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gayalondiel_bakFandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Title: Saved for My Darling (4/4+epilogue)
Character/Pairing: Sherlock/John, John/Mary
Length: c.3000 words
Rating: R
Spoilers: Reichenbach
Warnings: Character death
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: Part four of the Youth of the Heart sequence. Sherlock comes to terms with what Mary's death means for John, and for them both.
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
Sherlock had been sat in the waiting room, shifting his angular frame against hard moulded plastic for a good fifteen hours when John walked back in, his skin ashen, his hands trembling. There was a nurse at his side, one hand on his arm, but Sherlock didn’t need to hear from him. He knew.
In an instant he was at John’s side, one arm around him protectively, and the nurse stepped back. John looked up at him, dazed.
“We need to wait,” he said. “There’s paperwork... I need to sign things. I need to call Mary’s parents. I need... Sheena and Greg, they’ll help. Can you...”
Sherlock already had his phone to his ear, firmly quashing the stinging pain that John wanted someone else to help, not him. Maybe John blamed him? Maybe he would never be able to talk to him again, never look in the eyes of the man who knelt helplessly by his wife as the life drained from her.
Greg was answering. Sherlock fumbled for words, concision warring with not wanting to see John’s eyes flood and spill over as the truth fell irrevocably from his lips. He spoke quietly and Greg understood too soon.
“We’re coming, we’re coming now. I’ll bring the car. We’re just a few minutes away. Jesus. I’m so sorry. We’re coming now.”
Sherlock hung up the phone. Looking down, he noticed that although John was sat motionless and silent, his hand had dropped to the side and was resting between them. The backs of his fingers just brushed Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock hesitated, then slipped his hand down to meet it and John tightened his fingers and held on, as though he needed an anchor.
Sherlock wondered if this was the way he had been when he found that note at the waterfall, realised that Sherlock was dead. He remembered watching from a distance as John yelled his name, over and over into the rushing water, but he couldn’t remember if he had seen this dullness in his eyes, or this grey in his skin.
He wondered who had held John’s hand that day. Whether anyone had.
***
In the days leading up to the funeral, Sherlock found that the pang of guilty envy he had felt at the hospital had been unjustified. John wanted Greg and Sheena around because they were practical people. They could arrange and communicate and provide level heads for issues like funerals and wakes, catering and logistics. They came every day, bringing casseroles from themselves, Donovan, Anderson’s wife, Dimmock, and others from the team. Dimmock’s, surprisingly, turned out to be the best by far. They brought spreadsheets and lists and provided a talking-to-families service so John didn’t have to deal with it. The only phone calls John took were from Harry, and that was the only time anyone heard John cry.
Greg and Sheena came every day, but Sherlock never left. That first night Greg had driven them back to John’s flat and they all stayed, drifting off to sleep where they sat in mutual shock. Sherlock had dozed for an hour and when he woke saw the Lestrades curled together on the sofa, clinging to one another tightly in sleep. John had disappeared, and when he went looking Sherlock found him sitting on the bed, clutching Mary’s jumper with a dead look in his own eyes.
Sherlock watched him for a moment, unable to even think of any words that might work, and then turned to go. He was almost round the corner to the living room when a word drifted out after him.
“Stay.”
Sherlock didn’t move. “Tonight? Of course.”
John’s breath was shaking. “I mean, until... stay. For a bit.”
Sherlock nodded. “Of course.”
***
“A bit” stretched out to “until the funeral”. The wake was held at John and Mary’s flat and after the service John focused on hosting, Sheena on food and Greg on keeping the chatter as light as he could manage. Sherlock skulked in the corner for the most part, avoiding the uneasy looks that the more distant members of Mary’s family threw him, knowing him only as someone who had turned up and disrupted the wedding briefly before fleeing. Every now and then, though, John would pass with someone and introduce him as “my friend, Sherlock Holmes,” with just enough bite to make a point.
When the last people had gone and Greg and Sheena had finished cleaning up and disappeared into a taxi, Sherlock lay back on the bed in the spare room and closed his eyes. Never the best at schooling his mind to stillness, he was inundated with images from the day. Mourners in grey and black gathered in a church, a bland Church of England service conducted by a bland Church of England vicar. John standing, speaking a few halting words over the coffin before it was borne to the cemetery. The interment had been family only and Sherlock wasn’t sure how he qualified for that, but he had, and so he had seen John, cold and unmoving as a statute, head bowed over the grave.
No-one had caught his eye or muttered to him that nearly five years ago John had stood the same way at another memorial service.
No-one had to.
The door opened, shattering his thoughts. Before he could open his eyes the bed dipped and he felt John slip beneath the covers next to him.
“John...”
John moved close and it was more than Sherlock could do to resist putting his arms around him. John’s head settled on his shoulder.
“I miss her,” he whispered. Something was broken in his voice. Sherlock tightened his arms and held him through the wakeful night.
***
Sherlock had been back at Baker Street, getting on with life, for three weeks when he heard John’s footsteps on the stairs. He had been making a point of texting him every day, little inconsequential things, things that said “I’m here if you need me” without actually saying the words, and John had been texting back. He hadn’t made any suggestion of coming over though, which was why Sherlock turned in surprise as the door opened. John walked in with a rucksack slung over one shoulder. It was immediately clear what he was thinking.
“Do you mind?” he asked without preamble. “I need some space. Do you mind if I come home for a bit?”
“Home?” replied Sherlock, unable to let the word pass unremarked. John smiled ruefully.
“Home from home, I guess,” he replied, dropping his bag by the door and walking over to his armchair. “Chinese?”
The evening passed in a haze of takeaway and bad science-fiction, after John flicked on the TV and found an old movie called The Rocketeer that he claimed to have loved as a child. It was ridiculous by anyone’s standards, down to the jet-pack equipped Nazis, but John seemed to relax. During one of the ad breaks he made tea and when he returned settled on the sofa beside Sherlock instead of in his chair. Sherlock took the opportunity of discreetly observing him, taking in the lines in his skin, the bags under his eyes. He estimated with concern that John had lost five to six pounds since the funeral.
John was talking slightly blearily about how much of an asset it would be for Sherlock to have a jetpack. He was describing bird’s eye detective skills and the speed of direct flight across London, but Sherlock listened to the rhythm and slur of his words instead and recognised the sign that John hadn’t slept properly in days, maybe weeks. So when the movie finished he just flicked through the channels until he found something acceptable and let John watch that too, until he slumped against Sherlock’s shoulder and began to breathe more deeply.
They stayed like that for five hours, until Sherlock’s back and neck ached, but he tried to doze and didn’t move until he felt John stir. As the morning light stole through the window John muttered and woke, and Sherlock turned to look at him. John raised his head, and the connection between them suddenly seemed overwhelmingly strong. Sherlock felt himself close the distance and pressed a kiss on John’s lips. John kissed him back needily, parting his lips.
They jumped back at the same moment, putting a gulf between them.
“I’m sorry,” whispered Sherlock. The unfamiliar word tasted savoury and bitter between his teeth.
John nodded mutely, looking shaken. He got up in silence and headed upstairs to the spare room that Sherlock still thought of as John’s . His fingertips brushed Sherlock’s shoulder as he passed.
***
Months ticked by and John stayed more frequently at Baker Street, first during cases and on bad days (Mary’s birthday, their anniversary, days when the sun had the temerity to shine happily), then on days after cases when he made sure Sherlock’s post-fasting diet was reasonably healthy, then a few times a week for movie nights and takeout with no excuse. Everyone else had seen it coming a mile off and then some when John finally moved back in completely, giving up the lease on his home with Mary.
The day he moved in Sherlock got buried in emails for a few hours and only surfaced when his internal John monitor informed him that he had been in his room for six hours without making a noise. He stuck his head round the door and found his once-again flatmate sat on the bed with an empty box on the floor and jewellery and dried flowers, keepsakes and mementos strewn around him. His eyes were red.
“Tea?” asked Sherlock, and headed back downstairs to put the kettle on, and to give John space to collect himself and follow.
Sherlock made the tea, dug out the oat and raisin cookies that Mrs Hudson had dropped in for them that morning, and found John settled on the sofa when he entered the living room. John’s fingers brushed his as he handed him the mug, and Sherlock felt the old familiar shiver of sensation at the contact. He ignored it, but when he sat John leant in towards him. His intent was unmistakable as he put down the mug and guided Sherlock’s face around gently with a light touch of fingers on his jaw.
It took an heroic effort, as John reached up for a kiss, for Sherlock to put a stilling hand on his shoulder.
“John...”
“Sherlock. Please...”
“No.” The word was painful, cold, final, and hurt flashed in John’s eyes moments before the shutters slammed down behind them. “You’re not ready, John. You need to...”
“Don’t tell me what I need!” snapped John harshly. His cheeks were flushed with humiliation and anger. He practically leapt from the sofa, ignoring his tea, and stormed back up the stairs. The door slammed behind him.
The next day he trotted down the stairs enquiring about tea, breakfast and whether Sherlock had a case on, like it had never happened. Sherlock had spent the night fighting off his desire to run after John, kiss him, claim him and own him again, with the knowledge that now was not the time, that there might never be a time for them. He let the unspoken questions and worries pass as John placed a plate of toast in front of him.
***
Sherlock picked up the phone the third time the unidentified number rang in short succession. The voice on the other end of the line was not one he heard often, as John kept her at a distance, but he recognised Harry immediately. She would not be calling him unless it was serious.
“What is it?” he asked briskly.
“It’s John,” she replied. “He’s not in a good way, I need you to go find him. I’d go, but it’ll take me a couple of hours to get into town, and...”
Quickly he interrogated her for details. John had called her about half an hour ago. He glanced at the clock. Nine thirty, Thursday. He probably should have noticed that John wasn’t home. John had been drunk, babbling about nothing, said he wasn’t with anyone and he was lonely, but there had been voices in the background that sounded like a pub of some kind. He didn’t get drunk often. It went unspoken between them that when Watsons drank, they drank for England: Sherlock knew that from rare experience. John had hung up on Harry when she tried to talk him into going home, and now was not picking up the phone.
He got Harry off the line as quickly as he could and called John. The phone rang out and went to voicemail four times. Turning to his laptop he called up the GPRS bookmark for John’s phone and typed in his login and password.
As soon as the map gave him a location, he was running out the door.
There were two bars and a pub all next door to one another when he got to the street given. The pub was more likely for John, and he crossed his fingers that he had not moved on after he realised that Sherlock would be coming for him. Despite being a weekday evening it was packed out and the mixed aroma of spilt beer and grimy sweat assaulted his senses. Pushing past it, he cut a path through the crowd, peering around for a black and white striped jumper. Finally the familiar pattern caught his eye and he turned to see John, at a table with a younger man Sherlock had never seen before, having the life snogged out of him.
A flare went off behind Sherlock’s eyes. He stalked over and pushed them apart, taking in John’s dazed and intoxicated look seconds before the other man, tall, burly, powerfully built, stood up from his chair.
“What the fuck are you on?” he demanded. Sherlock ignored him.
“John, we’re leaving,” he snapped.
“No,” replied John belligerently. “I’m talking to Dave, having a great time here. You want to join us?” Dave did not look particularly impressed with that suggestion.
“Absolutely not. Come with me.” Sherlock gripped John’s arm and pulled him to his feet, but a hand landed on his own shoulder and dragged him around.
“He said no,” said Dave in a dangerous voice. “You want to leave him alone, right now.”
Sherlock flicked a glance over him. He thought about giving voice to the facts that Dave was a married businessman, probably a banker, who was in the habit of leaving his wife and kids at home, dressing down and coming to a pub in a part of town his social circle would not frequent to explore his latant homosexuality with random men, finding a dark corner to screw them in, and then returning home to his happy marriage, the perfect model of successful masculinity. That he had an eye for men who were vulnerable and was practiced in taking advantage of that fact. He thought about announcing all that to John and the surrounding men and women who were now watching curiously, loudly enough for the approaching bouncer to hear, but that would take time and argument and he just wanted to get John home.
He jerked back from Dave’s grip and floored him with a single punch.
Gasps erupted from the small crowd and the bouncer sped over, but Sherlock had eyes only for John who was looking at him with dark fury.
“Are you coming home?” he demanded. John looked at the bouncer, clearly considering the pros and cons of causing more of a fuss. Whether getting the police involved as they undoubtedly would be would do more damage to Sherlock, Dave or himself. Whether he wanted Greg to find out, whether he wanted them to owe another favour to Mycroft. Whether he wanted to stay and have a casual fuck to see if it would make the pain go away for a second, only to find it didn’t and he had added guilt and shame to the mess of his emotions. Whether he wanted to go home, shout at Sherlock, be shouted at in return, dissolve into the tears that he had to date let no-one near and be held through the night by his flatmate as he sobbed for his beloved wife and the child who had never been born.
He nodded mutely. Dave, sensibly, stayed down but glared from his position on the floor. Sherlock whirled before anyone could touch him and stormed out, knowing that John was following.
***
One year after Mary had visited him to ask him to be godfather to her firstborn son, Sherlock approached her grave in the cold morning light. He had brought roses, ivory, the kind she had held in her wedding bouquet, and laid them before the marker stone.
He thought about talking out loud, knew it was the kind of thing that people did, but it seemed absurd. Instead he stood silent and thought about Mary, who had been there for John, picked up the pieces of a man grieving for his best friend and given him a life, a happy one. How kind she had been, always wanting the best for John, above her own happiness as well as Sherlock’s. He wondered if she would approve of John living with him again, back in the old habit of cohabitation and cases. He thought she would be pleased.
He wondered if she would be surprised that Sherlock had resisted John’s four separate attempts to draw him into a physical relationship as he desperately sought after some form of comfort. His last try had been five months ago. John now seemed to be achieving a sense of peace, although Sherlock had read extensively and knew well that a year was no more than a drop in the ocean of the grieving process.
Nevertheless, he was here, bringing an offering to a shrine as though asking for permission. Can I have him? He belongs to you, will you loan him to me, let me love him, let me care for him, give him comfort. Is it time yet?
He felt a slight kiss of gentle raindrops on his cheek as if in answer.
Sherlock stood quietly at the grave a few minutes longer before he heard the telltale footsteps walking down the path behind him. They stopped at his side, and he did not turn, but felt a hand slip into his, lacing fingers with his own, as the rain began to fall.
Title: Saved for My Darling (4/4+epilogue)
Character/Pairing: Sherlock/John, John/Mary
Length: c.3000 words
Rating: R
Spoilers: Reichenbach
Warnings: Character death
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: Part four of the Youth of the Heart sequence. Sherlock comes to terms with what Mary's death means for John, and for them both.
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
Sherlock had been sat in the waiting room, shifting his angular frame against hard moulded plastic for a good fifteen hours when John walked back in, his skin ashen, his hands trembling. There was a nurse at his side, one hand on his arm, but Sherlock didn’t need to hear from him. He knew.
In an instant he was at John’s side, one arm around him protectively, and the nurse stepped back. John looked up at him, dazed.
“We need to wait,” he said. “There’s paperwork... I need to sign things. I need to call Mary’s parents. I need... Sheena and Greg, they’ll help. Can you...”
Sherlock already had his phone to his ear, firmly quashing the stinging pain that John wanted someone else to help, not him. Maybe John blamed him? Maybe he would never be able to talk to him again, never look in the eyes of the man who knelt helplessly by his wife as the life drained from her.
Greg was answering. Sherlock fumbled for words, concision warring with not wanting to see John’s eyes flood and spill over as the truth fell irrevocably from his lips. He spoke quietly and Greg understood too soon.
“We’re coming, we’re coming now. I’ll bring the car. We’re just a few minutes away. Jesus. I’m so sorry. We’re coming now.”
Sherlock hung up the phone. Looking down, he noticed that although John was sat motionless and silent, his hand had dropped to the side and was resting between them. The backs of his fingers just brushed Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock hesitated, then slipped his hand down to meet it and John tightened his fingers and held on, as though he needed an anchor.
Sherlock wondered if this was the way he had been when he found that note at the waterfall, realised that Sherlock was dead. He remembered watching from a distance as John yelled his name, over and over into the rushing water, but he couldn’t remember if he had seen this dullness in his eyes, or this grey in his skin.
He wondered who had held John’s hand that day. Whether anyone had.
***
In the days leading up to the funeral, Sherlock found that the pang of guilty envy he had felt at the hospital had been unjustified. John wanted Greg and Sheena around because they were practical people. They could arrange and communicate and provide level heads for issues like funerals and wakes, catering and logistics. They came every day, bringing casseroles from themselves, Donovan, Anderson’s wife, Dimmock, and others from the team. Dimmock’s, surprisingly, turned out to be the best by far. They brought spreadsheets and lists and provided a talking-to-families service so John didn’t have to deal with it. The only phone calls John took were from Harry, and that was the only time anyone heard John cry.
Greg and Sheena came every day, but Sherlock never left. That first night Greg had driven them back to John’s flat and they all stayed, drifting off to sleep where they sat in mutual shock. Sherlock had dozed for an hour and when he woke saw the Lestrades curled together on the sofa, clinging to one another tightly in sleep. John had disappeared, and when he went looking Sherlock found him sitting on the bed, clutching Mary’s jumper with a dead look in his own eyes.
Sherlock watched him for a moment, unable to even think of any words that might work, and then turned to go. He was almost round the corner to the living room when a word drifted out after him.
“Stay.”
Sherlock didn’t move. “Tonight? Of course.”
John’s breath was shaking. “I mean, until... stay. For a bit.”
Sherlock nodded. “Of course.”
***
“A bit” stretched out to “until the funeral”. The wake was held at John and Mary’s flat and after the service John focused on hosting, Sheena on food and Greg on keeping the chatter as light as he could manage. Sherlock skulked in the corner for the most part, avoiding the uneasy looks that the more distant members of Mary’s family threw him, knowing him only as someone who had turned up and disrupted the wedding briefly before fleeing. Every now and then, though, John would pass with someone and introduce him as “my friend, Sherlock Holmes,” with just enough bite to make a point.
When the last people had gone and Greg and Sheena had finished cleaning up and disappeared into a taxi, Sherlock lay back on the bed in the spare room and closed his eyes. Never the best at schooling his mind to stillness, he was inundated with images from the day. Mourners in grey and black gathered in a church, a bland Church of England service conducted by a bland Church of England vicar. John standing, speaking a few halting words over the coffin before it was borne to the cemetery. The interment had been family only and Sherlock wasn’t sure how he qualified for that, but he had, and so he had seen John, cold and unmoving as a statute, head bowed over the grave.
No-one had caught his eye or muttered to him that nearly five years ago John had stood the same way at another memorial service.
No-one had to.
The door opened, shattering his thoughts. Before he could open his eyes the bed dipped and he felt John slip beneath the covers next to him.
“John...”
John moved close and it was more than Sherlock could do to resist putting his arms around him. John’s head settled on his shoulder.
“I miss her,” he whispered. Something was broken in his voice. Sherlock tightened his arms and held him through the wakeful night.
***
Sherlock had been back at Baker Street, getting on with life, for three weeks when he heard John’s footsteps on the stairs. He had been making a point of texting him every day, little inconsequential things, things that said “I’m here if you need me” without actually saying the words, and John had been texting back. He hadn’t made any suggestion of coming over though, which was why Sherlock turned in surprise as the door opened. John walked in with a rucksack slung over one shoulder. It was immediately clear what he was thinking.
“Do you mind?” he asked without preamble. “I need some space. Do you mind if I come home for a bit?”
“Home?” replied Sherlock, unable to let the word pass unremarked. John smiled ruefully.
“Home from home, I guess,” he replied, dropping his bag by the door and walking over to his armchair. “Chinese?”
The evening passed in a haze of takeaway and bad science-fiction, after John flicked on the TV and found an old movie called The Rocketeer that he claimed to have loved as a child. It was ridiculous by anyone’s standards, down to the jet-pack equipped Nazis, but John seemed to relax. During one of the ad breaks he made tea and when he returned settled on the sofa beside Sherlock instead of in his chair. Sherlock took the opportunity of discreetly observing him, taking in the lines in his skin, the bags under his eyes. He estimated with concern that John had lost five to six pounds since the funeral.
John was talking slightly blearily about how much of an asset it would be for Sherlock to have a jetpack. He was describing bird’s eye detective skills and the speed of direct flight across London, but Sherlock listened to the rhythm and slur of his words instead and recognised the sign that John hadn’t slept properly in days, maybe weeks. So when the movie finished he just flicked through the channels until he found something acceptable and let John watch that too, until he slumped against Sherlock’s shoulder and began to breathe more deeply.
They stayed like that for five hours, until Sherlock’s back and neck ached, but he tried to doze and didn’t move until he felt John stir. As the morning light stole through the window John muttered and woke, and Sherlock turned to look at him. John raised his head, and the connection between them suddenly seemed overwhelmingly strong. Sherlock felt himself close the distance and pressed a kiss on John’s lips. John kissed him back needily, parting his lips.
They jumped back at the same moment, putting a gulf between them.
“I’m sorry,” whispered Sherlock. The unfamiliar word tasted savoury and bitter between his teeth.
John nodded mutely, looking shaken. He got up in silence and headed upstairs to the spare room that Sherlock still thought of as John’s . His fingertips brushed Sherlock’s shoulder as he passed.
***
Months ticked by and John stayed more frequently at Baker Street, first during cases and on bad days (Mary’s birthday, their anniversary, days when the sun had the temerity to shine happily), then on days after cases when he made sure Sherlock’s post-fasting diet was reasonably healthy, then a few times a week for movie nights and takeout with no excuse. Everyone else had seen it coming a mile off and then some when John finally moved back in completely, giving up the lease on his home with Mary.
The day he moved in Sherlock got buried in emails for a few hours and only surfaced when his internal John monitor informed him that he had been in his room for six hours without making a noise. He stuck his head round the door and found his once-again flatmate sat on the bed with an empty box on the floor and jewellery and dried flowers, keepsakes and mementos strewn around him. His eyes were red.
“Tea?” asked Sherlock, and headed back downstairs to put the kettle on, and to give John space to collect himself and follow.
Sherlock made the tea, dug out the oat and raisin cookies that Mrs Hudson had dropped in for them that morning, and found John settled on the sofa when he entered the living room. John’s fingers brushed his as he handed him the mug, and Sherlock felt the old familiar shiver of sensation at the contact. He ignored it, but when he sat John leant in towards him. His intent was unmistakable as he put down the mug and guided Sherlock’s face around gently with a light touch of fingers on his jaw.
It took an heroic effort, as John reached up for a kiss, for Sherlock to put a stilling hand on his shoulder.
“John...”
“Sherlock. Please...”
“No.” The word was painful, cold, final, and hurt flashed in John’s eyes moments before the shutters slammed down behind them. “You’re not ready, John. You need to...”
“Don’t tell me what I need!” snapped John harshly. His cheeks were flushed with humiliation and anger. He practically leapt from the sofa, ignoring his tea, and stormed back up the stairs. The door slammed behind him.
The next day he trotted down the stairs enquiring about tea, breakfast and whether Sherlock had a case on, like it had never happened. Sherlock had spent the night fighting off his desire to run after John, kiss him, claim him and own him again, with the knowledge that now was not the time, that there might never be a time for them. He let the unspoken questions and worries pass as John placed a plate of toast in front of him.
***
Sherlock picked up the phone the third time the unidentified number rang in short succession. The voice on the other end of the line was not one he heard often, as John kept her at a distance, but he recognised Harry immediately. She would not be calling him unless it was serious.
“What is it?” he asked briskly.
“It’s John,” she replied. “He’s not in a good way, I need you to go find him. I’d go, but it’ll take me a couple of hours to get into town, and...”
Quickly he interrogated her for details. John had called her about half an hour ago. He glanced at the clock. Nine thirty, Thursday. He probably should have noticed that John wasn’t home. John had been drunk, babbling about nothing, said he wasn’t with anyone and he was lonely, but there had been voices in the background that sounded like a pub of some kind. He didn’t get drunk often. It went unspoken between them that when Watsons drank, they drank for England: Sherlock knew that from rare experience. John had hung up on Harry when she tried to talk him into going home, and now was not picking up the phone.
He got Harry off the line as quickly as he could and called John. The phone rang out and went to voicemail four times. Turning to his laptop he called up the GPRS bookmark for John’s phone and typed in his login and password.
As soon as the map gave him a location, he was running out the door.
There were two bars and a pub all next door to one another when he got to the street given. The pub was more likely for John, and he crossed his fingers that he had not moved on after he realised that Sherlock would be coming for him. Despite being a weekday evening it was packed out and the mixed aroma of spilt beer and grimy sweat assaulted his senses. Pushing past it, he cut a path through the crowd, peering around for a black and white striped jumper. Finally the familiar pattern caught his eye and he turned to see John, at a table with a younger man Sherlock had never seen before, having the life snogged out of him.
A flare went off behind Sherlock’s eyes. He stalked over and pushed them apart, taking in John’s dazed and intoxicated look seconds before the other man, tall, burly, powerfully built, stood up from his chair.
“What the fuck are you on?” he demanded. Sherlock ignored him.
“John, we’re leaving,” he snapped.
“No,” replied John belligerently. “I’m talking to Dave, having a great time here. You want to join us?” Dave did not look particularly impressed with that suggestion.
“Absolutely not. Come with me.” Sherlock gripped John’s arm and pulled him to his feet, but a hand landed on his own shoulder and dragged him around.
“He said no,” said Dave in a dangerous voice. “You want to leave him alone, right now.”
Sherlock flicked a glance over him. He thought about giving voice to the facts that Dave was a married businessman, probably a banker, who was in the habit of leaving his wife and kids at home, dressing down and coming to a pub in a part of town his social circle would not frequent to explore his latant homosexuality with random men, finding a dark corner to screw them in, and then returning home to his happy marriage, the perfect model of successful masculinity. That he had an eye for men who were vulnerable and was practiced in taking advantage of that fact. He thought about announcing all that to John and the surrounding men and women who were now watching curiously, loudly enough for the approaching bouncer to hear, but that would take time and argument and he just wanted to get John home.
He jerked back from Dave’s grip and floored him with a single punch.
Gasps erupted from the small crowd and the bouncer sped over, but Sherlock had eyes only for John who was looking at him with dark fury.
“Are you coming home?” he demanded. John looked at the bouncer, clearly considering the pros and cons of causing more of a fuss. Whether getting the police involved as they undoubtedly would be would do more damage to Sherlock, Dave or himself. Whether he wanted Greg to find out, whether he wanted them to owe another favour to Mycroft. Whether he wanted to stay and have a casual fuck to see if it would make the pain go away for a second, only to find it didn’t and he had added guilt and shame to the mess of his emotions. Whether he wanted to go home, shout at Sherlock, be shouted at in return, dissolve into the tears that he had to date let no-one near and be held through the night by his flatmate as he sobbed for his beloved wife and the child who had never been born.
He nodded mutely. Dave, sensibly, stayed down but glared from his position on the floor. Sherlock whirled before anyone could touch him and stormed out, knowing that John was following.
***
One year after Mary had visited him to ask him to be godfather to her firstborn son, Sherlock approached her grave in the cold morning light. He had brought roses, ivory, the kind she had held in her wedding bouquet, and laid them before the marker stone.
He thought about talking out loud, knew it was the kind of thing that people did, but it seemed absurd. Instead he stood silent and thought about Mary, who had been there for John, picked up the pieces of a man grieving for his best friend and given him a life, a happy one. How kind she had been, always wanting the best for John, above her own happiness as well as Sherlock’s. He wondered if she would approve of John living with him again, back in the old habit of cohabitation and cases. He thought she would be pleased.
He wondered if she would be surprised that Sherlock had resisted John’s four separate attempts to draw him into a physical relationship as he desperately sought after some form of comfort. His last try had been five months ago. John now seemed to be achieving a sense of peace, although Sherlock had read extensively and knew well that a year was no more than a drop in the ocean of the grieving process.
Nevertheless, he was here, bringing an offering to a shrine as though asking for permission. Can I have him? He belongs to you, will you loan him to me, let me love him, let me care for him, give him comfort. Is it time yet?
He felt a slight kiss of gentle raindrops on his cheek as if in answer.
Sherlock stood quietly at the grave a few minutes longer before he heard the telltale footsteps walking down the path behind him. They stopped at his side, and he did not turn, but felt a hand slip into his, lacing fingers with his own, as the rain began to fall.
