. John likes Indian, and Greek, and there’s the Thai fusion place where Sherlock found the cache of illegal assault rifles, it’s now being run by the criminal’s mother so the food is much better because she’s interested in cooking, not guns —
His phone buzzes.
Pick one, Sherlock. My stomach’s about to gnaw through my spine.
The Laughing Cat. SH
Thanks to not-so-gentle tutelage from Molly and Lestrade, he knows now that he should not have ordered a three course meal for Sarah Sawyer based on deductions and John’s random comments, even if he was spot on about what she likes.
Starters? SH
Spring rolls, please. On my way.
Sherlock gets spring rolls. He also gets dumplings and a soup John likes and Sherlock used to snitch spoonfuls of when John wasn’t looking. John arrives, surveys the array of options, and flicks a glance at Sherlock.
“You said you were hungry,” Sherlock says.
Without a word John splits the spring rolls and dumplings. He eats half the soup then passes the rest to Sherlock.
The intimacy nearly cripples him.
+
Dear Dr. Watson:
Thank you for your application for the Speciality Doctor position with the Camden and Islington NHS Foundation Trust. The hiring committee was very impressed with your unique qualifications, and, your schedule permitting, would like to meet with you on —
Date, time, and location follow. John’ll have to rearrange his surgery schedule, but he’s got an interview.
+
“It’s not that I don’t trust you, Sherlock,” John says.
It’s the third time in two weeks they’ve met for dinner. Angelo’s is lit by candles at every table but their own. Angelo himself hugged John, told Sherlock he still needed to gain weight, shoved aside Sherlock’s protests that he’d gained a perfectly adequate half a stone, thank you very much, gave them the table by the window, and brought an enormous platter of fried starters. But he didn’t bring a candle.
It doesn’t matter. John’s arse over tea kettle down the slick-as-ice slope that is Sherlock Holmes, and gaining speed. Sherlock’s wearing jeans, a button-down, and a crew neck jumper. This segment of Sherlock’s wardrobe used to make him look like a pretty uni student, but lines now radiate from his wiser eyes, making him impossibly handsome as he levels a look at John over Angelo’s ravioli.
“All right. I don’t trust you. I still have trust issues.”
“A perfectly logical response, given how deeply I wounded you.”
Of late Sherlock lacks his smug superiority. He argues far less than he used to, and listens far more. John can tell when he’s crashingly bored, but at least he makes a considerable effort to manage it. John’s not quite sure what to do with this. He’s prepared for a fight that rarely comes.
“Setting you aside for the moment, I’m not sure I trust myself. My own judgement.”
Sherlock just stares at him. “What foolishness is this?”
“It’s not like I didn’t know you’d use my emotions — use me — to get what you need.”
Sherlock’s eyes close briefly. John still isn’t pulling his punches.
“But it’s not just you. I invaded Afghanistan.” He gives a laugh that fails to lighten the tension. “I have a history of throwing myself into impossible situations.”
“Go on.”
“You told me you were a bad risk.” He looks at Sherlock. “Who’s the bigger idiot: the one stepping off the roof or the one in love with a man who steps off roofs?”
“The man who steps off the roof is the bigger idiot,” Sherlock says with an earnest conviction John finds rather endearing.
John says nothing. He can’t bring himself to tell Sherlock about the job. He wants that job. Badly. He’s afraid of wanting the job, failing at the job. The pace towards deja vu might be breakneck, but he’s not yet willing to give Sherlock ammunition he knows will hasten the skid.
“So you don’t trust me or yourself.”
“That about sums it up.” John looks into Sherlock’s eyes and gives him what passes for his smile these days.
Where John expects rapid-fire deductions, there’s silence. John can’t look away from the pain, sorrow, and regret slithering like eels in Sherlock’s pale eyes. Finally, Sherlock says, “Forgive me, John.”
It’s such an odd phrase, so formal, almost liturgical the way Sherlock delivers it, and he’s holding John’s gaze like he did when they were in bed together. His voice is low, chafed, vastly more heartfelt than the rote delivery to Molly Christmases ago. It’s different even from what Sherlock said when grief dropped him to his knees in John’s flat. That was a raw, naked plea for an absolution that he needed like he needed air or water. Tonight the words are smooth and dark, well-worn, like sorrow, as if Sherlock’s handled them in his hands until he’s rubbed away the edges, turned them between teeth and tongue until he’s sucked off and swallowed the bitter pride they’re so often delivered with.
“I am,” John says, and knows it to be true only after he’s spoken the words.
They finish up not long after. John’s learnt that he needs space after a moment like that, when he’s lowered his guard and let Sherlock even the slightest bit back in. It’s best if he goes home and deals with the emotional aftermath alone, in this case, the possibility that in John’s ability to forgive lies a healing they both need.
Sherlock walks back to Montague Street through an evening woven with hints of spring. Every time he thinks he’s reached the end of the damage he’s done, he’s wrong. One thing he’s not wrong about is that John’s considering a step that brings his judgement into question again. This step cannot be removing Sherlock entirely from his life. John said, I am.
I am. Not I have, or I will, or thank you God I can’t or I won’t.
I am. It’s a process. Forgiveness, Sherlock is learning, isn’t a single decision in time but a moment-by-moment extension of a grace he has not earned and does not deserve. Forgiveness, both taking and giving, requires time and patience. Sherlock ignores the first and profoundly lacks the second.
So learn, genius. It’s the only way you’ll get him back.
The scent of warm, dark summer earth, a scent reminiscent of walks in the forests when he was young, fills his nostrils as he walks. Dappled green sunlight and good rich English soil, the kind of humus something can grow in. Humus. Humility.
Pride smells like scorched earth.
Despite John’s concerns, he clearly hasn’t lost his taste for untenable situations. He may not throw himself into them (Sherlock) anymore, but he’s not doing the sensible thing and walking away, either.
He walks on.
+
Sarah agrees to meet John for lunch at Attikis. She gives him a brief kiss on the cheek, then unwinds her scarf from her neck. “It’s lovely to see you, John.”
“You as well. Things good?” Then he notices the ring on her finger.
“Very good,” she says. “Tim asked me to marry him and I said yes.”
“Congratulations,” he says, but he’s distracted by his internal response, or lack thereof. He owes Sarah his life, loves her deeply, but not like that. No, when the conversation turned to lifelong commitment, his mind flashed to Sherlock.
They chat over the starters, sharing clinic stories, catching up on mutual friends. John gets her input into the position at the Veterans Assessment center, but that’s only part of the reason he reached out to her.
“I’ve been spending time with Sherlock,” he says.
She makes a noncommittal little noise.
“You’re not surprised.”
“No.”
“Am I doing the right thing?”
“I can’t answer that question for you, John. There was always something between you. Always.”
That’s the problem. Sherlock is the physical manifestation of what John can’t resist: risk, danger, the thrill of facing off with the impossible. “He’s still brilliant and dangerous. But he’s different.”
“In what way?”
“It’s under control in a way it wasn’t before he fell. He doesn’t demand my time. He doesn’t expect me to drop everything when he snaps his fingers. He actually listens when I talk.” John sets his fork on his plate. “He was no different when he came back. I told him to piss off, and I meant it. He did. But something changed him and he…he calls it following me into grief. Now he’s different, and I’m not sure what to think. Or feel.”
Sarah’s eyebrows go up, just a little. “He came to see me, you know.”
John did not know that. “When?”
“After you told him to bugger off, is my guess. He was uncertain. Asking about you, about what you were like when he was gone.”
Sherlock didn’t tell him any of this. “What did you say?”
“He gave me some cock-and-bull line about making you safe. I told him that safety is an illusion, and that he must not have known what he had in you, because if he had, he never would have done what he did to you.”
John blinks.
“I asked him if it was worth sacrificing your sanity, your sense of self.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing. Not a word. But…we’re talking about Sherlock, so I must be imagining this, but he seemed to collapse inside. I was watching his face, and…” She paused. “You’ve had to deliver bad news, yes?”
To platoon mates, to superior officers, to parents, to brothers and sisters and wives and husbands and children. It’s a rhetorical question; she’s giving John a few seconds to brace himself.
“His face was like someone who’s been told his brother didn’t make it through surgery, or his lover didn’t survive the crash. In a normal person, I know what that means. In Sherlock…?” She lifts one shoulder. Her ring glints in the weak sunlight.
“When was this?”
“Early fall. I don’t think he’d been alive again for more than a fortnight.”
“So after he talked to you, he decides to follow me in to grief.” He pauses. The old Sherlock would have used this conversation as evidence of his profound change, to manipulate John’s emotions and loyalties. The new Sherlock said nothing at all. “I don’t know, Sarah. I just don’t know. He’s more trustworthy, more open, but I’m more wary, more closed. We can’t seem to get aligned.”
“Give it time, John.”
+
The interview goes extremely well. John went to Barts with two of the psychiatrists, and they have a healthy respect for his service and what he brings to the table. At the end of the conversation they show him round the facility. The phone call the next day with an offer with a very decent salary is not a surprise.
He asks for a day to think about it.
+
Good day? SH
Mundane. Tell me about yours.
Interesting experiment in progress. Went for a walk in St. Regents. Having tea with Mrs. Hudson. SH
Nice weather for a walk. Say hello for me.
She says when are you coming to see her? SH
Tell her soon.
Now you. SH
Now me what?
Now you tell me about your day. I believe that’s how this works. SH
6 colds, 1 pneumonia, 3 sports exams, 1 sprained ankle, 1 hypochondriac I’ve seen 4x in the last month, 1 vomiting 2yo. 0 walks in the park.
Sherlock rereads the text while Mrs. Hudson cuts him a second slice of cake. John is bored with his job. Has been for weeks.
I could do with another. SH
Vomiting 2yo?
It’s mildly funny, a purposeful misunderstanding used as humor, and there is something John’s not telling him under the diversion. It’s a way to deflect attention from his earlier whinge. Sherlock knows he should respond in kind, but can’t think of what to say. Then he remembers the emoticons.
O.o
I meant a walk in the park. SH
Main gate in an hour? Need to change into something that doesn’t smell of sick.
See you then. SH
“You used an emoticon.”
It’s the first thing John says when he reaches the gate. Sherlock slides his hands into the pockets of his jacket and sets off down the path. “They’re quite useful for indicating emotion when explicit conversation isn’t possible,” he says. “I intended to convey a lifted brow at your purposefully dense response.”
John ducks his head, hiding a smile. “I got the point, Sherlock.”
“Something’s troubling you.”
John flicks him a glance. “And you know what it is.”
“I have a hypothesis.” But he’s learned that knowing exactly what’s bothering John isn’t the point. The point is to let John tell him. The point is the give-and-take of conversation.
“I’ve a job offer. In London. Working with veterans.”
Sherlock makes a noncommittal noise. Inside he’s screaming take it take it that’s perfect God it’s the Christmas I missed because I was grieving you but he keeps his mouth shut because that is wrong. He listens. It’s painful, but educational, because watching John talk is a pleasure he no longer takes for granted.
“Location? Oh, Camden Islington.”
John nods.
“Salary?”
“Decent for the NHS.”
“Concerns?”
“I’m a soldier with PTSD and trust issues,” John says mildly.
“You’re a doctor with an astonishing capacity for compassion and empathy,” Sherlock retorts.
They walk in silence for fifty yards.
“No deductions?” John asks. “Not going to state the blindingly obvious for me?”
He’s studying the path beneath his feet, not looking at Sherlock as he speaks. Sherlock’s not sure he can bear it if John turns down an opportunity he desires because of a fear Sherlock taught him. He’s cost them so much. But he can’t demand John heal himself in order to ease Sherlock’s mind. “I believe you know what you want to do,” Sherlock replies. “You merely wanted to talk it out with someone logical.”
John doesn’t deny this. “With a friend.”
Sherlock’s heart stutters. “With a friend,” he repeats quietly.
John walks to the tube. An hour later, Sherlock gets a text.
I’m taking the job.
I know. SH
Thanks for listening.
He considers his response carefully. You’re welcome. SH
Then he takes a risk.
I’ll enjoy having you closer. SH
He didn’t say it at the park. He didn’t importune or beg or manipulate. He waited, and let John come to his own decision.
This is not what he wants. Not just taking showing announcing deducing but mostly taking scrapes him raw like a serrated knife dragged edgewise against his forearm. It makes him vulnerable to another’s whims, and vulnerability is the biggest risk of all.
Sherlock’s had time to remove his violin from the case and reacquaint himself with the opening movement of Prokofiev’sViolin Sonata no 2 in D Major before John’s reply arrives. It’s about the length of time it would take him to shower and get ready for bed.
I’ll like that, too. ‘Night.
+
The first week of the new job, John makes good on his promise to have tea with Mrs. Hudson. The tea is steeping in the pot while Sherlock watches John simultaneously shrug out of his coat, kiss Mrs. Hudson on the cheek, and hand her the triple layer sherry trifle she likes from Marks and Spencer.
“Oh, you remembered! Thank you, dear.”
When she slides it onto the table John sees the same cake, cut into slices. He looks at Mrs. Hudson.
“Sherlock brought one, too,” she says, “so this is lovely. More to share with Mrs. Turner next door. She’s not feeling well.”
When she turns to fuss with the tea pot, John cocks an eyebrow at Sherlock.
Sherlock lifts one in return. “Elementary,” he says in a low voice.
John smiles, half to Sherlock, half to himself. "We're going to have to coordinate," he says. He then asks after Mrs. Hudson’s son in Australia. That single question powers the conversation through tea and two slices of trifle each, continuing well into a second pot. Sherlock watches her, him, the interaction, filing away the nuances. He wonders how he could have ever thought John dull, ordinary, anything less than astonishing. John’s been managing a complex tangle of emotions his entire adult life. It’s fantastic, amazing, spectacular.
“Sherlock. Are you in there?”
He startles. “Sorry,” he says. “You were saying?”
“The tenants in B are moving out, dear,” Mrs. Hudson repeats. “She’s pregnant, and they want a garden for the little one. Do you want the flat?”
John’s steadfastly peering into his teacup. Fascinating, that bit of Spode with the dregs of Earl Grey in it. “Yes,” Sherlock says.
“That’s decided then,” she says. “I’m not going to be your housekeeper this time, dear.”
“Of course,” he says. “Wouldn’t think of it.”
Sherlock moves in two weeks later. It’s not the same. The previous tenants took down the Victorian wallpaper. The sitting room is brighter, the fridge new, but the stove’s the same, as is the kitchen table.
We’re getting there echoes in his brain. John’s voice from the past. We’re definitely getting there.
+
Several weeks into the job John knows something has eased inside him. It could be London, could be Sherlock, could be the job. He can’t tell. He’s not sure he cares. He feels more whole than he has in years, which isn’t a major accomplishment, given the last two years, but even before that. The center of his life is shifting to Islington and Westminster, and he’s basically just sleeping at his flat. There’s a name for what’s happening between him and Sherlock — first coffee, then lunch, then cases, then dinner. He’s being courted, and he knows it when Sherlock offers entertainment after dinner.
He stares up into Sherlock’s face and sees the humming energy that signals something really cracking is on. “You’re playing parlor games for the amusement of toffs?”
“Mycroft’s idea,” Sherlock says, as if that explains everything, which it does. “He sees an advantage with me back and vaguely discredited. He wants a second opinion on several individuals at this party who may or may not be allying themselves with less salubrious factions in countries which do not have our best interests at heart.”
Just a little investigation in international terrorism, then. The average Saturday night with Sherlock Holmes. “And this is your cover story? Someone bet Mycroft you can’t recover a bottle of Talisker? Has he gone completely mad?”
“There’s some cultural reference I didn’t bother to catch. Want to come along?”
A case disguised as performance art. “Might as well give them the full dog and pony show,” John says. “You going to wear the hat?”
“I’m discredited, not ridiculous.”
The party is in a very posh section of Chelsea, and Sherlock finds the Talisker in his most flamboyant fashion. There is much swirling of the coat, piercing stares, and rapid-fire deducing. John follows him, holds what Sherlock hands him, opens doors and chests and sideboards and hutches, lifts back carpets on command, all while wearing his best Army doctor poker face because he’s struggling not to laugh at Sherlock’s patently ridiculous patter. Twenty minutes later John walks out the servant’s entrance gripping two hundred quid worth of whiskey negligently by the bottle’s neck. Two blocks away he hands the Talisker to Mycroft Holmes, waiting by yet another expensive black car.
“Thank you, Dr. Watson.”
John ignores him. When Sherlock joins them he outlines the relationships between the party-goers. “The accents are of interest,” Sherlock muses, and with that, he and Mycroft dive into a dizzying discussion of the linguistic differences in colloquial Arabic dialects before remembering John, who looks at both of them until they look away. Sherlock shakes his head in dismay.
“Apologies,” Mycroft says in a tone somewhat less supercilious than usual.
John lifts an eyebrow, then gives him one short nod.
“Oh,” Sherlock adds, almost as an aside. “If you’re looking for leverage, the host walked with the soreness distinct to a man twelve to twenty-four hours after an encounter with briskly wielded riding crop.”
“In an era of permissive sexuality, such information is of less value than it used to be,” Mycroft says rather mournfully before the full implications register. Then his eyebrows rise.
Sherlock says nothing.
Eyebrows still in the vicinity of his receding hairline, Mycroft’s gaze flicks to John.
John says nothing.
“He’s still not talking to you, Mycroft. Off you go.”
Mycroft departs with his expensive whiskey. John starts to giggle. Then laugh. Before long, Sherlock smiles his rare, broad smile.
“That was…ridiculous. It was part farce, part country house party, and part Bond film. You could be on stage.”
“I am always on stage, John.”
“Not always,” John says, before he can stop himself.
It’s not what he says. It’s how he says it, lowering his voice, roughening it a little. It’s the voice he’d use to seduce someone, and with Sherlock it’s intended to convey a memory.
You after your encounter with a briskly wielded riding crop…on your back, your legs spread, the flush building on your chest and your gorgeous, possibly illegal throat, my fingers inside you, my mouth alternating between yours and your cock, you had one hand in your hair, the other in mine, you weren’t on stage, no, not the slightest hint of a performance in the way you were undone, under me, you were mine, only mine —
Sherlock looks away. John clears his throat. He doesn’t fight his desire, just lets it surge to the tips of his fingers and the edges of his lips, then recede to pool low in his belly.
“Sorry,” he says when Sherlock looks at him again. He doesn’t mean to tease. It just comes out.
“It’s fine,” Sherlock says, his voice licking like a cat’s tongue at John’s heated nerves. “It’s all fine.”
It might be. It just might be all fine. Eventually.
John wasn’t inviting him to bed. John let something slip he’s not sure he wants to act on. So Sherlock sends John home in a cab paid for with money stolen from Mycroft’s wallet while they were talking.
The first text arrives while he unlocks the door to 221 Baker Street.
You’re still brilliant. And amazing. And spectacular. I’m not being a tease. I’m stating fact.
“I’m home, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock calls. He thumbs a response automatically as he climbs the stairs to 221B. But he waits before he taps send, because John’s quite clearly still high on the adrenaline rush. Years ago this would have meant some truly spectacular post-case sex. A post-case wank won’t leave Sherlock slack-limbed, trembling, sweating, and sore, with John in a similar state under his arm.
Focus.
John’s statements are true. They’ve always been true, and false modesty will never become part of Sherlock’s personality. John did tell him never to lie to him again.
He hits send.
I know. SH
Then he adds another response. Thank you. SH
You’re welcome.
It should feel oddly stilted, formalities deployed when none are necessary. But in his mind he adds John’s tone to the words, a caress, with a smile, one of John’s knowing smiles.
The next text comes totally out of the blue, apropos of nothing at all, or perhaps apropos of the man Sherlock is, his mind, his genius, what he can give his country.
I know no one else could have done what you did.
Sherlock’s breath halts mid-inhale. A shiver rushes over his skin, and he feels uncomfortably warm then cold, then warm again. He sinks onto a kitchen chair and stares at his mobile. John’s brought what he did into the open in a completely calm, rational manner.
He considers his response very carefully, finally settling on:
I know what it cost you, and us. Forgive me. SH
I am.
+
John’s birthday arrives and brings the heat of summer with it. Sherlock gets an invitation he knows John insisted he receive, as Harry opens the door to him without a word of greeting but doesn’t punch him, so there’s that. Gathered in the garden of Harry’s girlfriend’s comfortable house are Lestrade, Harry and the girlfriend of over a year now, Mrs. Hudson, Sarah Sawyer, a handful of people from the old job, and another handful from the new job. It’s loud, close, and buoyed along by bottles of wine and the kind of inane talk Sherlock can now manage on a one-to-one basis with people he knows and likes — John, Molly, Lestrade, but especially John — but cannot hope to cope with in these circumstances. He stands in the shadows not dispelled by the Chinese lanterns strung between house and garage, a glass of wine in his hand, and observes. All these people love John, want to celebrate his birthday with him. John doesn’t need Sherlock. He has his sister, better friends, real friends around him. His brief time with Sherlock was nothing more than a blip on a radar screen, the kind of mad, whirlwind relationship everyone sighs with relief when it ends, and Sherlock you stupid fucking idiot threw it away…
Control yourself. Observe. Observe, and try to see. Above all, do not distress John.
After wine and food and cake with candles, everyone settles into the mismatched chairs haphazardly circled in the garden while John opens his gifts to much laughter and joking. Books from Sarah for his lengthy commute from Dagenham to Islington and back, loaded onto the electronic reader Harry and the girlfriend bought. They coordinated. Sherlock files that option away. Lots of bottles of wine, unimaginative, and yet John manages to make each one seem like a unique, much appreciated gift. A homemade rum cake from Mrs. Hudson. His parents sent tickets to see a play in Edinburgh, where John will go tomorrow, with Harry and the girlfriend.
Sherlock also has a gift.
He didn’t even hope to select the right thing, but something meaningful that wouldn’t be inappropriate. Everyone knew their story, so the gift couldn’t be too intimate, like the crew neck cashmere sweater in a denim blue the color of John’s eyes that would bring out the calm strength in his eyes but might seem like a critique of his clothes, or tickets to see a play or a concert because that would imply they were together again, which they were but they weren’t. Something, some thing John would like that had nothing to do with pleasing Sherlock. Some thing a friend would give, because he loves John. Something that honors John, all that he is, all that he gives.
He is trying so hard to be John’s friend when he wants is to be John’s lover, John’s partner, John’s mate. But he will be good at this, because being friends is the start he’s been given, and John deserves a better friend than Sherlock was before he fell.
“The last gift you got me was that ashtray you nicked from Buckingham Palace,” John says as he opens the paper.
Everyone dissolves into laughter. They are loose with wine and cake, good food and friendship, an occasion to celebrate on a gorgeous summer night. Sherlock smiles because that’s what everyone else is doing, but inside he writhes.
The stupid fucking ashtray.
He has no idea what to say, because that was for John, yes, but John doesn’t smoke, because John’s not an idiot, so it wasn’t a proper gift but just showing off and it was wrong to steal it, except when Mycroft found out he was furious, so it had to be right, however making Mycroft furious is childish and good men aren’t childish and oh God, his heart is pounding too hard to think, because John’s lifting the lid on the shiny gray box. He parts the tissue and stares into it, his mobile, expressive face going utterly still but for his eyes, which flick back and forth, studying the contents.
“What is it, dear?” Mrs. Hudson asks, peering over his shoulder from her perch of honor on the arm of John’s chair.
“It’s a brick,” John says.
His voice is astonished. The more experienced people — Lestrade, Sarah, Molly, Mrs. Hudson — glance between Sherlock and John, then at each other, assessing whether or not intervention is required.
Harry sets her sparkling water on the table and glares at Sherlock.
“Not even Sherlock would get you a brick,” Lestrade says into the growing silence punctuated by the proverbial chirping of crickets. He throws Sherlock a look that reads You will not survive the drugs bust I’ll rain on your head if you brought this man a sodding brick for his birthday, you wanker.
Sherlock doesn’t say anything, because pointing out that Lestrade is an idiot because the box is obviously too shallow to contain a brick isn’t the point. John is. More specifically, the point is John’s reaction to Sherlock’s offering.
John continues to stare into the box. “A memorial to veterans of the Afghan War is going up in Regent’s Park. They’re raising some of the funds through donations in exchange for inscriptions on the brick wall at the base of the memorial. He’s made a donation, in my name. My name will be on the wall.”
The silence deepens, and for a second Sherlock is unable to deduce if he’s done something terribly, terribly wrong, or something splendidly right. He thought it was right, but maybe it wasn’t. John’s silent, not looking at Sherlock, which means he’s…embarrassed? He is extremely modest, and oh Christ, it’s too much money compared to everyone else’s presents, a thousand quid, but he has money, lots of it, thanks to Mycroft and to the time he spent tracking down Moriarty’s brood of vipers. He’d burn every last note in a bonfire in Trafalgar Square if John wanted him to but John would never condone such waste so spending it to honor John’s service made sense and also held an element of sentiment but sentiment still isn’t his strong suit and it wouldn’t be the first time he’s misread John’s character and he should have considered what others would be able to spend, and maybe it’s a reminder of things that bring nightmares and cold sweats and tremors and wrenching sobs, of course it is, you idiot, —
John looks at him, his eyes shocked and gleaming with unshed tears, and Sherlock’s brain shuts off.
“Ta, Sherlock,” John says, then clears his throat. “Thanks very much.”
His voice is hoarse and quivering. Not embarrassed. Overwhelmed. Sherlock got it right, then. Spectacularly right. The relief is giddying, buoyant enough to send him soaring over London like a bunch of balloons, but the look on John’s face keeps him right here, staring into John’s damp blue eyes. He nods at John. “You’re welcome,” he says, because that’s what people say, and because he means it.
John is most, most welcome to anything Sherlock has to offer, and if he does not have it, he will get it. For John.
People shift, clear their throats, sip wine. “Oi, give us a look,” Lestrade says, easing everyone through the awkwardness.
Sherlock cannot bear to watch while the certificate is passed from hand to hand. When it comes back to him, John carefully folds the heavy sheet of embossed stationery inside the tissue paper, sets the lid over the box, then tucks the box into the chair, beside his hip.
His hand is shaking a little.
Sherlock’s entire body is shaking. He’s irrationally jealous of the box, snugged in so warm and tight beside John, then irrationally pleased that his gift alone stayed so close to John, then irrationally annoyed with himself for being irrational. When the laughter and noise reach earlier levels, he edges into the kitchen, where he sits down at the table like someone cut his strings.
Christ. People do that for birthdays and Christmas and anniversaries and arbitrary holidays like Valentine’s Day year after year?
He’s contemplating the impossibility of it all when Sarah Sawyer comes into the kitchen bearing a stack of cake plates dotted with crumbs.
“Well done,” she says. She sets the plates on the counter, then dispenses dish liquid into the sink and turns on the tap. Water courses over her fingers as she tests the temperature and studies Sherlock like he’s a fast-growing bacterial culture of dubious origin. “Very well done, in fact.”
He feels something expand in his chest, something it takes a moment to identify. He’s earned Sarah Sawyer’s approval, and this makes him feel pleased. And proud.
He sits at the kitchen table and looks at her. She’s also pregnant, but she pled a course of antibiotics as the reason for declining the wine, probably because of the miscarriages. He keeps those details to himself. He thinks about loss, and pain, and loving completely. He thinks about what he owes Sarah Sawyer, for taking care of John.
“Thank you. What you said…at the restaurant…what you said helped.”
She smiles a sad, sad smile. “I’m glad,” she said simply, and slides the plates into the water.
Sherlock spends the rest of the party musing over the tangled web of relationships binding him to John and from there to everyone John loves and who loves John.
The girlfriend kicks them out eventually. With the exception of Sarah, Sherlock, and the recovering alcoholic, they are all varying degrees of pissed, and the Yard’s in attendance, so there’s much discussion about who should share cabs with whom until Sherlock, stretched to snapping by hours of human contact and the sheer inefficient inanity of it all, sorts it all out. It’s a simple matter of London’s street maps, which he’s memorized, and deducing which suburb someone lives in, child’s play with all the data swamping him, shoes and watches and speech patterns. “You two,” he says, nodding at a man studiously ignoring the woman he’s been chatting up all night, “might as well get in a cab together now, to save time. She’s got the nightcap text drafted and ready to send, and you can put that thirty minutes to good use. Mrs. Hudson, of course, will ride home with me.”
There’s a moment of silence when he wishes he could call it all back. He’d done so well, until then. He would say he’s sorry, but he isn’t. He wants to go home and curl up in the dark to savor the way John looked at him, then process the thousands and thousands of pieces of data he’s filing under Party Behavior, except he doesn’t want to leave John’s side, but he refuses to let Mrs. Hudson ride back into the city by herself, and all of these idiots — people! — are delaying the inevitable.
Then Lestrade nudges him. “Show off,” he says affectionately.
“It wouldn’t be a party unless Sherlock deduced,” Molly adds for the benefit of the wide-eyed newcomers.
The male half of the couple planning an assignation gapes at Sherlock. “How did you — ?”
“Don’t ask him that!” comes simultaneously from Molly, Lestrade, and John.
More laughter.
John just smiles as if Sherlock is brilliant, fantastic, amazing. Sherlock would be pleased by this if John hadn’t rounded the corner on inebriated at a dead sprint several hours earlier.
They obediently bundle into the cabs according to Sherlock’s plan, including the couple planning an assignation, who take the first taxi in line without a hint of regret. Mrs. Hudson fusses into her coat and scarf. John’s spending the night with Harry and the girlfriend before a trip home to see his parents.
He puts his hand at Sherlock’s waist before he gets in the cab. “I don’t know what to say except thank you,” he says again, low and rough.
The heat of John’s palm radiates through Sherlock’s shirt, warming his skin. He looks down at John, who’s looking up at him. He can see desire in his eyes, but too much alcohol for Sherlock to trust the desire’s authenticity.
“You’re welcome,” he says, and slips into the cab. John’s hand drops to his side, then he closes the door.
The first text arrives just after noon the next day noon train out of King’s Cross station arriving Edinburgh Waverley by quarter to five. Sherlock’s at home, trawling through the cold case file for a little girl killed in a hit-and-run driver thirty years earlier, before CCTV made it more likely to track down the offender. He’s located the neighbors and arranged to conduct a series of interviews while John’s gone.
Time was, you’d have taken advantage of me.
Texting, Sherlock has discovered, is effective for declarative statements and simple conversations, but hideously ineffective for context. John’s text could be stating a fact, or it could be flirtatious. It all depended on tone, on the tilt of John’s head, on the way the thin skin around his eyes crinkled as he spoke, on whether he lowered and roughened his voice, as he had that night after he found the Talisker.
He errs on the side of caution. He will not assume, presume, theorize ahead of data. He will not take. Despite their near-pornographic sexual history, until he is absolutely sure John wants him, he will be as proper as a Victorian gentleman courting a trembling virgin. Because the objective isn’t sex. The objective is nothing less than John’s heart and soul, freely offered.
Times have changed. How’s your head? SH
Feels like someone removed my skull, lined it with sandpaper, then shoved it back on. Trains are evil.
Drink some water. SH
The swaying.
Loud. They smell.
Take paracetamol. SH
The sun. Is shining.
You might try not thinking about it. SH
Harry’s girlfriend laughs like a barking dog.
Water. Paracetamol. Nap. SH
Am going to be sick.
Ten minutes passes before the next text, enough time for John to stumble through the train car to the lav, vomit, clean himself up, and return to his seat.
Was sick.
Sherlock sighs and starts over at the beginning.
Drink some water. SH
Yes, mum.
It was a good night. Worth the hangover.
Best birthday ever, in fact.
I love you, Sherlock types. Then he deletes it.
Sherlock conducts his interviews. On his way home he goes back to the Bond Street tailor and buys the denim blue cashmere sweater. He gets it wrapped and puts it on the top shelf in his closet. For Christmas.
For the first time since he came back from the dead, he allows himself to hope.