Archive of Our Own

The invitation arrives in the mail.

White card stock, purple metallic lettering, two magpies in flight under his name printed in cursive. Sherlock swallows and turns it over in his hands. Their names together, side-by-side, his and hers. Underneath that: We are pleased to announce...

Doctor John Watson & Mary Morstan.

Sherlock's hands shake with the urge to rip it. To bite into it, tear it apart with his teeth, cut it to shreds. Leave little pieces of it scattered on the floor under his feet. He wants to grind it into the floorboards, stain the wood, burn it onto the surface.

His hands shake, and shake, and shake.

• • •

Sherlock would be lying if he said he wasn't disappointed in John's reaction to his return.

He was prepared for the punch. He was prepared for the shouting, for John swearing at him and telling him he was his friend, that he trusted him, that he had believed in him.

Sherlock had rehearsed that part over and over in his head. He tried to come up with the best way to explain it all, so John wouldn't be angry, so they could go back to the way things were. Solving crimes and running through streets, pressed together in the back of cabs, sharing too-greasy Chinese food and laughing together at half-past one in the morning.

He didn't expect John to say no, especially not after he explained about Moriarty's snipers.

He didn't expect the bloody, sodding moustache.

“What is that thing on your face?” Sherlock had asked.

John said, “Fuck off.”

“You won't have to pay the rent for three months if you shave that thing off right now,” Sherlock said.

“No.”

“Five.”

John clenched and unclenched his fist. Grit his teeth together so loud Sherlock could hear it inside his own head. He prodded his jaw, tried to feel if anything had come loose. Satisfied, he tucked his hand into his pocket and waited.

“I'm getting married,” John said. “Just thought you should know.”

Then he turned around and walked away.

• • •

“You're invited to the wedding. You need to meet her, Sherlock,” John says. On the other end of the phone, Sherlock can hear someone ruffling through shopping bags, someone opening and closing cupboards, putting away food. Someone Sherlock doesn't know. Someone he has never met. Someone who has replaced him.

“I don't need to do anything,” Sherlock says.

“Sherlock—”

“I have an experiment,” Sherlock says before disconnecting the call.

John tries three more times. Each time, Sherlock comes up with another excuse (“I need to fill out some paperwork for Mycroft so he can clear my name,” “I'm with a client,” even, “I'm busy,” when he can't come up with anything else) and each time John sounds more and more exasperated.

On the fourth time, Sherlock finally relents, but on the night of the dinner he turns off his phone and holes himself up in Barts, pestering Molly for more coffee and trying to ignore the way his stomach turns every time the door opens.

• • •

“It's just dinner,” John says, voice no longer sharp and full of teeth, simply exhausted. “Just do this one thing for me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock draws patterns in the arm of his chair.

“All right,” he says.

“Good,” John sighs. “Thank you.”

Sherlock doesn't say anything, and with an awkward good-bye, John hangs up the phone.

• • •

Mary is short and blonde and beautiful in the way that all of John's girlfriends have been beautiful; down-to-earth and tangible, intelligent and independent, each with their own hobbies and interests that John thought made them interesting.

John rises from his seat when Sherlock arrives, dressed in a new suit, that rubbish moustache still plastered to his face. Sherlock wants to rip it off his skin and burn it. He hates it. He hates it and everything it means, even if John doesn't realise that it means anything at all.

Mary beams up at him, bright and happy, eyes following him as he sits down at the table.

“Hello, Sherlock,” she says, holding out her hand. When Sherlock takes it, she gives it a gentle squeeze and says, “I'm Mary.”

She's warm and gentle and delicate. Her grip is friendly, comforting. She smiles at him and with a slight tilt to her head as she takes him in. Sherlock glances over her in return, at her dress (appropriate, tasteful, yet sleek and dark) her hair and her make-up, minimal fuss. Her jewelry is her own but nearly ten years old, and – Sherlock's eyes fall to her hand, to the ring John bought her. White-silver, three small diamonds, only a bit bigger than a grain of salt each.

His mind grinds to a halt and he feels something catch in his throat.

Sherlock tries to clear it. “Um. Sherlock Holmes.”

Mary's grin broadens.

• • •

They eat dinner and drink a glass of wine each. Mary is friendly with the young waitress who serves them, striking up a conversation easily as she orders dessert. She does most of the talking for all three of them, complimenting Sherlock on his work and commenting on John's old blog entries. She asks about his methods, about his work outside of the cases, giving Sherlock all the chances he would normally be scrambling over himself to take in order to impress, yet he ignores all of them.

“It's hard to explain,” he says when she asks him what he's thinking when he deduces.

“Not really appropriate dinner conversation,” he says when the topic turns to crime scenes.

“I'm sure John could tell you all about that,” he says when she asks if anyone has ever taken his advice the wrong way. At this he glances across the table, to John sitting ramrod straight in his chair, jaw tense. Sherlock offers him a stiff smile and goes back to his tiramisu.

“She's trying to be friendly,” John snaps at him later, when Sherlock excuses himself for a cigarette, needing to clear his head.

“I'm being perfectly friendly,” Sherlock says, flicking his lighter and inhaling smoke and nicotine.

“No, you're being a prick,” John says.

“Forgive me if this is all a bit sudden,” Sherlock exhales. “When I returned to London I didn't expect—”

“Oh, don't,” John laughs humourlessly and shakes his head. “Don't try and blame me for this.”

“I'm not blaming you, I'm just saying...” Sherlock says.

“What?” John asks.

Sherlock looks at him.

“Saying what, Sherlock?”

Sherlock shrugs a shoulder, flicks the ash off the end of his cigarette, and shuffles his feet.

“I'm just saying, you haven't known her for very long. Given your track record with previous girlfriends in the past, you can't blame me for thinking you've jumped on board something that will ultimately end in disaster. She's not even that interesting. So yes, I was expecting that when I returned, you—”

John knocks the cigarette out of Sherlock's mouth and punches him. The door to the restaurant swings open behind them and Mary steps out onto the pavement. Sherlock hears her shout, “John!” just before his head cracks back with the impact of John's fist. He smells blood, tastes blood, feels blood. He grunts and coughs, splutters, wobbles slightly when John takes another step forward.

“Fuck you,” John spits at him. “Fuck you. You have no idea – no idea what I've been through – what you put me through, you selfish piece of – fuck you.”

Sherlock's breath shakes as he holds up his hand.

“All right,” he says. “I shouldn't have – all right.”

John huffs and shakes his head.

“Come on, Mary,” he murmurs. He brushes the arm of her coat with his hand as he walks past, moving to the edge of the pavement to try and wave down a cab. Mary bites her lip, glances at him, then back to Sherlock. She walks over to him, digging into the pocket of her fuzzy black coat, and produces a tissue.

Sherlock takes it gingerly, bunching it up and pressing it under his nose. He tilts his head back and tries not to be ill.

“I'm sorry,” Sherlock says quietly, watching John pace back and forth angrily, trying to see through the dark down the street. Mary smiles up at him again, her hands tucked into the sleeves of her coat.

“No need. It can't be easy for you, either” Mary says.

Sherlock swallows. Something in his chest goes tight. He pinches the bridge of his nose, revels in the sharp pain that shoots out in sparks across his face, hoping he can excuse any wince she might see on that.

“He'll come round,” Mary says. A cab pulls up to the curb and John opens the door, sliding into the back seat. He leaves the door open.

Mary pats Sherlock's arm and gives him a nod.

“It was nice meeting you, Sherlock,” she says before walking away, her black heels clicking on the concrete.

• • •

Lestrade refuses to let him work.

“Anything,” Sherlock says. “I don't care how big it is. Hell, give me some old files to go through at home. Anything at all!”

“No,” Lestrade shakes his head. “I'm sorry, Sherlock, I can't.”

Sherlock swipes a pile of papers of Lestrade's desk and onto the floor. Lestrade sighs and rolls his eyes, leaning further back into his chair, grabbing his mug of coffee as he goes.

“You're going to pick that up,” he says.

Sherlock bites his lip and looks toward the door. His face throbs angrily. John hadn't broken his nose – thankfully – but it was a close call. He's scratched and bruised enough as it is, he's surprised they let him into the building at all.

Lestrade's shoulders sink.

“Maybe in a couple of weeks,” he says, quieter, leaning forward again. “It's not all cleaned up round here, you know. We still had a mess to deal with after you left. My team almost got sacked and I had to practically get on my knees and beg to keep my position. If I let you walk onto a crime scene again, so soon after you're back, Bradstreet will have my head.”

“Oh, this is Mycroft, isn't it?” Sherlock says through bared teeth.

“Well, your name isn't exactly cleared, Sherlock,” Lestrade says. Though he's not denying Mycroft's involvement, Sherlock notes. Predictable.

“Forget it,” Sherlock says. He throws open the door and stalks out of Lestrade's office.

• • •

Sherlock wrote letters.

He wrote letters on napkins from cafes and diners. On title pages from books in foreign languages. Receipts and scraps of paper and ticket stubs. He bought postcards from Paris, from Florence, from Berlin, from Vancouver, from New York.

He started each one with To John, and ended each one with Yours, Sherlock. It was the first thing that came to mind, and despite whatever implications his word choice might have had, his hand automatically curved around the letters, scratching them onto the surface in cheap ballpoint pen.

Paris isn't everything it's made up to be. People are desperate for fairytales and romance, and instead it's just a big, dirty city like everywhere else, he wrote on the back of one postcard.

There are too many cabs in New York, and they're all yellow, and they swallow you up whole. It's like walking through a sea of angry wasps, he wrote on the first page from Fahrenheit 451.

He wrote phone numbers and addresses on the back of his hand. Account numbers, passwords, directions. He carried a gun with the serial number shaved off, a wallet with three fake driver's licenses, and no more than two-hundred-worth of the local currency at a time. He ate greasy food and drank stale coffee and wished he had saved at least one photograph from before. Maybe one of the hat ones from the newspaper, stuffed away in the back of his wallet where he couldn't see it.

Sherlock finds them all one afternoon. Packed away in his suitcase in a brown envelope, there are slips of paper and folded pages and postcards with pretty, colourful photographs. He reads over each one with a pain in his stomach, feeling disgusted with himself, with his shaking hands and stuttering heart.

He starts a fire and throws the envelope into it. He watches the flames lick over the paper, burn it to a crisp, then to ash, grey and dirty at the bottom of the fireplace.

• • •

Sherlock buys a pack of cigarettes from a shop down the street. He smokes one on the way back to the flat, his chin tucked into the collar of his coat, shoulders hunched and hands in his pockets. Every piece of clothing he owns smells of smoke. Even his new scarf; still silky and shiny, dark, pure blue, and only a few days old.

He grinds to a halt when he rounds the corner and sees John standing on the front step. Sherlock thinks about turning around and walking back the way he came, thinking that if he goes round the building, John will be gone by the time he returns. But John catches him and flashes him a smile that Sherlock thinks belongs on roadkill rather than a living man.

“Hello,” Sherlock says when he walks over. John shaved off that awful moustache, finally. Sherlock looks away, stares at John's shoes. They're the same kind he wore years ago, but only a few months old. The leather hasn't even cracked yet. Sherlock pulls at his cigarette.

“Hi,” John nods. “Can I come up?”

Sherlock exhales smoke through his nose.

“I suppose,” he says. He drops the cigarette to the ground and lets the breeze carry it away.

Upstairs, John stands awkwardly in the middle of the living room, hands at his sides, until Sherlock gestures to his old chair and moves into the kitchen, pulling off his scarf and dropping it onto the table. He rinses out the kettle and fills it with water, grabbing mugs from the cupboard and two bags of tea from a tin. He dumps sugar into his mug and leaves John's empty save for the bag.

“I haven't been here in ages,” John comments from his chair.

“Mm,” Sherlock taps his fingers against the counter. The kettle begins to boil. John inhales and shifts in his chair, folds his hands in his lap. He exhales.

“Got any cases on?” he asks.

“No,” Sherlock says. He shuffles awkwardly. “Lestrade won't let me.”

“Really?” John says, sounding surprised. “Well, that'll all change soon, won't it?”

Sherlock frowns. The kettle clicks off. Sherlock turns away to fill the mugs. He brings them out to the living room, handing John his before sitting in his chair. He moves the side table to rest between the two of them. John takes a sip and nods thankfully, placing the mug on the table.

“How's your nose?” he asks.

Sherlock's grip tightens on his mug.

“Do you actually care?” he asks.

“I'm asking as a doctor,” John says.

Sherlock's chest hurts. “It's fine.”

John nods. He picks his mug up again, takes another drink, and moves to put it back before changing his mind. He holds it in his lap, looking around at the flat as if he's never been in it before, as if he never lived in these walls, sat in that very chair, and didn't hate every fibre that threaded Sherlock together.

“Um,” John says after a long moment.

Sherlock watches him. John has lost a bit of weight – working out actively, walking to and from work when the weather permits it, eating healthier and drinking less. He looks... (Sherlock allows himself five seconds, that's it, to think about it) ...good.

John leans back in the chair.

“I was thinking,” he says. “I think we... it's been difficult, and emotions are still pretty high, and I'm sure you're still dealing with a lot. But I want to make it up to you, try again, and all that.”

Sherlock takes a drink of his tea and doesn't taste it.

John inhales through his teeth, looks down at his hands.

“So, um,” he says. “I'd like it a lot if... if you'd be my best man.”

Sherlock swallows his tea. John looks up at him.

“Did Mary put you up to this?” Sherlock asks.

John shakes his head and looks away.

“We talked about it,” he says. “I agreed.”

Sherlock doesn't say anything. John chews on his bottom lip for a moment, waiting. Then he gives a curt nod and puts his mug on the side table, rising from his chair. Sherlock follows his movements, trying to keep his breath slow, steady.

“Right, well. Thanks for the tea,” John mutters. “And congratulations on having your name cleared.”

“What?” Sherlock asks. John huffs out a laugh, unsmiling.

“Christ. You're worse than before. Get your head out of your arse and turn on the bloody television.”

Sherlock blinks.

“Look,” John says. “Just. Forget about the whole best man thing. I'll find someone else.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, to say wait, to say stop, to say anything that will bring John back, that will get him to sit in his chair and finish his tea and look at him like he used to, without raw anger, raw hatred pulling at the lines of his face.

Nothing comes out.

John visibly swallows, eyes hard, jaw set.

“Right,” he says again. He turns and walks out the door.

• • •

Sherlock turns on the television and is met with a collage of images of himself. Old ones, from John's blog, from newspapers, the hat photograph, and new ones. Ones Sherlock has never seen before, ones of him coming out of Speedy's or walking down the street or hailing a cab, blurry and grainy, shot from mobile phones with excited hands. ALIVE AND INNOCENT, the banner reads.

“Sherlock Holmes, a private detective who—”

Sherlock shuts off the television.

“Consulting detective,” he snarls.

• • •

• • •

Sherlock turns his mobile over and over in his hands.

The yellow smiley face grins at him from across the room, its eyes dark, deep bullet-holes in the dim light. Mrs Hudson kept the place the exact same while Sherlock was gone, as per Mycroft's orders. It's not much, but Sherlock is grateful for at least something resembling consistency, however small.

He presses the screen of the mobile to his forehead. The glass feels cold against his skin.

I'll find someone else, John had said. Sherlock knows he should feel honoured that John asked him at all – that John even agreed to it in the first place, with or without Mary's insistence. Sherlock wonders which of his friends John would have preferred to stand at his side as he said his vows. Somewhere in the back of his head, a voice says, any one of them.

Sherlock bites down on his phone.

This is going to be a disaster, he thinks, turning on the screen. He taps out a quick message, one word, and sends it before he can change his mind.

• • •

John has been trying on suits for two hours and has yet to find one he likes. The cut is all wrong, or the colour is all off, or it's too fancy or not fancy enough. If it were up to Sherlock, he would have picked out the suit and given John's measurements to the ruffled looking middle-aged woman and they would have been out of here under an hour.

Sherlock sighs, checks the time, then slips his phone back into his pocket. He taps his foot restlessly against the floor and looks around the store to see where the woman went off to. He finds her over by the ties, draping a few choice ones over her arm.

The curtain slides open and Sherlock looks back at the noise. John finishes doing up a last button, brushes his hands down the front of the suit, and holds his arms out.

“What do you think?” he asks. Black on white, crisp, sharp. The lapels open in a long dip down to the stomach. John chose a white silk tie from the last suit, done up tight under his chin. John waits, arms still open, as Sherlock takes him in.

“Much nicer without that hideous moustache,” Sherlock says.

John drops his arms to his sides.

“Come on,” he says. “You're going to be wearing it, too. Yes or no?”

Sherlock wets his lips and shrugs. “Yes.”

“Yeah,” John nods and turns to the mirror to adjust his collar. “Yeah, I think so, too.”

• • •

Sherlock buys them lunch from a small cafe, then they wander around town to investigate pubs.

“So I don't want anything too big,” John says in between bites of a ham sandwich. “It's just going to be you and a few mates of mine. Nothing special. Few drinks, maybe a game of poker or two. I want to keep it small.”

Sherlock says nothing as he walks. John finishes chewing.

“And no strippers.”

Sherlock glances at him.

“Why on earth would there be strippers?” he asks.

John tosses his wrapper into a nearby rubbish bin and dusts off his hands, hurrying to catch up.

“It's just... sort of a thing, you know,” he shrugs. “Last night as a bachelor, last night you can let loose and have a bit of fun without getting the missus in a tiff. A friend of mine had strippers for his, and it was a mess. He got divorced three years later. It's not really my thing.”

Sherlock stops outside a pub and glances up at the sign. There are large bay windows in the front, and a football game visible through the glass, playing above the bar. John stops with him, hands in his pockets.

“Well,” Sherlock says. “I wasn't planning on... on strippers.”

“Good,” John nods.

Sherlock offers him a small smile.

“Unless, of course, you grow that dead rat back onto your face, then I might reconsider.”

John rolls his eyes and opens the door to the pub.

“Just because you can't grow one,” he says.

• • •

There's a bit more space between the two of them as they walk back from the pub than Sherlock is used to. John doesn't laugh as much as he did before; he barely even smiles. The space sits full and thick in Sherlock's stomach, leaves him feeling empty and cold.

They stop outside Baker Street. Sherlock digs out his keys and thinks about inviting John up for something to drink, but John checks his phone and smiles as he taps out a reply, and Sherlock realises their lives have separated into two completely different directions. Polar opposites. North and South.

“Well...” Sherlock says. He leaves the word hanging alone in the air. John looks up from his phone and nods, tucking it back into his coat and biting his lip.

“Yeah,” he says. “Well, thanks. Glad we found a pub. I'll, um.”

Sherlock reaches for the door handle. John shuffles awkwardly.

“I'm going to be a bit busy,” he says. “But, you know. I'll see you at the party.”

“Right,” Sherlock says. “The party.”

John flashes him a quick smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

• • •

Time passes slowly. It drip-drags like wet tar over pavement. Like molasses dripping off a spoon.

Sherlock avoids looking at his calendar, at the date he circled in thick, red pen. He checks his e-mail, solves cases using the minimal amount of text on a screen that he can, not wanting to see anyone. He buzzes with exhausted energy, with too much caffeine and nicotine and not enough food, and when the wedding creeps closer, he goes to his suit-fitting alone.

“Was that your fiance?” the middle-aged woman asks as she hands him the blazer.

The question stops Sherlock in his tracks. She hands him the shirt, folded neatly together, and the trousers, her smile genuine.

“No,” Sherlock says. “Just a...”

The smile fades.

Sherlock clears his throat. “An old friend.”

• • •

Fiance.

She said it with a smile, hopeful, expectantly. Like it was obvious, like John couldn't be anything but Sherlock's fiance.

It's a shock to the system, the realisation that someone can look at the two of them and still see a spark between them, a spark that may or may no longer be there. Sherlock sometimes wondered if it ever was there to begin with; John had always denied the existence of any deeper feelings he may have had.

Fiance.

Sherlock says it aloud, lets it roll off his tongue, low, quiet. Nervous.

Sherlock tries not to think about it. He's always in a state of try not to think about it.

It shouldn't be so easy to imagine him and John, growing old together, retiring together, never needing anyone else, but it is. Of course it is. It's incredibly easy.

He wonders if it would hurt less, or more, if it wasn't.

• • •

He crashes at five-thirty the next morning, the day of John's bachelor party.

When he wakes again, the sky is dark and his phone is buzzing on the floor by his bed. Sherlock grumbles into his pillow and blindly reaches for it, sweeping his hand along the hardwood until his fingers find it. He rolls onto his back and turns on the screen.

Four text messages and a voice mail. All from John.

Sherlock closes his eyes and presses 'play'.

“Sherlock – all right, you know what,” John's voice snaps down the line. There's music in the background, and cheering, someone banging on the table. “I called Lestrade to make sure you hadn't been kidnapped and left for dead in a skip somewhere. I don't know why I'm even surprised anymore. This is just like you. You can't come out of your little hole and act like a normal human being for an hour or two because – what? This is below you, is that it?”

Sherlock exhales. John sighs on the phone. Sherlock can picture him rubbing his eyes.

“I tried,” he says. “I am trying to understand why – I don't get you at all, Sherlock.”

Sherlock opens his eyes. He watches his phone rise and fall with his breathing.

“I thought I did,” John says. “Maybe I – I don't know. I'm an idiot.”

John laughs then.

“But you knew that already.”

There's nothing for a long minute, just more music, more noise, the muffled sound of a football announcer reading off scores and a man shouting at the television. Someone calling John 'Watson' in the background, asking if he'd like another round.

“Just, please,” John says. His voice sounds hard, through his teeth, the calmness forced. “For me, Sherlock, please show up tomorrow.”

The call ends. The room pounds with deafening silence.

• • •

Sherlock hopes for rain, but it never comes. The sun continues to shine as Mrs Hudson adjusts his tie one last time, her hair tied and make-up done. She looks bright and happy in her new dress, the colours complimenting one another. She licks her thumb, wipes a smudge off his cheek, and Sherlock feels like he's twelve again.

“The car is waiting, love,” she says. He takes her arm and together they head down the steps.

The ceremony is outside, white flowers and lanterns and decorations lining a path up to a freshly painted white gazebo. There are chairs lined up in rows under the shade of a tall tree, and bees dropping from one flower to the next.

Sherlock feels hot and stuffy in his black suit. He finds John and the groomsmen inside, along with a few of John's army friends, decked out in uniform. John bends to receive a kiss to the cheek from Mrs Hudson, his eyes meeting Sherlock's over her head.

“Glad you could squeeze this into your busy schedule,” he says.

Sherlock feels his cheeks heat.

“John—”

“It's fine,” John lies.

One of his friends comes over and claps him on the back. John turns away and Mrs Hudson hands Sherlock her gift. Sherlock wanders off to put it onto the table, next to the small, growing pile, laid out beside photos of Mary and John together; fishing in Scotland, horseback riding, Mary on stage when she was younger, John in his uniform.

“They've certainly been busy,” Lestrade says from beside him, startling him out of his reverie. Molly clings to Lestrade's side, wearing a rather hideous yellow dress and matching over-sized bow. Her left stocking slips down her leg a little.

Sherlock clears his throat. “Indeed.”

“Just put this here, then?” Lestrade asks, waving a small envelope.

Sherlock nods, turning his back on the table. John stands in the centre of the room, surrounded by his friends. He laughs and shakes his head. He doesn't look over.

“Well,” Lestrade says, patting him on the shoulder. “See you later, yeah?”

“I imagine so,” Sherlock says.

Molly gives him a small smile as she follows Lestrade out the doors.

• • •

Sherlock keeps his head low during the vows, watching his toes flex in his shoes. He looks up when John leans in to kiss Mary's lips, and tries not to bite his own lip, his hands tightening together in front of him. The crowd claps, people take photographs, and Sherlock tries to breathe.

He signs his name on a dotted line, next to the maid of honour's, on top of John's groomsmen and Mary's bridesmaid's signatures. The letters of his name look crooked and wrong. Thick, black ink on bleached-white paper, smudged at the corner like a bruise.

Across the top, in big, bold letters, it reads John & Mary Watson.

• • •

Sherlock downs a glass of champagne and stands awkwardly next to a potted plant. Harry Watson leans against the wall next to him, smoking a cigarette and holding an empty glass, her red nail polish chipping on the edges.

“Fucking hate weddings,” she says.

“Do you have another?” Sherlock asks. Harry smiles at him and digs her pack of cigarettes out from her purse, handing one over. Sherlock leans down as she flicks on her lighter. The smoke hits him like a train.

“Christ,” Harry says, shaking her head. “Never thought I'd see this day.”

Sherlock exhales a smoke ring.

“I thought he was going to spend the rest of his life chasing mass-murderers with you,” Harry says, taking a drag from her own cigarette. “Whining about never being able to keep a steady girlfriend, yet secretly enjoying it, because he'd much rather go out and fix everything and feel important with you than settle down.”

Sherlock huffs out a small, bitter laugh, and thinks, So did I.

• • •

Lestrade finds him a few minutes later, grabbing another glass of champagne, and tells him that he's supposed to give a speech after dinner. No one told him that before. Sherlock's never been good at public speaking. Hell, Sherlock's never been good at speaking, period.

“Just,” Lestrade watches him drink half the glass in one go. “Just. Take it easy, yeah?”

“I am,” Sherlock says. He helps himself to a cocktail shrimp off a passing server's tray.

Lestrade rolls his eyes and wanders off to find Molly.

• • •

Sherlock is drunk by the end of dinner.

His best man speech ends, rather predictably, with him getting into an argument with one of the groomsmen and receiving a punch to the face and John grabbing him by the front of the his coat to drag him out into the corridor, away from the crowd, their eyes following as they leave.

Sherlock wipes his nose on his sleeve and leans against the wall as John seethes in front of him.

“What the hell was that?” he hisses.

“I believe that was my first, and if we're lucky, last best man's speech,” Sherlock says.

“You just couldn't do it, could you?” John snarls. “You couldn't give me one day, you couldn't be a decent human being for one sodding day. This is my wedding, Sherlock!”

Mary creeps into the hallway behind him, her long dress dragging on the floor, eyes worried. John doesn't notice. Sherlock thinks that, if he weren't drunk, his muscles would be tightening, his stomach hardening, his back snapping straight. He would be trying to appear threatening, trying to chase them both away, separate himself from the fact that John is replacing him with her by applying physical distance.

But then Mary says, “John, let him be,” and Sherlock realises he can't. He can't do this. He can't hate her the way he wants to, because she smiles when she looks at him, because she understands, because for some, unfathomable reason, she doesn't hate him.

John straightens, his face twitching, and grabs Sherlock by the sleeve.

“I'm calling you a cab,” he says.

• • •

“I hope you're happy,” John says. “You got all the attention again, got to show off in front of everyone, made a right arse of yourself and made me look like a tit on top of it for inviting you here.”

“Oh, of course,” Sherlock slurs. “My fault again, I see.”

John clenches his fist, his eyes blazing. “Don't.”

“You're going to get bored, you know,” Sherlock says. “I give you six months. Hell, I'll be kind and give you a year. A year before you're – you're running back to me and begging me to let you come on cases again because you're bored out of your mind.”

“You're angry because I didn't drop Mary the instant you came back from the dead,” John says, somehow managing to keep his voice steady, despite his visible shaking. “It never once occurred to you, even after all of this, that I might actually love her? That I might actually be happy?”

Sherlock snorts. “You're far from happy, John. You only think you are.”

“Right, and you know what happiness is, do you?” John asks. “You had fun, running off on your own, leaving me behind? That was a right old time, I bet, since I wasn't there to slow you down. So why don't you fuck off and go back to living by yourself.”

Sherlock laughs and feels sick to his stomach. Headlights turn in the distance and draw closer.

“You're pathetic,” John tells him. “You're going to die a lonely, bitter, miserable man.”

“God, I hope so,” Sherlock says just as the cab pulls to a stop.

• • •

Sherlock wakes sometime the next afternoon with a pounding headache.

Mrs Hudson cooks him lunch without saying a word.

He doesn't hear from John. He checks his phone over and over again. Each time it's blank, showing him only the time and the day, marking how long its been since he and John were in the same room together, breathing the same air. The last time Sherlock had any hope at all that maybe, somehow, this would turn out to be okay.

• • •

Molly agrees to grab a coffee with him. It's sad, Sherlock thinks, pathetic, the thought of sitting in a cafe to talk, the thought of having a coffee date with Molly Hooper, of all people. But he desperately needs to get out of the flat and clear his head, and Molly is the only person who he is certain is no longer disgusted by him.

Molly asks to stop into the book shop first, and Sherlock follows wordlessly. He browses the shelves for nothing in particular, running his fingers along the spines and reading over the titles.

Sherlock doesn't know how to act. Sherlock doesn't know how to act, or feel, or think like a normal human being. He knows things that most people don't, he sees things, he observes things that most people are incapable of ever seeing, and yet he doesn't – can't – seem to grasp the same basic concepts that seem to come so easily to everyone around him.

Sherlock remembers John saying, “But it's the solar system,” like the solar system was something rooted deep inside every person's brain, something that twined together with the chemical make-up that made each person a person, and that without it, Sherlock was abnormal. Not human. A malfunctioning machine.

Sherlock finds a book on astronomy and pulls it off the shelf. He flips through the pages, takes in the graphs and the charts, the colourful diagrams of planet alignments and the giant storms on Jupiter.

“Ready?” Molly asks from behind him. Sherlock tucks the book under his arm and nods.

• • •

Molly sets a large mug in front of him.

“It's a London Fog,” she smiles.

Sherlock doesn't care what it is, he just needs something hot and heavily caffeinated. He takes a drink and frowns, wiping foam off his lip.

“This is just tea,” he says. Earl Grey. The foam is a bit unnecessary.

“Well,” Molly slides another one on the table and sits down. “Yeah, but. It's a latte, sort of. With – with milk and vanilla.”

Sherlock bends over the mug and smells the foam.

Molly laughs and drinks from her own mug.

“It's just tea, silly. Drink it.”

Sherlock does. It is hot, and it is sweet, and he hopes to some unknown entity that it's packed with enough caffeine to keep him going through-out the day.

He and Molly sit quietly for a while, watching people pass by on the streets, watching the dark rain clouds form overhead. Molly reads over the back of her new book, and Sherlock touches the corner of his from under the table, feels the edge of the thin pages against his skin.

“Do you think he'll forgive me?” he asks.

Molly wipes her mouth with a napkin. She doesn't say anything for a long moment, staring off at something over Sherlock's shoulder, the corners of her mouth pulled down in a frown.

“You really hurt him, Sherlock,” she says finally. “I don't just mean at the wedding. I mean...”

Sherlock runs his finger along the rim of his mug.

“He said I'm going to die a lonely, bitter, miserable man,” he says.

Molly smiles sadly at him from across the table, and Sherlock knows that she thinks John is right.

• • •

That night, Sherlock reads through his new book, flipping slowly through the pages, reading every diagram, every header, every bit of information he can absorb. He reads about gravitational pull, about the amount of energy the sun produces, about the largest stars known to scientists. He reads about nebulae and forgotten planets, about white giants and black holes.

“So we go round the sun!” Sherlock had shouted once. “If we went round the moon, or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference!”

He had scratched his hands through his hair, pulled at the strands, and hated that John kept insisting it mattered.

“What matters to me is the work,” Sherlock had said. Funny, how he used to think that was the only thing that could, that there couldn't possibly be enough room inside his head for something else, just as delicate and fascinating and just as important.

• • •

Lestrade finally gives him a case a week later, and Sherlock feels so ecstatic he worries he might actually throw himself at Lestrade's feet in gratitude. He manages to contain himself and merely follows Lestrade outside and into the backseat of his car.

Thankfully, Lestrade is too preoccupied with finding the thief to try and talk to Sherlock about how he acted at the wedding, and together with Sally and Anderson, the four of them manage to track the man down. In a matter of hours, Sherlock stands back with Anderson as Lestrade slaps the cuffs on him.

“Good haul,” Anderson says, rocking back and forth on his feet, arms crossed over his chest. He's grown a beard since the last time Sherlock saw him. It's hideous.

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “I think so.”

Anderson gives him a curt nod before walking away.

Sherlock sighs. He has cases again, at least. Small victories.

• • •

Sherlock looks at pictures of beaches and palm trees online. Small huts in the sand, crystal-clear blue water, waves carrying fish and seaweed to the shore and large, green rocks standing high in the background.

He wonders if John took Mary here for their honeymoon. Someplace hot and with white sand, somewhere she can swim and feel salt on her skin. Where wild lizards climb up the side of buildings, where they leave the window open to let in a cool breeze as she scratches down John's back and he fucks her into the mattress.

Or maybe somewhere closer to home. Maybe Scotland, because it's where John spent his summers as a boy. Or Italy, because Mary loves art, or Iceland, because it has natural hot springs and geysers and volcanoes, and wild, hairy ponies that stand on mossy rocks just outside the rental car.

Sherlock remembers feeling alone in a hotel room in Times Square, watching the snow fall lightly outside and collect on the small ledge underneath the window. He remembers tapping his pen against his mouth and wishing John were there.

(John would insist they get out of the hotel room and get something to eat. He would ask Sherlock to deduce the other patrons of the horrifically stereotypical American diner, and to put on his best American accent, and and John would laugh and laugh and laugh when Sherlock messed it all up.)

Sherlock could have gone anywhere in the world and he would have felt at home, so long as John was there beside him. But John wasn't. John was an ocean away, falling in love with a beautiful blonde woman, while Sherlock was dead in England and rotting away in New York.

• • •

Someone leaves it at the back of the shop, covered in an old, moth-eaten blanket, gear still stacked away on the shelf behind it.

“Ah, that's been here for yonks,” the owner says when he catches Sherlock eyeing it.

“What else did you say was missing?” Lestrade asks him.

Sherlock wanders to the back of the shop, over to the pile under the moth-eaten blanket, Sally following close behind, curious. Sherlock grips the corner of the blanket and rips it off in one swift movement, sending a cloud of dust into the air and disturbing cobwebs. Sally scrunches up her face, waving the dust away, and Sherlock rubs a gloved hand over the seat.

“Wow,” Sally says. “That's got to be, what. Twenty years old, at least?”

“No more than eighteen,” Sherlock says. Sally hums thoughtfully.

“Dangerous things, motorcycles,” she says. “My ex had one. Wiped out on it and had to have a surgery. Of course, he was an idiot and never took the corners at the right speed, so I suppose that was to be expected.”

Sherlock ignores her, glancing over his shoulder.

“How much for the Honda?” he asks.

Lestrade and the shop owner stop talking. Lestrade blinks at him in surprise and the shop owner grins.

“Awe, hell, mate,” he says. “You know what? Why don't you take it. Ain't going to be able to sell that beast if not even thieves want to take it.”

Sherlock turns back to the motorcycle. Sally stares at him, surprised, head tilted.

Sherlock smiles.

• • •

He leaves it in the back alley behind Speedy's. No one goes back there except for Mrs Hudson to take out the rubbish and Mr Chatterjee, and neither of them Sherlock has to worry about. He pulls on his gloves and buttons up his coat, kicks the stand and feels the engine roar into life underneath him.

• • •

Sherlock stares at it. He feels the words staring back, right into him, settling somewhere in the pit of his stomach. He swallows and exhales, then swallows again. The screen goes dark and he taps it back into life.

It takes him five minutes to respond.

• • •

John shows up alone.

He stands awkwardly in the doorway as Sherlock moves about, frantically trying to make room for him, moving papers off John's chair and throwing them over his shoulder, shoving books onto the floor and kicking a mug under the table. When he finally declares the living room safe to enter, John takes a hesitant step inside and bites his lip, looking like the only thing he wants to do is turn right around and run back out the door.

“Here, I'll, um – you sit down, I'll take your coat,” Sherlock says. John nods and unzips it, letting it slip off his shoulders. Sherlock hangs it on the bottom hook and gestures to John's chair, then wanders into the kitchen to plug in the kettle.

“Lestrade finally let you back on his team,” John comments when Sherlock hands him a mug.

“Nothing too exciting, I'm afraid,” Sherlock says, plunking down in his chair. “I've been writing up some more blog entries in my spare time.”

John nods and glances at the mess of papers on the floor.

“Ah,” Sherlock says. “No, those are old.”

“Too bad,” John says. “I've been a bit busy lately, haven't even had the time to check my own blog. But it'd be nice to have something to read over lunch, though, since I can't get my e-mail on the work computer.”

Sherlock swallows and nods. “I'll get on it, then.”

The corners of John's mouth quirk upwards. He taps his fingers against the bottom of his mug. Sherlock reads over John's face, over his hands, over the way he sits. He's been working a lot. There are smudges under his eyes. Not very dark, but noticeable – at least, to Sherlock. His hair looks a bit dull, and he's mostly likely been chewing his nails again, though Sherlock can't tell from here.

“Listen,” John says after a while. “Um. Mary and I were thinking, it might be nice to get together, just the three of us. Something quiet, at home. She's a fantastic cook, so. I told her you like coffee cake.”

Sherlock blinks and looks at John's shoes. When he looks up again, John is watching him, bottom lip between his teeth. Sherlock wants to pull it out, smooth it down with his own. He shakes the thought from his head.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, that would – that would be fine.”

John smiles. It's the closest thing to a genuine smile that Sherlock has seen from him in a long time.

• • •

John and Mary live on a quiet street, in a row of houses with tiny green patches of grass and brick walls along the pavement. Children laugh in the garden next door, passing a ball back and forth, and Sherlock parks the Honda on the street and drops his keys into his pocket.

A house, he thinks. Christ, they bought a house.

He knocks on the front door and stands back, waiting. The children watch him from over the short brick wall, their eyes barely coming up over the ledge. Sherlock feels exposed and out-of-place, a dark smudge on a clear picture of happy families and married couples holding hands.

Mary opens the door, letting out the smell of food cooking and the warmth of the house. She beams at him as he shuffles awkwardly, tries to stammer out some form of greeting in a language she'll understand.

“Come in!” she waves him inside and shuts the door behind him. “John's just upstairs, he'll be down in a minute. Do you want anything to drink? I bought white and red, I wasn't sure what you like, and John's been working and not answering his texts.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says. “Red, I suppose.”

Mary flashes him a smile and digs out a clean glass from the cupboard above the sink. She pours the wine until it nearly reaches the rim and carefully slides it over to him. Sherlock nods and takes a drink, looking over the wallpaper and the new finishing on the cupboard doors, the paintings hanging in the living room, the new furniture, the flowers sitting on the window sill.

This isn't just a house. This is a home. John has built an entirely new life around a woman that Sherlock barely knows, a woman that John has only known for two years, at most. A new life that doesn't include Sherlock anywhere. Not a single photograph, not a newspaper clipping, not any one of the gifts clients gave them.

Sherlock tries to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach. He doesn’t know what else he was expecting. John is angry with him. John wants nothing to do with him. Sherlock is only here because of Mary. Mary, who doesn't hate him. Mary, who wants John to forgive Sherlock more than John wants to.

“I made lasagna,” Mary says, breaking into his train of thought. Sherlock turns away from the framed photographs lined up on the mantelpiece. Mary holds her own glass of wine in her hand, the deep red matching her fingernails. She watches him expectantly, patient, letting him absorb the information at his own pace.

“That's – good,” he says eventually. “Lasagna is – is good.”

She tips her glass against his as John comes down the stairs, freshly showered and shaved and in a new jumper. He nods at Sherlock, passing into the kitchen to help himself, gently moving Mary out of the way.

Sherlock looks back to the photographs and drinks his wine.

• • •

The text comes just as Mary pours coffee and John slices into homemade coffee cake. Sherlock mumbles out something that could resemble an apology and digs his phone out of his trouser pocket, feeling an overwhelming sense of relief wash over him when he sees Lestrade's number on-screen.

“Everything all right?” John asks.

“Case,” Sherlock says, avoiding his eye. “I'm sorry, I—”

“Oh, right,” John says.

Sherlock can't tell if he's pleased or disappointed, and he doesn't have time to stop and try and figure it out. He pulls on his coat and his scarf, wrapping it around his neck, and tries to ignore the way Mary pointedly looks at John.

“Thank you for dinner,” Sherlock says, and finds he means it. The food was good. Even the conversation, though stilted in parts, wasn't all that bad. Both John and Mary seemed interested in the new cases, listening quietly together, John with his hand on the back of Mary's chair.

Sherlock pulls out his mobile again to request details just as Mary says quietly, “John, you should go.”

Sherlock stops texting and looks at her, then at John, who looks away.

“He – I'll just be a drag,” he says.

“Oh, come on,” Mary turns to Sherlock. “Sherlock, please, take John with you. He's a stubborn git who won't admit it, but I think he misses it more than he's been letting on.”

The tips of John's ears turn pink and he shakes his head.

“Don't let her impose me on you,” John says.

“I... wouldn't mind,” Sherlock says. His heart flutters in his chest.

“There, you see!” Mary grins.

John sighs. “I'll meet you outside.”

• • •

“What,” John says. “Is that?”

Sherlock holds out the extra helmet. John stares at him.

“We're going to be late,” Sherlock says.

John's mouth twitches and breaks into a grin.

“You bought a bloody motorcycle.”

“Are you going to get on or not?” Sherlock snaps.

John shakes his head and takes the helmet, putting it on and buckling it under his chin. Sherlock starts the engine and moves the stand, pressing forwards to give John room on the back. The motorcycle dips closer to the pavement with John's added weight.

“Er,” John says behind him. “Where do I put my hands?”

“Hips,” Sherlock says. He feels John hesitate behind him.

“Right,” John says. “Okay.”

John moves Sherlock's coat aside, and then there are careful hands pressing against him, holding him, warm through the fabric of his trousers. Sherlock exhales slowly and sends the bike forward. John grunts and presses closer against his back, hands gripping tightly.

“Sorry,” he murmurs close to Sherlock's ear.

“It's fine,” Sherlock says over the engine. His face feels warm.

They peel off the side road and onto the main street, going slow at first, then faster when he feels John start to relax. John is quiet through-out, leaning away whenever Sherlock stops. For those short moments, Sherlock misses the warmth of John's body pressing against his back, and feels ridiculous for missing it.

When they arrive at the crime scene, Lestrade nearly drops his phone in surprise.

“Bloody hell, John!” he beams at him. “It's great to see you and Sherlock together again.”

John smiles awkwardly and sets his helmet on the seat of the motorcycle. Sherlock ruffles out his hair and together the three of them walk into the building, John's shoulder bumping his.

• • •

“I still can't believe you bought a motorcycle,” John grins into his mug of coffee.

It's two in the morning and feels like old times again. Sherlock can't stop smiling. He feels the warmth coming off of John's body all the way from across the table, their knees almost touching underneath, Sherlock's twitching with energy and John's all but humming with the effort to keep still.

“It gets me from A to B,” Sherlock says. John snorts and shakes his head.

“You're going to wipe out,” he says.

“Not at all,” Sherlock assures him. “I'm not an idiot.”

John takes a drink from his mug.

• • •

“Thank you,” John says later when Sherlock drops him off outside his and Mary's house. He looks slightly flustered after having to practically peel himself off Sherlock's back to get up and to stand on wobbly legs.

“For what?” Sherlock asks.

John shrugs. “Just. You know. Getting me out, I guess.”

Sherlock adjusts the strap of his helmet.

“You're welcome,” he says.

• • •

Sherlock stares up at the ceiling in the dark of his room.

He hears a dog barking in the distance, a car passing by on the street, a muffled television on the other side of the wall as Mrs Turner's married ones settle in for the night.

He thinks about John on his quiet street, in his house with its bright red door, with the neighbour's kids passing a ball back and forth. A different world tucked away in the middle of the city, safe from the noise, from the dirt and grime that gets under fingernails and tangles in hair.

Sherlock thinks about John against his back, warm and solid, his hands on his hips. Tight, gripping, digging in when Sherlock took a corner a little bit too fast, if only to feel John press closer to him, hold on a little harder, his breath against the back of his neck.

Sherlock swallows and closes his eyes and thinks of John.

• • •

John is silent for another few weeks.

Mycroft drops in with two files, one on Moriarty and his criminal network, and one on Sebastian Moran, specifically. Sherlock tells him to piss off and Mycroft leaves the files. Sherlock ignores them for two days, then tucks them into the top drawer of his desk, next to Irene Adler's phone, on top of the newspaper clipping announcing his death, and the wedding invitation he received in the mail months prior.

Lestrade offers cases, and Sherlock finally updates his website again, taking on three new clients. Two cases he solves in the comfort of his living room, and he waves the clients away and moves on to the next, feeling stroppy and tense. The third he travels to Bath to investigate what turns out to be a litter of kittens living in disused drainage pipes.

The owner offers Sherlock a kitten in return for his work, and Sherlock almost laughs at him until he sees the small, ginger ball of fur and bones and fleas, with patches of hair missing by the ears. With a sigh he points it out and the man looks at him like he's mad.

“That one,” Sherlock insists.

“All right, mate,” the man says. He picks the kitten up by the scruff and dumps him into Sherlock's arms.

• • •

Sherlock names the kitten Odin. He gives him a flea bath in the bathtub of 221 C, receives five scratches along his arm, and contemplates drying the thing with a hair dryer when Mrs Hudson catches him. She rips the kitten out of his arms and dabs at it with a towel, throwing scolding looks over her shoulder.

“Shame on you, Sherlock Holmes,” she says.

“Whatever,” Sherlock waves them away. “You deal with him, then.”

“She is a girl,” Mrs Hudson says.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and unplugs the hair dryer.

• • •

“What are you doing?”

Sherlock drops his cigarette and hits his head on the top of the window. He swears under his breath and rubs the spot with his fingers, pulling himself back inside his bedroom to find John standing in the door, leaning against the frame.

“Nothing,” Sherlock says. He inspects his hand to make sure there isn't any blood, then sighs. “Mrs Hudson caught me smoking out the living room window.”

“Ah,” John nods. “So you vacated to the bedroom. Because her kitchen doesn't back onto the same alley that you're blowing smoke into.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock says.

John grins. Sherlock pulls his dressing gown back up his shoulder.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“I brought take-away,” John says, gesturing to the kitchen. “I assumed you probably haven't eaten anything for about a week, and judging by the state of the kitchen, I'd say that's about right. It's Indian.”

Sherlock grunts and follows him out of his bedroom. John finds plates in the cupboard, checks them over to make sure they're useable and, satisfied, begins dishing out food. Sherlock watches him for a moment before pulling open the fridge door to try and find something to drink.

“Don't worry about it,” John says. “I brought beer.”

“I hate beer,” Sherlock says into the fridge.

“I brought beer for me,” John says. Sherlock sighs and shuts the door.

“Where's Mary?” he asks.

“Book club,” John sucks sauce off his finger. Sherlock licks his lips.

“That sounds dreadful.”

John huffs out a laugh and slides a full plate across the table.

“Right?” he says. “So, I figured it's been a while, you probably haven't eaten, and I could use a few notes to type up the Hartwell case, if you've got 'em. I need some new material for my blog, I fear the readers don't care about antique shopping and, er. Jazz concerts.”

“Mm,” Sherlock agrees. “Might be popular with the younger crowd.”

“Yeah, I noticed a few in Speedy's,” John dishes out more food. Sherlock groans and rolls his eyes.

“My fans. They're waiting to see if I'll come out of the flat so they can giggle at me and take picture on their phones,” Sherlock sits down at the table and pulls the plate closer to him as John joins him, cracking open a beer and hissing when he gets foam all over his hand.

“The oldest looked to be about fourteen.”

“They start young,” Sherlock shrugs.

John tucks into his plate. Sherlock cuts his food up into bite-sized pieces and eats, staring at John's hands across the table, wrapped around his beer. If he tries not to think about it, about Mary off somewhere, at her book club, it almost feels like before. Sitting down with John after a case, eating greasy food, idle chat that, for some reason, Sherlock never minded when it was John on the other end of the conversation.

John swallows and catches him staring.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Sherlock shakes his head and turns back to his food.

“I'm working at the clinic again,” John says after a minute.

“Oh?”

John clears his throat.

“It's pretty dull, most days. I mean, it beats being unemployed, I guess.”

“You want to come on another case,” Sherlock realises. John wets his lips.

“You can say no,” he says.

“Why would I say no?” Sherlock asks. John looks up at him, then back down to his plate.

“We haven't exactly been getting along,” he says.

Sherlock huffs. “I get along better with you than anyone on Lestrade's team, who I unfortunately don't have a choice but to work with whenever he gives me cases. You – I would much rather work with you. That's a choice I have. That's – that's what I want.”

John blinks.

“Right,” he says. “Good. Okay.”

Sherlock smiles at him and shovels a forkful of chicken into his mouth. The silence that stretches out between them afterwards is heavy, and Sherlock has no idea how to fill it. Before, when they were living together, he appreciated John's silences. They allowed him to think, to work, to tune out and solve problems in his head. They could go days without speaking to one another and it was fine. Comfortable.

Now it tingles at the back of his neck like a rash. He wants to scratch it, but he can't reach. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know how to communicate with John anymore. He used to be good at this – almost. He and John had their own language, their own ways of communication, and somewhere along the line the wires became frayed and misplaced.

After they eat, John washes the plates, first their dinner ones, Sherlock's fingers brushing John's when he hands them to him, then the small pile that's been steadily growing next to the sink. Sherlock puts away the rest of the food and leans against the counter, hands gripping the edge, white-knuckled.

There wasn't supposed to be a rift between them when he returned. John was supposed to be angry for only a little while – a week, maybe two – and then forgive him and move back into Baker Street with him, accompany him on all his cases and never be bored. John was supposed to think he was amazing, brilliant, fantastic, for the rest of his life. John was supposed to never smile like it physically hurt to be in Sherlock's presence. John was supposed to love him.

“You haven't asked why I did it,” Sherlock says quietly as John wipes down the counter.

John stops. He stares at his hand. Sherlock watches his jaw tense. John isn't stupid enough to ask, “Did what?” He knows exactly what Sherlock is talking about. Sherlock counts it as a blessing that John isn't angry enough to pretend otherwise.

“You're home and alive and working again,” John says after a moment. “I don't think it matters anymore.”

It feels like a punch to the gut. Sherlock exhales sharply, tightens his grip on the counter, feels his head swim.

“It does,” he says.

John drops the rag into the sink and dusts off his hands.

“I don't think so,” he says.

“You were my greatest concern. There would be too many threats to your safety if you knew anything,” Sherlock says. “If anyone in Moriarty's network tried—”

“Stop,” John says.

Sherlock stops.

“John,” he breathes.

John scratches his head and looks at the floor, at Sherlock's feet, at the legs of the table. Anywhere but Sherlock, and it infuriates him. He wants to grab him by the shoulders, by the head, and force John to look at him. Loom over him, eclipse everything else around him until John can't look anywhere but at him.

“Will you just look at me?” Sherlock snaps, louder than he intends to.

John starts at his voice, but it produces the result Sherlock wants, John's eyes lifting towards his. John bunches his fist at his side and bites his lip, eyes hard, staring, the lines of his face drawn tight. He looks all wrong, angrier and far older than Sherlock has ever seen him, hair dull grey in the bright light of the kitchen.

Sherlock breaks away from the counter and steps closer. John nearly steps back, opens his mouth to say something (probably don't, or stop, or any number of things that will cause Sherlock's chest to hurt) but doesn't. He stands his ground, chin jutted forward, looking up through his eyelashes.

“Are you going to punch me again?” Sherlock murmurs, pressing close enough to feel John's breath on his face, feel the tension humming under his skin.

“I'm thinking about it,” John admits.

Sherlock bites his bottom lip.

“It's getting a bit predictable, don't you think?” he says.

John shakes his fist out. Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief.

“I know you're never going to apologize for it,” John says. “I thought that's what I wanted, but... You're alive now, that should be good enough.”

“Is it?” Sherlock asks.

John smiles sadly. “It kind of has to be, doesn't it?”

• • •

Sherlock isn't lonely the same way Pluto isn't lonely.

In 2006, scientists and astronomers excluded Pluto from the list of official planets, instead classifying it as a dwarf planet. Pluto, orbiting nearly six billion kilometres away from the sun, moves along its path in the dark.

But Pluto has three moons of its own, following along as it makes its way through the universe, keeping it company. Sherlock has his cases. Sherlock has his mind. Sherlock has Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade, and even Molly.

It's not enough to stave off the coldness that envelopes him, but it's enough to keep him going, and it's enough to convince himself that he isn't lonely, the same way that Pluto isn't lonely.

• • •

The first time Sherlock felt something – anything – physical for John, it was right after the Baskerville case, and it terrified him.

John had been a reassuring presence after the first night in the hollow, and Sherlock had driven him away because he couldn't handle John looking at him with blatant concern. Sherlock took the one person who seemed to accept him, despite his abnormalities and his coldness, and shoved him as far away as he could.

Sherlock didn't need anyone.

But on the way back to London, on the train, John had checked him over, took his pulse, watched his pupils, listened to his breathing. “Just checking,” John had said. Panic attacks were strange things, he said. Sherlock had never had one before.

“Are you all right?” John asked, sitting so close his knees dug into Sherlock's thigh.

“Why wouldn't I be?” Sherlock asked.

“You were doused with stimulants and saw a man explode, Sherlock,” John reminded him.”You were pretty badly shaken the other night, I just want to know if you're... if you're going to be okay.”

John's fingers wrapped around his thin wrist, gentle and solid and real, warm. Pressing against his skin, along the vein and the tendon, feeling for his pulse. John's hand on his face, thumb against his cheek, as he inspected Sherlock's eyes.

He had felt something warm sink into his stomach, drip down along his spine and intestines and into his lap. He swallowed and shifted, pulling his wrist back, looking away in case John noticed. John let go and shifted awkwardly.

“I'm fine,” Sherlock said.

And that night he thought of John's hands on him and his skin burned hot. He tossed and turned, and when it didn't help, he rolled his eyes and swore at himself and let his hand sink down underneath the blanket.

In the morning, if John noticed that Sherlock was avoiding his eye, that he was clumsier than usual, that his nerves were on fire due to awkwardness and embarrassment and other foreign things Sherlock hadn't felt since he was a teenager, then John didn't say anything.

• • •

Sherlock thinks, one day, someone is going to break. One way or another, someone is going to fall apart.

And then it happens.

• • •

By eleven-o-clock, Mrs Hudson is in bed, asleep. The next door neighbours have already turned off the television and quieted down for the evening. Speedy's has closed up shop for the night, and Sherlock is contemplating sleep himself, his eyes heavy, body tired.

Eleven-fifteen comes and there's a knock at the door. Sherlock frowns and closes his laptop lid, wondering if he should bother. Perhaps Mrs Hudson's heater broke again and needs fixing, or she forgot to tell him something her herbal-addled mind seems to think is important.

Sherlock opens the door and blinks down at a rather ruffled-looking John.

John offers him a sloppy grin and unzips his coat. He smells of beer and smoke and the pub.

“This is weird,” he says. “Before, I was leaving here to go to my girlfriend's house to sleep on her sofa when you were being a tit.”

“It's not nice to call your wife a tit, John,” Sherlock says, opening the door wider to allow him entrance.

John snorts and shakes his head, running his hand through his hair. Once inside the flat, out of the dark, Sherlock realises just how messily put-together John is. Bags under his eyes, hair untamed from pulling on it, shoelace untied, coat wet from the rain. He wanders into the kitchen for a glass of water and hands it to John.

“I'm the tit,” John says.

“Hmm,” Sherlock says, because he doesn't know what else to say. He flops down onto the sofa and wraps his dressing gown tighter around himself. John stares into his glass of water.

“She's just trying to help, you know?” John says. “She wants me to be happy, and she thinks – she thinks I was happy with you, running off and being an idiot. So she wants me to try and help out more, at cases, and I just – ironic, isn't it? We're fighting about you, and now here I am.”

John laughs again. “Christ. You were dead for two years. I barely talk to you now. I have my own life, and yet, somehow, you still manage to be at the centre of every fucking argument I get into.”

Sherlock swallows and doesn't say anything.

“She's a much better person than me,” John says eventually. “That's not really hard, is it? You've rubbed off on me.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock says. He nods to John's hand. “Drink your water.”

“You don't get it, do you?” John asks.

“Get what?” Sherlock snaps. “How could I possibly get anything with you rambling on in circles?”

John grinds his teeth. He knocks back half the glass of water and sets it down on the coffee table harder than necessary.

“There,” he says. “Happy?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You're being childish.”

“Yeah, well. You'd know, wouldn't you?”

Sherlock wipes his hand over his face, suddenly exhausted. He gets off the sofa, knees popping, and gestures for John to sit down.

“You can stay here tonight,” he says. “I don't mind.”

“Oh, well, thank you for your charity,” John says.

“Or I can throw you back out onto the street and you can sleep in a skip somewhere,” Sherlock says, stepping round the table to loom.

John's jaw tenses and he meets Sherlock's gaze head-on. Solid, unmovable. Stubborn.

“This isn't your home anymore,” Sherlock reminds him.

“No, you made damned sure of that when you threw yourself off a building,” John says darkly.

“You could have stayed here,” Sherlock says. “You could have lived here without me. You could have done it if you had just given yourself time. But instead you settled in rather nicely elsewhere, with someone else, and now you're imposing yourself on me.”

John grabs his dressing gown and yanks Sherlock forward.

For a quick, breathless second, Sherlock thinks John is about to chin him, or shove him against the wall, or find some other way to release his anger that leaves Sherlock with a bloody nose. This close, Sherlock can smell the beer on him, the two cigarettes he smoked guilty as he walked down the street, the mint he tried to cover it all up with. He feels John shaking.

“I hate—” John hisses. He closes his eyes. His grip tightens. “I can't stand you.”

“Then why—”

Sherlock stops when John moves his hands to his face and pulls him down. Sherlock feels himself jump, his hands reaching up to push John away. But then John's mouth is on his, breath coming out hard, and it's sloppy and awful and Sherlock feels disgusted at the way he falls so easily into it.

John grips him tighter, pulls him closer, presses his tongue against Sherlock's bottom lip and moans when Sherlock yields, letting him in. Sherlock pushes at his shoulders, pulls at the collar of his coat, conflicted and desperate with confusion. John's hands drop to his hips, wrap around him, and Sherlock feels him hard against his thigh and John's teeth scraping at his bottom lip and he can't—

“John,” Sherlock exhales. “John – stop.”

John drops his forehead against Sherlock's chest.

“I'm going to be ill,” he says.

“In the bathroom,” Sherlock tells him. John smiles, angry, against his t-shirt.

“Do you have a spare pillow?” he asks.

• • •

Sherlock runs his fingers over his bottom lip. It tingles on the sides and hurts in the middle, where John's teeth bit down and scraped at the skin. Sherlock feels fire in his stomach and pain in his chest.

He doesn't bother trying to sleep.

• • •

John is gone in the morning.

Sherlock folds up the blanket and puts away the extra pillow.

• • •

Sherlock had lied.

Baker Street will always be John's home, whenever he wants it, whenever he needs it. Sherlock has left room for him, made space for him, on the sofa and John's chair, upstairs in John's old bedroom, his bed still neatly made, bedside table free of dust.

John probably thought his room was in use, filled with chemicals and experiments and parts of dead bodies. Sherlock wasn't going to tell him otherwise if it meant John would sleep on the sofa, curled up and breathing the same air, just that much closer.

• • •

He eats the leftovers and doesn't leave the flat for four days.

Then he runs out of food and has no choice.

He showers and shaves and puts on a change of clothes.

• • •

“Sherlock!”

He looks up and Mary is right there next to him, smiling up at him, her hair tied in a way that leaves strands hanging around her face. Sherlock shoves the tin of tea back onto the shelf and tucks his hands into his pockets.

“Hello,” he says.

“And here I was almost convinced that you lived off of crime scenes and adrenaline rushes,” Mary says, nodding towards the tea. She's joking, of course, trying to be friendly. It doesn't sting, it doesn't feel like someone rubbing salt in old wounds. (Sherlock doesn't remember John saying, You machine. It never happened. He deleted it.)

“Ah,” he says, looking at the tea in question. “Yes.”

John wanders down the aisle, inspecting two cans of beans, when he looks up and stops abruptly.

“Look who I bumped into!” Mary calls to him. “Almost literally, I might add. Thankfully he was distracted by tea tins.”

She smiles at him again. Sherlock feels the corner of his mouth twitch on its own accord. He forces it down. John clears his throat and makes his way over, setting both cans of beans into the trolly.

“Um, hi,” he says.

Sherlock nods and bites his lip, which sparks memories and causes his face to heat, and for a moment he worries he's given himself away. But Mary has turned to John and John to Mary, and they bicker over beans like Sherlock isn't standing right there.

Feeling awkward, he grabs the tin of tea and drops it into his basket.

“Nice seeing you,” he says. He turns and walks away before he can hear their reply.

• • •

His phone goes off while he's trying to turn his mind off with game show re-runs.

He expects Lestrade. He's been fumbling around with a new case for a week and stubbornly telling Sherlock they don't need him this time, that his team has got it, but Sherlock knows it's only a matter of time before it proves too difficult and he's calling after him again.

It's not Lestrade. It's John.

Sherlock frowns at the number and taps open the text.

Sherlock blinks. He grabs the remote and searches through channels until he finds his own photo staring back at him from the other side of the screen. It's the same photo John had posted on his blog to poke fun at him.

He imagines John reading his message and laughing. Maybe Mary asking him, “What is it?” and John saying, “Nothing, just Sherlock.”

Just Sherlock.

His phone buzzes.

Sherlock feels his cheeks burn. He's about to reply when another text comes through.

Sherlock bites his lip. Perhaps John wants to – to talk, to apologize. Sherlock doesn't know if he'll be able to handle it. But John is... trying. For whatever reason, John keeps trying.

• • •

“Where did you even get this thing, anyway?” John asks when Sherlock hands him the helmet.

“Client,” Sherlock says. “Well, sort of. Case. Stolen goods. The shop owner let me take it.”

John straps the helmet on and sits down on the seat. He hesitates for a fraction of a second before putting his hands on Sherlock's hips, but a fraction of a second is all Sherlock needs to notice it. He clears his throat and waits for John to get comfortable, pressing close against his back without leaning on him, before shifting into gear and pulling away from the pavement.

When they stop, John waits for Sherlock to turn off the engine before releasing his hold on his hips, carefully pushing his coat back into place. Sherlock pulls off his helmet and shakes out his hair. John hands him the extra helmet and steps off the motorcycle, wobbling slightly. He flashes a small grin and together they head inside.

Angelo brings them dinner himself, candle and all, and gives Sherlock a cheeky thumbs up as he walks away. Sherlock focuses on his plate of food, pushing chicken around with a fork, and watches John through his eyelashes.

Angelo's always brings back memories of their first case together. Sherlock may not be a sentimental man, but Angelo always plunks them in the window seat that faces Northumberland, and Sherlock can't help but remember the elation he felt to have someone running along side him, managing to keep up and not question his motives when he jumped across rooftops.

John stares out the window, lost in thought, chewing. Sherlock wonders if he's remembering the same thing. It feels like a lifetime ago. Sometimes Sherlock wants to delete it, erase it from his hard drive completely, but he doesn't think he can.

“I, uh,” John clears his throat, scrapes his fork across his plate. “Sorry. For – you're right. I don't live at the flat anymore. I should have texted first instead of just... just showing up drunk off my arse to try and lay claim on the – on your sofa.”

Sherlock watches him, but nothing else is forthcoming. No apology for coming over, no apology for getting angry, or kissing him. Sherlock wonders if John regrets that. Perhaps he doesn't remember. Perhaps he doesn't want to remember.

“It's fine,” Sherlock says.

John puts his fork down and inhales.

“People fight,” he says. “In marriages. I've never... I don't always – you know. And Mary is open about everything, and she – she questions me, sometimes. Which I get, I do. I guess.”

John scrapes at his face.

“Sorry,” he says. “I don't know why I'm telling you this.”

“Because I've never questioned you,” Sherlock says.

John lowers his hand and looks at him. He nods.

“No,” he says. “You never did.”

• • •

Sherlock doesn't question why John keeps trying.

Sherlock doesn't question why John is here, with him, instead of at home waiting for Mary.

Sherlock doesn't question. Not aloud, anyway. He questions everything in his head. A vicious cycle of why, why, why? He wants to know everything, every little detail about John's marriage. He wants to know every word said during every fight. He wants to know every little thing John is thinking.

Instead, he asks, “Do you want to come over for a bit?”

John nods. “Yeah. All right.”

• • •

Sherlock hands John a mug of coffee and sits next to him on the sofa.

“Ta,” John says. He blows the steam away and takes a drink, closing his eyes and reclining back against the cushions. Sherlock picks a loose thread off his trousers and warms his hands with his own mug, trying to ignore his heart thumping wildly in his chest.

“What does one even do at a book club?” Sherlock asks.

“Um,” John laughs. “Read a book and then talk about it, if my understanding is correct.”

Sherlock grunts. “Sounds awful.”

“Yeah,” John agrees. He clears his throat and sets his mug down. “She's not actually at a book club meeting.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says. He glances sidelong at John and tries to find the details he's missed that would have told him that. The slouch, maybe. Bags under the eyes. But John always looks tired when he's working, and John is always working. There's nothing out of place, nothing that Sherlock couldn't have noticed.

Perhaps John is getting better at lying.

John wipes his hands on his thighs. “She's, um. At her mum's.”

“Oh,” Sherlock repeats. “Is that... bad?”

John gives a one-shouldered shrug and picks up his mug again.

“Not what you're thinking,” he says.

“What am I thinking?” Sherlock asks.

John looks at him. “I have no idea what you're thinking.”

Sherlock wets his lips.

“The closest black hole to the earth is one-point-six light-years away,” he says.

John blinks at him and lowers his mug.

“Of course, that would take a human about fifty-thousand years to reach,” Sherlock continues. “In terms of space-travel, that's not very far, considering the nearest galaxy is over twenty-five thousand light-years away. So if you were to calculate that for human travel, then we—”

John says, “Shut up.”

Sherlock shuts up.

John grabs Sherlock round the back of his neck and pulls him forward until their noses bump and Sherlock can hear John breathing heavily, feel it against his mouth. John presses his forehead against Sherlock's and closes his eyes.

“Just – shut up,” he says.

Sherlock doesn't pull back when John kisses him.

John's mouth is soft, gentle and warm, lips moving around Sherlock's bottom lip, careful yet insistent. Sherlock grips the front of John's jumper and gives in. John makes a noise not unlike a sob, and then Sherlock is being pulled hard against him, teeth knocking, and John's tongue slips past his lips to draw out a moan.

“Wait,” Sherlock says, because it's not stop, it's not don't. It's not the things he should be saying, but it's close enough. John is – John is married. John is upset, and John is married, and John's teeth are pressing against his lip and John is hard against his thigh.

“It's okay,” John says. His eyes are open, staring at Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock realises he's shaking. “It's all right.”

Sherlock swallows. “John.”

“Christ,” John breathes. He shifts closer and Sherlock twitches when he feels John's mouth on his neck, under his jaw, lips and teeth on skin, the marks being smoothed over with a velvet tongue.

“John,” Sherlock tries again.

John pulls back and looks at him, finally, eyes dark. His hands knot into Sherlock's hair, pulling, not gentle, almost hard enough to hurt, balancing right on the edge. Sherlock's hands itch, his mouth tingles, he wants John to kiss him again, he wants John to push him down, John's hands on him. He knows he shouldn't want it, and that only makes him want it more.

“All right,” Sherlock says.

John pushes him down onto the cushions, and it goes from hesitant and unsure to hot and frantic in seconds, John's teeth biting his chin, his neck, his collarbones, each bit of skin that's revealed when he peels away Sherlock's clothing. Sherlock pants, pushing John's shirt over his head and off. He shifts John's leg between his thighs, rocking against it as he pulls at John's belt and fly and jeans.

John naked is all hard lines of subtle muscle, a splash of blonde hair on his chest, warm, soft stomach and smooth skin down his spine. And then the mangled, scratched and ugly scar on his shoulder that Sherlock presses his mouth against after so long of fighting the urge to.

John shifts them, bodily moving Sherlock into his lap. He presses up against him, against him but not in, and Sherlock chokes back a moan. He rocks back, watches John's eyes flutter closed and his mouth fall open, so Sherlock does it again, tangling his hands in John's hair and breathing against his temple, feeling John slick and hard and sliding against him.

“Fuck,” John grunts. “Sherlock—”

“I want,” Sherlock breathes. He swallows. “John I – I want—”

He wants John closer. He wants John to stay. He wants – he wants John inside, he wants John deeper, he wants to feel John shake apart underneath him and shake apart inside him. He wants to count the beats of John's heart when he's coming, watch the way his face tenses then goes slack, feel the aftershocks spread through him and ride them out.

John reaches between them and wraps his hand around Sherlock's cock. Sherlock whimpers and bucks into the touch, shaking. John breathes hot against Sherlock's shoulder, his opposite arm around Sherlock's middle, keeping him there just in case he shakes right off the planet.

“I want—” Sherlock tries again.

He pushes down just as John pushes up against him, tilting his head to catch Sherlock lip. John rubs his thumb in maddening circles, twists his wrist and Sherlock comes into his palm with only a sharp exhale, hands scrabbling over John's shoulders, down his back. John helps him through it, holding him down as he grinds against Sherlock's arse, frantic, desperate, until he's shuddering and Sherlock feels wet heat between his skin.

John pants against his chest, body wracked with aftershocks that don't seem to be stopping, and it takes a minute for Sherlock to realise that he's not panting, he's hyperventilating, succumbing to a panic attack in Sherlock's arms.

“John,” Sherlock murmurs. “It's – it's fine.”

“It's not fine,” John grits out. Sherlock moves his hands to John's face, tilting his head up to look at him. John keeps his eyes clenched closed, his mouth a tight line.

“John—”

“You didn't mean—” John says. “When you said you wanted—”

He opens his eyes. Sherlock's breath catches in his throat.

“I—” Sherlock starts. Yes, he thinks. He wants it. All of it, anything John is willing to give him. Anything John doesn't know if he can give him or not, Sherlock would try to convince him to try, if it meant John staying there just a little bit longer to figure out how.

“Christ, Sherlock,” John says.

He pushes at Sherlock's hips, tips him back onto the sofa, off of his lap. Sherlock feels the temperature drop, the lack of John's heat causing him to shiver. John grabs his clothes from off the floor and pulls them on, covering up bare skin littered with marks and scratches, still red and angry. Sherlock fights the urge to reach for him, to pull him back down.

“I have to go,” John says over his shoulder.

Sherlock folds his knees to his chest and doesn't say anything.

• • •

Sherlock has the hottest shower he can ever remember having and scrubs his skin clean until it's red and sore.

• • •

He checks his phone over and over and over again.

It occurs to him that he could text John, he could say something, he could be the one to initiate something – anything – this time.

He turns his phone in his hands and sends nothing.

• • •

Sherlock drives to John's a week later. The kids next door are in the garden again, playing with small toys and a painted cardboard box. Sherlock watches them as he waits for someone to answer.

The door swings open. Mary blinks at him in surprise.

“Sherlock,” she says. There's no smile today. Her hair is done up in a ponytail. She's wearing what look like pyjama bottoms, and a pair of slippers. She looks paler than usual, tired. She's lost a bit of weight. Sherlock files it away for later.

“Is, um. John...” he shifts the weight of his helmet.

“I'll get him,” Mary says.

She leaves the door open as she heads up the stairs. Sherlock isn't sure if he's supposed to go inside or not; he's not sure what's expected in this situation. He stays outside.

John comes down the stairs a minute later. He stops on the second-to-last step. Mary brushes past him, her hand on his arm, and moves away down the hall and around the corner, out of sight. John stares at Sherlock a moment, hand gripping the railing tightly, before he takes the last two steps and comes outside. He shuts the door behind himself.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably. The truth is, he has no idea what he's doing on John's front step. He didn't have a plan when he left the flat, he just allowed his feet to lead the way, and somehow ended up here.

John glances behind him, into the window of the house, before grabbing Sherlock's coat and leading him around to the side of the house. He lets go and backs away, shaking his head, angry lines visible around his mouth.

“I made a mistake,” he says.

“I just thought—”

“Sherlock, I'm married,” John hisses. “I – I was just angry. I made a mistake. We shouldn't have – we can't. Mary is my wife, and I love her, and – this can't happen again.”

“That's not why I'm here,” Sherlock says. It's not exactly a lie.

“We should probably just...” John wets his lips. “We should probably just pretend it never happened, and move on. Delete it, yeah? That should be easy for you. And maybe we should just... I don't know. We should – spend some time apart, for a bit.”

“We have been,” Sherlock reminds him.

John shakes his head. Sherlock stands straighter and looks down at him. He feels wound up, too-tight like a bowstring, ready to snap at the slightest movement. He feels hot anger boiling in his stomach and making his muscles tense.

“Go home, Sherlock,” John says.

• • •

Delete it, yeah? That should be easy for you.

Sherlock tries, but each time he keeps thinking of John's hands on his hips, holding him down.

John breathing against his chest, hard. Hot.

John tensing under him.

John in his living room.

John here.

• • •

Sherlock solves two cases in a week, one right after the other.

Instead of feeling horribly smug, as he normally does, he just wants to go home and go to bed. But Lestrade is beaming at him proudly, pulling his coat off the back of the door, and leading Sherlock down the hallway.

“Let me buy you a pint,” he says.

“I don't drink beer,” Sherlock sniffs.

“All right, I'll buy whatever it is that you do drink,” Lestrade says.

“I—”

“Just one drink, Sherlock,” Lestrade says. His voice low, quiet, soft but firm.

Sherlock remembers that voice well. Remembers Lestrade leaning over him, saying, “Come on, up you get. We're taking you to the hospital.” Or pulling him aside and asking – not telling, asking – Sherlock to roll up his sleeves. Telling Sherlock, “I want to work with you, lad, but I can't keep having you coming to my crime scenes high off your arse.”

“Fine,” Sherlock says, defeated.

• • •

Lestrade buys him a whiskey and places it in Sherlock's hand as he walks past the table. Sherlock nurses it slowly as Lestrade watches the game over his shoulder, occasionally making a comment about nothing in particular.

Then Lestrade turns his full attention on him, offering him a warm smile.

“You all right?” he asks.

Sherlock frowns. “What?”

Lestrade shrugs. “Just, you know. You've been a bit... off-kilter, lately.”

Sherlock's frown deepens.

“Nothing too noticeable, mind. You're still doing the work at record-speeds and all that. That hasn't changed. But you're less, um. You haven't called Anderson some... colourful variant of 'moron' in at least a month.”

“Perhaps he located the other half of his brain.”

“I'm being serious, Sherlock,” Lestrade says.

Sherlock sighs. “I'm fine.”

“You're not...”

Sherlock eyes him.

“Not what?” he asks.

“You're not using again, are you?” Lestrade asks.

Sherlock scoffs and downs the rest of his whiskey.

“I don't want to pry,” Lestrade assures him. “I'm just, you know. I'm worried. I don't want you to fall down that path again, and you haven't really been – you've been more distant than usual lately, which is saying something. So, you know. If you are...”

Sherlock twists the glass in his hand, watching the ice slip around the bottom.

“I don't want to nag, either,” Lestrade continues. “I just want you to be healthy.”

“I'm not using again,” Sherlock says.

Lestrade bites his bottom lip, eyeing him closely.

“You have my word,” Sherlock adds.

Lestrade waits a beat, then nods, breaking into a soft smile again.

“All right then.”

• • •

Mrs Hudson hands him a bag of rubbish and Sherlock accepts, if only for an excuse to smoke and not have to worry about Mrs Hudson shouting at him for making the living room smell of it. He drags the rubbish to the skip, tossing in a bag and pulling on his cigarette, blowing smoke into the air as he bends down to grab more rubbish.

“I told her I was helping you with a case,” someone says.

Sherlock glances over his shoulder and sees John standing at the mouth of the alley, a dark silhouette against the streetlights, hands pocketed and head down.

Sherlock waits. John steps closer then stops, standing a few feet away.

“Have you been drinking?” Sherlock asks.

“No,” John says. Then he shuffles awkwardly. “Not tonight.”

Sherlock nods. He finishes tying up the last bag and tosses it away.

“Lestrade texted me... yesterday, I think it was,” John says.

Sherlock inhales more smoke and shrugs his coat closer.

“He's worried you're using again,” John says.

Sherlock grunts. “I told him I wasn't.”

John shrugs. “You can't really blame the guy for not believing you. I still sometimes wonder if you're high off your arse, and I'd like to think I know you better than he does.”

Present tense, Sherlock notes. Interesting. He doesn't let it go.

“Knew,” Sherlock says.

“What?” John asks.

“You knew me better,” Sherlock says. He turns to John, mirrors his position, hands in his pockets, head down. “You've been desperately trying to cut me out of your life since I returned, and even if you haven't succeeded yet, present-tense isn't exactly appropriate.”

John huffs. “Do you want to get off with me or not?”

The question knocks Sherlock's thoughts off-balance. He opens his mouth and closes it again, trying to respond, trying to think. There's too much noise outside, and too much noise inside his head. John watches him, bottom lip between his teeth, eyebrow arched.

“Your old bedroom,” Sherlock says finally. “Mrs Hudson—”

“Okay,” John says.

• • •

At no point does John ask him if he's sure.

At no point does Sherlock think he is, but he does it anyway.

John licks his way into Sherlock's mouth and kneads the muscles in his thighs, runs his hands over his hips, up his sides. Sherlock squirms and inhales sharply, ticklish, and John's mouth twitches against his. He brushes his thumbs over Sherlock's nipples, bends down to take one into his mouth, and Sherlock pants and claws at the sheets.

Sherlock wraps his legs around John's hips and slides up against him, hard skin on hard skin, slick and hot. John watches his move, eyes downcast, and Sherlock leaves bruises on John's neck even though he shouldn't.

“Please,” Sherlock murmurs next to his ear. “John, I want—”

“You want me to fuck you?” John asks.

Sherlock's breath shivers.

“Is that it?” John asks.

Sherlock swallows. John bites his lip, hard, and Sherlock knows he isn't going to take it easy on him.

Sherlock allows himself to be rolled over onto his stomach, pulling the pillow under his chin. John leans over the side of the bed to dig through his pockets, and Sherlock tries to steady his breathing, tries to convince himself that he's happy having John any way he can.

It's hard and fast, burning too-hot, tight, pressing-pain and John comes with his teeth digging into Sherlock's shoulder, and Sherlock only just manages a few minutes later, and only with his hand moving over himself and John nuzzling into the hair at the back of his neck, lips brushing the skin.

Ten minutes later and Sherlock still can't quite stop shaking. The soreness is already starting to creep along his muscles, the back of his thighs, somewhere deep inside him. He tries to calm his breathing, the pain in his chest, his eyes closed, blood pounding in his ears.

When he opens his eyes again, John's sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to him.

Sherlock wants to reach out and press his palm against John's scar. He wants to press his mouth to John's neck, kiss his way along his jaw, over his ear. He wants to wrap his arms around him and pull John close, tuck him under his chin and against his chest.

He doesn't do any of those things.

“Why do I keep doing this?” John asks.

Sherlock doesn't say anything. John scratches his hands through his hair, down his neck, then looks over his shoulder at him. Sherlock's breath catches in his throat.

“You love her,” he says.

“I do,” John says, voice strained.

Sherlock looks at his hands against the sheets. Old sheets. John's old sheets.

“But you want...”

John is silent for a long while.

“I don't know what I want,” he says.

• • •

When John allows Sherlock close, despite John's heat, his soft hands, his gentle mouth, Sherlock feels less like he's melting and more like he's freezing from the inside-out.

• • •

Some nights, Sherlock wonders if it would be easier if he were attracted to someone else.

He remembers Irene, all bright eyes and sharp, dangerous smile. But it was her mind that Sherlock was fascinated with, maybe even attracted to, not her body. He wanted to cut open her skull and root around inside to see what was there, all the secrets she kept, the information she stored, the rules to the games she played.

“She played you hard,” John used to say jokingly. “Sharp mind, tight body. I'd be sore for weeks.”

Sherlock had no idea what he was talking about. John used to tell him that Irene was the type of person he could see Sherlock going for. That they were matched head-for-head, that they'd probably drive one another mad in the best way possible.

But when Sherlock looked at her, he saw a puzzle. He saw something that needed to be torn apart and solved.

When he looked at John he saw a fighter, he saw someone he could trust, he saw a companion, a friend. He saw tanned, sun-warmed skin, and a bright, toothy grin, and someone who would follow him to the end of the world and back again, if Sherlock asked him to.

But then, if Sherlock had, John would be dead and Sherlock would be more lost than he is now.

• • •

Lestrade sends him to the morgue later in the week to look over a body.

Molly fidgets in the corner as he inspects, leaning close to the slab, magnifying glass glinting in the florescent lights. Anderson mutters information to Lestrade, checking the corpse from the opposite side, and Lestrade writes it down in his notebook.

“Check her ears, John,” Sherlock says, moving the woman's hair out of the way. The room falls silent and Sherlock looks up to see Anderson staring at him. Sherlock ducks his head again, buries himself deeper into his coat. Anderson clears his throat and pushes the rest of the woman's hair away from her ears.

“Puncture wounds,” he says.

• • •

He spends as much time away from Baker Street as he can. The flat is far too quiet and being close to his bedroom or to the sofa makes him feel ill. So he throws himself head-first into the case and spends the hours of his days closed up in the lab at Barts, obsessing over information and files and searching for seemingly undetectable drugs in the woman's blood.

Molly hangs about but doesn't say much, and for that, Sherlock is thankful.

Mike stops in with a student on the third day. He slides a mug of coffee across the table for Sherlock and smiles at him warmly when Sherlock glances away from his experiment.

“Miss Hooper says you've been cooped up in here a bit,” he says, sitting down next to him. “Thought I'd help keep you awake.”

Sherlock eyes the student warily. Young, first year. The lab coat hangs off her shoulders and covers her wrists. She has the nitrile gloves rather than the latex ones – allergy, Sherlock thinks. She watches him with wide eyes, mouth slightly agape.

She knows who he is. Sherlock wonders if Mike set this up on purpose.

“A student of mine,” Mike gestures to the girl. “You already knew that, though.”

Sherlock takes a long drink from his mug.

“I-I followed your cases,” the girl says. “From before.”

Sherlock sets the mug down harder than necessary and glares at Mike. Mike beams hopefully.

“I wanted to get into crime scene investigation for a while,” the girl continues. “But... my parents, are paying, so...”

“Shame,” Sherlock says, glancing her over. “The police could use more competent people on their team.”

The girl blushes. Mike grins.

“I need to have a word with Mr Holmes, Anna. I'll meet you downstairs.”

The girl nods and rushes out of the room. Sherlock watches her go then sighs, annoyed.

“Flatterer,” Mike says. “That's not like you at all.”

“Not flattering, just honest,” Sherlock goes back to his test tubes. “You wouldn't have brought her up here if you didn't think she's above her peers. Unfortunately, I'm not interested in an apprentice, so she'll have to find someone else.”

“Pity,” Mike says.

Sherlock takes another drink from his mug. The coffee is too sweet and not strong enough, but it'll have to do. He pulls out an eye-dropper and fills it with liquid from one of the test tubes, then squeezes it into an empty beaker.

“I haven't seen John around for a bit, I figured you might be able to use a hand, since I know you don't like working with that bloke from the Yard,” Mike continues.

Sherlock doesn't reply.

“But then, I suppose John has always been more capable of keeping you under control than anyone else,” Mike says.

Sherlock looks at him. Mike smiles again, cheeks round, glint in his eye. Sherlock thinks he might be insinuating something; Mike was always more perceptive than most. Sherlock opens his mouth to respond. Nothing comes out. He closes his mouth again and clears his throat.

“I hope you know what you're doing,” Mike says, not unkindly.

He knows, Sherlock realises. He might not know the exact details, but somehow, he's figured something out. Sherlock swallows and leans closer to his experiment, watching the bubbles pop inside the beaker. Mike pats his back and slides off the stool.

“Well,” he says. “I best go let Anna down before she gets her hopes up any further.”

• • •

Sherlock draws compounds against John's kneecap underneath the table during dinner.

John licks his lips and shifts away.

“Don't,” he says under his breath.

Sherlock ignores him, slides the tips of his fingers along the seam of John's jeans, and presses the lines of the adrenaline structure into his thigh. John exhales slowly and lets his knees fall open.

John kisses him, hard, in the back of the cab, his hands freezing cold against Sherlock's stomach. John pulls open Sherlock's fly and dips his hand in and brings him off with his teeth digging into Sherlock's bottom lip.

• • •

For a while, it's an endless cycle of pushing and shoving, of Sherlock wanting everything John will give him, and John not knowing if he wants to give any of it at all. But he keeps coming back, and Sherlock doesn't ask why. He's not sure if he wants to know.

• • •

Mary calls him the first week in October – a week before John's birthday. Her voice is cheerful, but lacks its usual brightness. She sounds tired, even over the phone, and when she asks Sherlock if he'll help her pick something out for John's birthday (“A chance for us to get to know one another a little better,” she calls it) Sherlock finds himself agreeing.

Mary eyes his motorcycle warily when he shows up in front of the house with it, but with a shrug of her shoulders and a soft smile, she accepts the helmet and climbs onto the back. She keeps her grip on him light, and he barely feels her as he drives through the streets.

“I used to ride horses,” she says when they park and she hands him back the helmet. “Helps with the balance.”

“Right,” Sherlock says. “There were the photographs at your wedding.”

Mary smiles and nods. They make their way into the crowd together, side-by-side, Mary keeping up with Sherlock's quick pace. They browse in silence for several minutes, Mary digging through boxes and huffing, unsatisfied, when she finds nothing of interest.

“He's such a hard man to buy for,” Mary says as they wander past a homemade clothing stand. “I thought about getting him one of those army knives, but he apparently already has one somewhere, he just can't find it. Probably still packed up in a box.”

Sherlock hums in agreement, following her past stands, his hands in his pockets. He had rarely bought John gifts when they lived together. Perhaps an expensive bottle of wine, or a new suit, or something of necessity that John lacked. Practical things he could use. John had been slightly more sentimental in his gifts, usually picking something Sherlock had eyed with interest while they were out, then going back to the store at a later date to purchase it.

“Maybe I'll just buy him a new pair of socks and be done with it,” Mary says fifteen minutes later, feathers more ruffled than Sherlock can remember ever seeing them.

“A man can always do with more socks,” Sherlock agrees. She laughs.

“Come on,” she says. “I'll buy you lunch.”

• • •

Sherlock can't get a read on her, and that, he thinks, is why he agreed to this in the first place. He knows enough about her, that she's a dancer now teaching at a dance school, that she comes from a wealthy background, that she's adventurous and active – things he was able to glean from photographs and snippets of idle chat overheard between John and Lestrade.

But he can't read her the way he reads everyone else. He always found women harder to read than men, but aside from Irene, he's always managed to get something.

Mary hands him a packaged sandwich and cup of tea. The cafe is small and crowded, and cool from the door opening and closing as people come and go. Sherlock accepts the food wordlessly and tucks in, watching the other patrons go about their business, picking up on bits and pieces of conversation.

“You know,” Mary says a while later, after Sherlock has polished off his food and is working his way through his tea, startling him out of his of his thoughts. “I arranged this because I wanted to talk to you, and now that you're here, in front of me, I'm not quite sure what to say anymore.”

Sherlock blinks at her. She drinks from her mug and sets it down carefully.

“I realise that asking you to stop and hoping you'll listen is probably stupid of me,” she says.

Sherlock stares. His heart feels lodged somewhere in his throat. Mary smiles sadly.

“He doesn't know I know,” she says.

“Know what?” Sherlock asks.

“Sherlock,” Mary looks at him.

Sherlock bites his lip.

“I may not be as observant as you are,” she says. “But I know when my husband is sleeping with someone else.”

Sherlock looks down at his hands. He thinks maybe he should say something, but he has no idea what.

“I guess I should be thankful it's with you and not some random stranger,” Mary says. “When he says he's spending time with you he's not exactly lying, or when he's – he's helping you on a case. I at least know where he is, and I know he's safe. Or, safe as he's ever been with you. Even if he's not with me some nights, at least he's with someone who cares about him.”

Sherlock grips his mug tight to try and prevent his hands from shaking.

“I even understand why,” she continues. “He's always loved you. I think he's always been in love with you. I did worry, going into the relationship, that he was trying to replace you. Maybe he is, but he works hard to make sure I don't feel that way. But I know that I'm never going to be his first choice.”

“He did choose you, though,” Sherlock says.

Mary smiles again.

“Did he, though?” she asks.

Sherlock drinks from his mug.

“I don't want to have to ask him to choose between us,” she says. “That's not fair to him. You're his best friend and you're back from the dead, and I'm his wife and I...”

She falters. Sherlock looks at her, but her eyes are closed as she tries to control her breathing. She opens her eyes again, looks right at him, and continues.

“But I do hope – however unrealistic it might be of me – that you'll understand that I'm – I'm not going to just go away. I will ask him to choose if I have to.”

Sherlock exhales and glances away, at his hands, out the window, anywhere but at her.

“So, please,” Mary touches his wrist, gently. He bites his lip again.

“Please,” she says. “Don't make me have to ask him.”

• • •

Sherlock sits in his living room on the floor, in the dark, and stares up at the ceiling. He picks out constellations in the tiny dots he can see in the dim light, draws them in the air with his index finger. Outside, the streets are quiet, the rain tapping against the window. Inside, his breath falters every so often, caught on an emotion he's trying desperately not to feel.

If John is the sun, and Mary the moon, then Sherlock is a dark cloud hanging over them both.

• • •

The next time John comes by, Sherlock thinks of sending him home again.

But Mary wants him to stop, and that makes Sherlock just want to keep going even more. He wants to dig his heels into the sand and refuse to budge because he saw John first. Finders keepers. The childish part of him protests, thinks that's what matters, even though the adult part of him knows better.

So he lets John inside and brings him to his bedroom. Sherlock kisses his neck and pulls his shirt down, exposing his shoulder, and latches on to the scar. John's breath comes out in sharp gasps and soft murmurs, fingers digging into Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock pulls him into his mouth and tries not to choke on his guilt.

John kisses him after, moans at the taste of himself on Sherlock's lips. Sherlock rocks against him and doesn't say anything, doesn't make a noise.

“Are you all right?” John asks after.

“I'm fine,” Sherlock tells himself aloud.

• • •

John shows up to one of his crime scenes, smiling kindly at everyone, hands in his pockets. He's there because Lestrade invited him, because Anderson keeps getting in the way and Sherlock keeps snapping at him.

He inspects the body and spouts off observations that Sherlock doesn't hear, too distracted by the mark on John's neck that he definitely didn't leave. John gives him a somewhat awkward smile a few minutes later, when Sherlock is pulling off his gloves and Lestrade is hounding him for information.

“Share a cab?” John asks.

Sherlock leaves marks on the other side of John's neck, deeper and darker, plainly visible against the skin, and John swears at him afterwards, rubbing his fingers over the teeth marks, trying to make them go away.

• • •

A week passes.

Then two.

Then three.

Then four.

Sherlock works, and sleeps, and occasionally eats.

He takes on clients and then shoos them away.

He allows Mrs Hudson to dote on him until she becomes annoying.

He most definitely does not keep checking his phone, and he most definitely doesn't feel disappointed when he finds no messages from John waiting for him behind the lock-screen.

• • •

He should have seen it coming.

It was bound to happen, eventually. He felt something, some itch at the back of his head, some scratching, clawing thing trying to warn him that this was going to happen, ever since he sat down with Mary at the cafe in October.

Still, that doesn't mean it doesn't take him by surprise.

He pulls up outside his flat to find John sitting on the front step, arms wrapped around himself and shivering in his collar, and Sherlock knows before he even says anything that John is furious at him. Sherlock shuts off his motorcycle and pulls his helmet off. John stands, but otherwise doesn't move.

Sherlock tucks his helmet under his arm and clears his throat.

“Would you like to come in?” he asks.

“I'm not staying,” John says, voice tight.

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably.

“She knows,” John says. “She told you, and you didn't tell me.”

Sherlock looks at him and doesn't say anything.

“Why didn't you tell me?” John asks.

“You're the one who's married,” Sherlock says. “I'm not hurting anyone.”

John licks his lips and steps closer.

“So what you're saying is—”

“What I'm saying,” Sherlock interrupts. “Is that it's not my responsibility to ensure the safety of your marriage – it's yours.”

John grinds his teeth. “You lied to me.”

“You never asked,” Sherlock says.

“You lied to me by omission, then,” John says. “I trusted you – I wanted to – and you knew and you never said anything. You knew and you let me keep coming back. You selfish—”

“Oh, for God's sake,” Sherlock snaps. “When are you going to stop blaming me for your poor life decisions and start taking some responsibility? You came to me, John. I wasn't just going to – this isn't my fault.”

“Right, because you're the great, death-defying Sherlock Holmes!” John shouts. “How could anything possibly be your fault?”

“Are we done here?” Sherlock asks.

John grabs the front of his coat and Sherlock flinches, expecting another punch, another chinning, some other of flare-up of pain that John readily dishes out, but nothing comes. John throws his hands down and steps away, baring his teeth.

“Yeah,” he says. “We're done.”

• • •

“You and John had a little domestic?” Mrs Hudson used to say, smiling to herself at her own private joke. Sherlock always ignored her in favour of stomping off to his room or pretending to look at something through his microscope. He'd never admit to her that he always wondered if this would be the fight that drove John away.

None of them ever were, and Mrs Hudson kept making her knowing, playful quips.

Now she sits with him in the evening, pats his hand gently, or his knee. She tells him it will be all right, he'll see, and there's no knowing smile, no playful lilt to her voice.

And that's how he knows that it won't be.

• • •

The event horizon of a black hole is a boundary where any events that occur beyond the horizon line do not affect those on the opposite side.

Sherlock thinks that, if he could place an event horizon anywhere along his own time line, it would be on the night he met John Watson. When they returned to Baker Street, breathless and laughing after chasing down a cab. After Sherlock said, “Mrs Hudson, Doctor Watson will take the room upstairs,” after Angelo knocked on the door and handed John back his cane.

It's there that Sherlock would place a little black dot. Right after John looked over his shoulder and smiled at him, a mix of disbelief and amazement.

• • •

It's nearly summer again when Sherlock hears from John.

The silence from him has stretched out for so long until that point in time that seeing John's name on the screen of his phone nearly throws him off his feet with confusion. Sherlock had tried getting in contact with him, e-mails, text messages, even voice mail, and each time felt like he was shouting into a void.

It's just a short text:

John doesn't say why, or where, or when, or what's going to happen. Sherlock holds his breath and types out his response, sending it after a moment's hesitation.

• • •

John is already inside Speedy's and nursing a coffee when Sherlock comes downstairs to meet him. Sherlock twitches his shoulders, shifting his coat up higher as he orders a cup of tea, more for something to do with his hands than any desire to drink it, and plunks down in the seat across from John.

John looks, for lack of a better term, like shit. Sherlock looks over him and feels his chest tighten the more details he takes in: John's listless eyes, his dull, greying hair, the lines around his skin, the knot of pain in his shoulder. He's exhausted and weak, and he doesn't even bother trying to convince Sherlock otherwise.

Sherlock waits, hands wrapped around his tea, feeling numb. John inhales slowly and tilts his head down, tapping his fingers against his mug distractedly.

“They've given her six months,” he says. “Maybe a year.”

Sherlock shifts in his seat.

“I'm...” he starts. John shakes his head.

“Don't,” he says. “I know you're not.”

Sherlock can't decide if he's irritated or relieved at that. He doesn't even know if he is sorry. He knows he should be, but knowing he should be and actually feeling it are two completely opposite ends of the spectrum, so far as he's concerned.

“The doctors thought she had more time, when we met,” John says. “They thought she might even go into remission, with the direction she was heading. It seemed like she was getting better for a bit. She's – she's strong. It's just – it's just... stronger.”

Of course, Sherlock thinks. The last few times he had seen Mary, she had looked tired, frailer, smaller. He had assumed it was something else, her and John fighting, perhaps – whatever it was that drove John to him – and maybe it was, partially. Sherlock knew something was wrong, he just didn't know what.

There's always something.

“You knew she was dying yet you still married her,” Sherlock says.

John smiles sadly into his mug.

“I love her,” he says.

“And yet you were unfaithful,” Sherlock says.

John swallows and doesn't say anything.

“You knew,” Sherlock says. “You knew I – I've always... you must have. And you still...”

John looks at him, then looks away, exhaling.

“I love her,” he says again, and it's like being stabbed in the chest. “I love her, and I want – wanted – something stable. I wanted to not have to worry about someone every single second, wondering where they were and what they were up to and if they'd make it back home alive every time I was left behind.”

He bites his lip, then laughs softly.

“I guess that kind of back-fired.”

John finishes his tea and Sherlock's goes cold.

“I kept coming back, though, didn't I?” John asks eventually. “Maybe... maybe you should ask me that instead. Not why I chose her over you, but why I kept coming back.”

It doesn't matter anymore, Sherlock thinks. John could keep coming back to him, again and again, but it'll never be the same as John choosing him. John chose her, and John is still going to choose her, and John is always going to choose her, so long as she's still here. Because that's just the man John is. He always has to help, he always has to be useful.

Mary tells him she loves him and needs him and that he makes her laugh, while Sherlock forgets him at crime scenes and doesn't buy the milk and uses John to try and convince himself he doesn't feel anything.

John watches him, turning his empty mug in his hands, slowly. Sherlock swallows.

“Will you?” he asks after a while.

“Will I what?” John asks.

“Come back,” Sherlock says.

After, he thinks. After Mary is... after she's gone.

He can't bring himself to say it.

John bites his lip and looks out the window.

Sherlock waits (and waits, and waits.)

Finally, John says, “I don't know.”