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gayalondiel_bakFandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Title: The Wisdom of Winter is Madness in May (Youth of the Heart 3/4+epilogue)
Character/Pairing: Sherlock/John, John/Mary, Sherlock/John/Mary
Length: c.2000 words
Rating: R (yes that's gone up from the last part.)
Spoilers: Reichenbach, non-specific
Warnings: Semi-explicit sex scene (brief), angst in spades, injury.
Disclaimer: The Holmes characters fall in the public domain: This version falls under the creative control of Messers Moffatt and Gatiss, and the BBC. No ownership is implied or inferred. This is done for love only.
Summary: Follows Love That Is True Love & Never Be Sung. Sherlock, John and Mary try to work out how to get on with their lives.
Youth of the Heart
1: Love That is True Love
2: Never Be Sung
3: The Wisdom of Winter is Madness in May
4: Saved for My Darling
Epilogue: Will Not Fade Away
Crossposted to:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
221b_slash, johnsherlock, dispatch_box, sherlockbbc, cox_and_co, watsons_woes
Master Fanfic List
Three months down the line, they were managing, constructing a life that worked around the three of them.
Three months after Sherlock had kissed John once more, stepped back and told him to take his wife on his honeymoon and forget about what they had had; after John had dried his eyes and walked away with stiff shoulders; after Sherlock had paced the flat for hours, longing to go out and find something to relieve the numbing chill of it, prevented only by the guilt he would see in John’s eyes when he found out.
Two months after Mary had started inviting him round regularly for dinner in their lovely, warm, bright flat, and he had bitten the inside of his cheek and grudgingly accepted because he didn’t want to lose his past friend as well as his future lover.
One month after John had begun to relax with both of them in the same room and they had found that they could have fun, could discuss cases and tease John over his dress sense, and insult Sherlock’s lack of basic primary school knowledge. John teased Mary too, but Sherlock did not, although her eyes met his in bright challenge from time to time. All the while there was a tension hanging over the three of them, something that none of them could put a name to and none of them could dismiss.
Then came John’s birthday. It was a quiet evening, the decentish pub near Mary and John’s flat with the Lestrades and a couple of others from John’s surgery and the Met. Greg gave Sherlock a concerned look when he turned up a few minutes later than the Watsons to socialise with them in publicly for the first time, and he gave him a fractional nod in response. He was grateful that Sarah was not there to raise her eyebrows and attempt her own deductions about the nature of the relationship between the three of them. He knew what she thought about any woman willing to put up with him after her own fairly disastrous falling out with John over their work. Even though that was long before either he or John had considered themselves to be anything but friends and colleagues.
There was indeed something inevitable about that night, something that Greg and Sarah would both have frowned on but would not have been terribly surprised about. Sherlock, safely installed as best friend once again, was invited back to the Watsons’ rather than having to make his way back across town. John was already several pints the worse for wear and when they got back Mary produced the good whisky and they sat together drinking in a warm companionable fog.
John was leaning against him on the sofa and it seemed only natural when Mary left the room to turn to look at him, only to find John was looking back, and then somehow they were kissing deeply and Mary had returned and was standing in front of them. Before anyone could feel guilty or draw back, she had taken both of their hands and pulled them gently but firmly in the direction of the king-sized four-poster bed in the master bedroom.
The world narrowed into a blur of hands, lips, clothing being tugged away to reveal smooth skin, long brunette hair, short dirty blonde hair and tight black curls, lips and fluttering eyelashes. It wasn’t equal; Mary knew Sherlock had nothing but a perfunctory interest in her and returned about the same amount of attention. It was John’s birthday, and they had somehow come to a mute conclusion about how to give him what he wanted, everything he wanted, without feeling that he was betraying either of them or indeed himself, and so they focused their attentions on him.
John had not reached the same conclusion, though. As Mary traced patterns down his bare chest and tugged his hand beneath the silk of her blouse, and Sherlock pressed close behind him, lips against his neck, they both felt a shiver run through him. Then suddenly he moved away in a whirl of movement, leaving cold air between them, and fled the room.
They sat dumbstruck for a while, and then Mary tugged on her dressing gown and snatched up John’s.
“Give us a minute?” she said unhappily before rushing downstairs.
Sherlock retrieved his shirt from the foot of the bed and tugged it on, straightening his clothes and running his fingers through his hair to distract from the warring sensations of frustration, rejection, intoxication and relief all buzzing beneath his skin.
When he slipped down the stairs a few minutes later, John and Mary were huddled together on the sofa. John was pale and looked like he was holding back tears, and Mary looked distressed.
“I can’t,” John was whispering. “It’s too much, too...”
“I know,” she replied. “I’m sorry, it just happened. It’s not... It doesn’t matter, baby. I’m sorry.”
“I understand why you thought... I’m so grateful, Mary, you really are amazing. I love you so much.”
“I know, baby.”
Something cold dampened all Sherlock’s emotions with one single realisation. John loved Mary. John was happy with Mary, had chosen her. Sherlock was his friend, his best friend, but that was all. All he could ever be, and if he pushed now, he would lose that too.
As quietly as possible he picked up his shoes and slipped out the door and down the stairs. He walked in his socks on the cold pavement until he was around the corner of the street and could drop his head back and curse at the stars and moon and the whole damned world for not telling him that he had lost.
***
He did not speak to John for three days, although he had a text from Mary the morning after checking that he had got home safely, to which he sent a single syllable by way of reply. On the fourth day Lestrade appeared at Baker Street with a locked room multiple murder-suicide, or possibly something else, and he knew the time was right. He pulled out his phone.
Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH
After that it was easier. He had John some days and some evenings, a friend and a colleague, and eventually they had their easy repartee back. Mary had John evenings and any day there wasn’t a case, and sometimes she convinced John to stay home even though there was one. For Sherlock that was deeply frustrating, in a way it always would have been, but he realised that in this case it was necessary, however irksome, to compromise.
Of course, Mary got John at nights, unless they were the kind of nights that involved hours or research or stakeouts in the freezing cold. At the end of those John went home to his four poster bed and his beautiful wife, and Sherlock went home alone to his violin.
On two occasions Sherlock was badly hurt, and John stayed with him then, sitting at his bedside until Sherlock reached out and dragged him down to the bed to stop him from falling asleep and toppling from his chair. Both times he awoke with John’s fully clothed arms wrapped tenderly around him and stayed still until he felt a kiss pressed to his temple, but they never spoke about it.
Once, in winter, John was thrown through thin ice in Regent’s Park and Sherlock half dragged him back to the flat and pulled him into a huddle of arms and duvet on the bed. When Mary arrived at his summons, she let herself in and silently joined them in the chaste but intimate embrace, staying all night and late into the morning.
***
Eventually the day came that he had been anticipating with a sense of dread for some time, although John had not hinted at it. Mary turned up at Baker Street halfway through a case with a packed supper for her husband. Sherlock could see instantly that there was something different about her, and the warm but somehow slightly proprietory smile John gave her after brushing her cheek with a kiss.
“How long?” asked Sherlock, determinedly distracted. Mary’s eyes widened but John just shook his head.
“I should have known,” he muttered.
“Seven weeks,” said Mary with a bright smile. “It’s really early days, so please, don’t tell anyone?”
“Of course not,” replied Sherlock, trying to ignore the way his mind was extrapolating the duties of a father, the responsibilities, the time that would take from John’s life.
From his own life.
***
John’s next birthday had been and gone, with significantly less alcohol, when Mary turned up unexpectedly at Sherlock’s flat and let herself in. It was unusual for her to be there without John as he was essentially what they had in common, and beyond that she understood better than most people how Sherlock needed space from people, mundane minds and dull chatter. He could understand what it was about her that so enthralled John: she was, in her own way, brilliant.
“I have something to ask you,” she said. “I was hoping John would ask but he’s been a little wary about it, and I thought...”
Possibilities flashed through Sherlock’s mind, but as with John, he had learned early that he could not reliably anticipate Mary. The day John walked into the flat and told him that she was giving him the choice of the two of them, he had realised that, and she had not stopped surprising him.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, gesturing her to the armchair that he still thought of as John’s. She smiled and eased into it, four months of pregnancy now showing on her otherwise slender frame.
“You know we’re expecting a boy?” she asked. Sherlock nodded. “Well, traditionally that means two godfathers and a godmother. We’ve already asked Greg and Sheena, and we... John... would be honoured if you would be the other godfather.”
Sherlock was at least gratified that he had been right to think she could still surprise him. He sat in silence for a long moment.
“I’m hardly a parental figure,” he said.
“You’re John’s best friend.”
“I don’t think I could be described as responsible.”
“You’re very capable. And intelligent.”
“Terribly unreliable.”
“There is no-one in this world that John trusts more than you.”
“Even after...”
“Especially after that,” Mary said firmly. “Sherlock, you came back from the dead for John, and you were dead because he had to be safe, and you came back and stuck it out even though it wasn’t what you expected. I know he doesn’t say so, but that means the world to John. We don’t need an answer now, but would you think about it? Please?”
“Of course,” replied Sherlock helplessly. It was a gross misrepresentation of the facts but he couldn’t face the argument that would ensue if he pushed it. At the very least, considering the request would give him time to form a coherent argument against being named a godfather. Maybe it would be long enough to acclimatise to the idea that John wanted to be able to call him family, in some distant way, and to consider accepting.
Mary stayed for a little longer and then rose to go and run her errands. Sherlock saw her down the stairs - apparently her sense of courtesy was rubbing off on him - and something in the back of his mind noted that the road outside was particularly empty as she kissed him on the cheek and he turned to go back inside.
He heard the roar of the engines and the police car siren as he closed the door, and he yanked it back open just too late to see the impact as the joy-ridden BMW mounted the pavement where Mary was walking away. The BMW pulled off with squealing tyres, the police car dragged to a halt and two officers piled out yelling into their radios. But Sherlock only had eyes for Mary, John’s wife, the mother of John’s child, lying on the pavement, the life ebbing from her. With one hand he grabbed his phone as he dropped to his knees in blood - Mary’s blood, John’s lifeblood - and with the other he grabbed at hers, calling her name.
She could not die. John needed her, and all the warring emotions he had lived with for over a year were swept away. She could not die.
John was answering his call, and Sherlock heard himself say “Baker Street... Mary... now...” He heard the panic in John’s voice as he understood and began to run, wherever he was. Then the phone had slipped from his fingers and both his hands were on Mary, trying to keep her alive, keep her awake, fend off the police who were trying to take over.
John needed her. She could not die.
Title: The Wisdom of Winter is Madness in May (Youth of the Heart 3/4+epilogue)
Character/Pairing: Sherlock/John, John/Mary, Sherlock/John/Mary
Length: c.2000 words
Rating: R (yes that's gone up from the last part.)
Spoilers: Reichenbach, non-specific
Warnings: Semi-explicit sex scene (brief), angst in spades, injury.
Disclaimer: The Holmes characters fall in the public domain: This version falls under the creative control of Messers Moffatt and Gatiss, and the BBC. No ownership is implied or inferred. This is done for love only.
Summary: Follows Love That Is True Love & Never Be Sung. Sherlock, John and Mary try to work out how to get on with their lives.
Youth of the Heart
1: Love That is True Love
2: Never Be Sung
3: The Wisdom of Winter is Madness in May
4: Saved for My Darling
Epilogue: Will Not Fade Away
Crossposted to:
221b_slash, johnsherlock, dispatch_box, sherlockbbc, cox_and_co, watsons_woesMaster Fanfic List
Three months down the line, they were managing, constructing a life that worked around the three of them.
Three months after Sherlock had kissed John once more, stepped back and told him to take his wife on his honeymoon and forget about what they had had; after John had dried his eyes and walked away with stiff shoulders; after Sherlock had paced the flat for hours, longing to go out and find something to relieve the numbing chill of it, prevented only by the guilt he would see in John’s eyes when he found out.
Two months after Mary had started inviting him round regularly for dinner in their lovely, warm, bright flat, and he had bitten the inside of his cheek and grudgingly accepted because he didn’t want to lose his past friend as well as his future lover.
One month after John had begun to relax with both of them in the same room and they had found that they could have fun, could discuss cases and tease John over his dress sense, and insult Sherlock’s lack of basic primary school knowledge. John teased Mary too, but Sherlock did not, although her eyes met his in bright challenge from time to time. All the while there was a tension hanging over the three of them, something that none of them could put a name to and none of them could dismiss.
Then came John’s birthday. It was a quiet evening, the decentish pub near Mary and John’s flat with the Lestrades and a couple of others from John’s surgery and the Met. Greg gave Sherlock a concerned look when he turned up a few minutes later than the Watsons to socialise with them in publicly for the first time, and he gave him a fractional nod in response. He was grateful that Sarah was not there to raise her eyebrows and attempt her own deductions about the nature of the relationship between the three of them. He knew what she thought about any woman willing to put up with him after her own fairly disastrous falling out with John over their work. Even though that was long before either he or John had considered themselves to be anything but friends and colleagues.
There was indeed something inevitable about that night, something that Greg and Sarah would both have frowned on but would not have been terribly surprised about. Sherlock, safely installed as best friend once again, was invited back to the Watsons’ rather than having to make his way back across town. John was already several pints the worse for wear and when they got back Mary produced the good whisky and they sat together drinking in a warm companionable fog.
John was leaning against him on the sofa and it seemed only natural when Mary left the room to turn to look at him, only to find John was looking back, and then somehow they were kissing deeply and Mary had returned and was standing in front of them. Before anyone could feel guilty or draw back, she had taken both of their hands and pulled them gently but firmly in the direction of the king-sized four-poster bed in the master bedroom.
The world narrowed into a blur of hands, lips, clothing being tugged away to reveal smooth skin, long brunette hair, short dirty blonde hair and tight black curls, lips and fluttering eyelashes. It wasn’t equal; Mary knew Sherlock had nothing but a perfunctory interest in her and returned about the same amount of attention. It was John’s birthday, and they had somehow come to a mute conclusion about how to give him what he wanted, everything he wanted, without feeling that he was betraying either of them or indeed himself, and so they focused their attentions on him.
John had not reached the same conclusion, though. As Mary traced patterns down his bare chest and tugged his hand beneath the silk of her blouse, and Sherlock pressed close behind him, lips against his neck, they both felt a shiver run through him. Then suddenly he moved away in a whirl of movement, leaving cold air between them, and fled the room.
They sat dumbstruck for a while, and then Mary tugged on her dressing gown and snatched up John’s.
“Give us a minute?” she said unhappily before rushing downstairs.
Sherlock retrieved his shirt from the foot of the bed and tugged it on, straightening his clothes and running his fingers through his hair to distract from the warring sensations of frustration, rejection, intoxication and relief all buzzing beneath his skin.
When he slipped down the stairs a few minutes later, John and Mary were huddled together on the sofa. John was pale and looked like he was holding back tears, and Mary looked distressed.
“I can’t,” John was whispering. “It’s too much, too...”
“I know,” she replied. “I’m sorry, it just happened. It’s not... It doesn’t matter, baby. I’m sorry.”
“I understand why you thought... I’m so grateful, Mary, you really are amazing. I love you so much.”
“I know, baby.”
Something cold dampened all Sherlock’s emotions with one single realisation. John loved Mary. John was happy with Mary, had chosen her. Sherlock was his friend, his best friend, but that was all. All he could ever be, and if he pushed now, he would lose that too.
As quietly as possible he picked up his shoes and slipped out the door and down the stairs. He walked in his socks on the cold pavement until he was around the corner of the street and could drop his head back and curse at the stars and moon and the whole damned world for not telling him that he had lost.
***
He did not speak to John for three days, although he had a text from Mary the morning after checking that he had got home safely, to which he sent a single syllable by way of reply. On the fourth day Lestrade appeared at Baker Street with a locked room multiple murder-suicide, or possibly something else, and he knew the time was right. He pulled out his phone.
Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH
After that it was easier. He had John some days and some evenings, a friend and a colleague, and eventually they had their easy repartee back. Mary had John evenings and any day there wasn’t a case, and sometimes she convinced John to stay home even though there was one. For Sherlock that was deeply frustrating, in a way it always would have been, but he realised that in this case it was necessary, however irksome, to compromise.
Of course, Mary got John at nights, unless they were the kind of nights that involved hours or research or stakeouts in the freezing cold. At the end of those John went home to his four poster bed and his beautiful wife, and Sherlock went home alone to his violin.
On two occasions Sherlock was badly hurt, and John stayed with him then, sitting at his bedside until Sherlock reached out and dragged him down to the bed to stop him from falling asleep and toppling from his chair. Both times he awoke with John’s fully clothed arms wrapped tenderly around him and stayed still until he felt a kiss pressed to his temple, but they never spoke about it.
Once, in winter, John was thrown through thin ice in Regent’s Park and Sherlock half dragged him back to the flat and pulled him into a huddle of arms and duvet on the bed. When Mary arrived at his summons, she let herself in and silently joined them in the chaste but intimate embrace, staying all night and late into the morning.
***
Eventually the day came that he had been anticipating with a sense of dread for some time, although John had not hinted at it. Mary turned up at Baker Street halfway through a case with a packed supper for her husband. Sherlock could see instantly that there was something different about her, and the warm but somehow slightly proprietory smile John gave her after brushing her cheek with a kiss.
“How long?” asked Sherlock, determinedly distracted. Mary’s eyes widened but John just shook his head.
“I should have known,” he muttered.
“Seven weeks,” said Mary with a bright smile. “It’s really early days, so please, don’t tell anyone?”
“Of course not,” replied Sherlock, trying to ignore the way his mind was extrapolating the duties of a father, the responsibilities, the time that would take from John’s life.
From his own life.
***
John’s next birthday had been and gone, with significantly less alcohol, when Mary turned up unexpectedly at Sherlock’s flat and let herself in. It was unusual for her to be there without John as he was essentially what they had in common, and beyond that she understood better than most people how Sherlock needed space from people, mundane minds and dull chatter. He could understand what it was about her that so enthralled John: she was, in her own way, brilliant.
“I have something to ask you,” she said. “I was hoping John would ask but he’s been a little wary about it, and I thought...”
Possibilities flashed through Sherlock’s mind, but as with John, he had learned early that he could not reliably anticipate Mary. The day John walked into the flat and told him that she was giving him the choice of the two of them, he had realised that, and she had not stopped surprising him.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, gesturing her to the armchair that he still thought of as John’s. She smiled and eased into it, four months of pregnancy now showing on her otherwise slender frame.
“You know we’re expecting a boy?” she asked. Sherlock nodded. “Well, traditionally that means two godfathers and a godmother. We’ve already asked Greg and Sheena, and we... John... would be honoured if you would be the other godfather.”
Sherlock was at least gratified that he had been right to think she could still surprise him. He sat in silence for a long moment.
“I’m hardly a parental figure,” he said.
“You’re John’s best friend.”
“I don’t think I could be described as responsible.”
“You’re very capable. And intelligent.”
“Terribly unreliable.”
“There is no-one in this world that John trusts more than you.”
“Even after...”
“Especially after that,” Mary said firmly. “Sherlock, you came back from the dead for John, and you were dead because he had to be safe, and you came back and stuck it out even though it wasn’t what you expected. I know he doesn’t say so, but that means the world to John. We don’t need an answer now, but would you think about it? Please?”
“Of course,” replied Sherlock helplessly. It was a gross misrepresentation of the facts but he couldn’t face the argument that would ensue if he pushed it. At the very least, considering the request would give him time to form a coherent argument against being named a godfather. Maybe it would be long enough to acclimatise to the idea that John wanted to be able to call him family, in some distant way, and to consider accepting.
Mary stayed for a little longer and then rose to go and run her errands. Sherlock saw her down the stairs - apparently her sense of courtesy was rubbing off on him - and something in the back of his mind noted that the road outside was particularly empty as she kissed him on the cheek and he turned to go back inside.
He heard the roar of the engines and the police car siren as he closed the door, and he yanked it back open just too late to see the impact as the joy-ridden BMW mounted the pavement where Mary was walking away. The BMW pulled off with squealing tyres, the police car dragged to a halt and two officers piled out yelling into their radios. But Sherlock only had eyes for Mary, John’s wife, the mother of John’s child, lying on the pavement, the life ebbing from her. With one hand he grabbed his phone as he dropped to his knees in blood - Mary’s blood, John’s lifeblood - and with the other he grabbed at hers, calling her name.
She could not die. John needed her, and all the warring emotions he had lived with for over a year were swept away. She could not die.
John was answering his call, and Sherlock heard himself say “Baker Street... Mary... now...” He heard the panic in John’s voice as he understood and began to run, wherever he was. Then the phone had slipped from his fingers and both his hands were on Mary, trying to keep her alive, keep her awake, fend off the police who were trying to take over.
John needed her. She could not die.
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no subject
Date: 2011-08-11 12:04 am (UTC)thank you.
no subject
Date: 2011-08-14 08:11 pm (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2011-08-11 12:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-14 08:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-11 12:34 am (UTC)What a great piece.
Brilliant how you laid on the heavy wet blankets of Sherlock's acquiescence...one after another after another until one can barely breathe for the soul crushing weight of them.
And then the shock.
I would love it if there were more to this.
no subject
Date: 2011-08-14 08:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-11 01:02 am (UTC)That was as they say in the land where I left my youth, 'wicked good' .
(yes, really that is a compliment.. Ask irisbleufic,she went to school in Boston)
... Do it again...
I really should not enjoy this so very much, but I do!
no subject
Date: 2011-08-14 08:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-11 01:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-14 08:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-14 08:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-11 01:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-14 08:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-11 01:48 am (UTC)*eagerly awaits the next bit*
no subject
Date: 2011-08-14 08:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-11 02:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-14 08:20 pm (UTC)However...
no subject
Date: 2011-08-11 10:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-14 08:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-12 02:31 am (UTC)I'M BEING TORN APART BY SO MANY EMOTIONS!
no subject
Date: 2011-08-14 08:22 pm (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2011-08-12 08:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-14 08:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-13 07:25 pm (UTC)PS: I love how you balance t all so that one can not hate Mary.
no subject
Date: 2011-08-14 08:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-14 01:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-14 08:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-08 07:56 am (UTC)