Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A: Assault 

John [18:54] : Hey Sherlock, I'm so sorry! this last patient just would NOT leave. ETA 20 mins, taking a cab

Outgoing [18:56] : Was it the hypochondriac again? SH

John [18:57] : You know I can't tell you Sherlock, patient-doctor confidentiality 

Outgoing [19:00] : Tell her she's being ridiculous and that if she keeps this up she's going to give her child Munchausen by proxy. SH

John [19:02] : How did you know she was pregnant? 

Outgoing [19:04]: You wouldn't let her dither in your office for nearly half an hour unless she was vulnerable. You're a doctor, but a soldier too. You don't take anyone's nonsense, except for people who are already weak or vulnerable, children or pregnant women. SH

Outgoing [19:05] : It's not a child because then you wouldn't have been irritated in your office, or any of the other times you've "not" spoken about the patient. You'd probably stay for longer. Thus, it has to be a pregnant woman. Most likely option. SH

John [19:07] : Brilliant as always, Sherlock 

John [19:13] : Sherlock? 

John [19:15] : See you in a sec 

— 

"Sherlock?" John calls out in a stage whisper to the empty living room of 221B. He calls out because who knows what Sherlock is up to, where in the two storey flat he could be, and does so quietly because anywhere in the flat could also be a sleeping Rosie. He'd left Rosie with Sherlock this morning after a late night solving a case, from inside 221B thank you very much, and waking up to go to work by 8am. He'd started leaving Rosie with Sherlock more and more in the months since Sherrinford. He'd started spending nights at 221B more often himself. After everything that happened, in John's life and Sherlock's, between the two of them, and apart, there's a few things John has had to admit to himself: one of them being that 221B is more like home than anywhere else has been since his days in Kandahar. 

There's a harsh "shh" from up the flight of stairs and John hangs up his coat then takes the steps two at a time to his old room. Or his current room, maybe. Rosie's room, probably. He pushes open the ajar door to the image of Sherlock in the rocking chair, a slumbering Rosie nestled on his chest. Sherlock's verdigris eyes lock on John when he steps into the room and a soft smile tilts his lips. John smiles back, finding the same easily on his chapped lips. He knows he only smiles at Sherlock like this, completely free from reservations and pain, but he can't help it. He smiles wider as the detective tries to stifle a very obvious yawn. John approaches, lifting Rosie from the man's chest and lays a hand softly on his shoulder. 

"Hey," he whispers quietly, "sorry I'm late."

"S'okay," Sherlock slurs, "just... trying to get her to sleep." Sherlock forces his eyes to open, blinking a few times. "She didn't sleep well today." 

"Thanks," John responds. "Here, I'll put her in the cot and get started on some dinner, you can have a nap, yeah?" 

Sherlock frowns absently, "not tired."

"Yes you are. I imagine your failure to respond to me before was because you were falling asleep, right?" Sherlock mutters something that sounds like a disagreement, but John ignores him. "I don't think you've slept for a few days, chasing bloody pointless clues for this case. And all by yourself, by the way, which I hate. Sleep, just a bit, and I'll have dinner ready." 

"You're—" Sherlock hesitates, his eyes scanning John's face. He's probably noticing the dark circles under John's eyes, the flop of his hair which came unstuck from the gel, the stain on his shoulder from the baby he'd held earlier in the day to give her sick father a break. "You're not going home?" Sherlock eventually asks. 

John shrugs, I'm already home, "you've just gotten Rosie to sleep, yeah? And you haven't eaten. We'll go a bit later or," stay, he thinks, ask me to stay. "see what happens, yeah?" 

Sherlock agrees around another yawn and, with one final, soft brush against the back of Rosie's head, rises. For a second the two are standing so close, only Rosie between them, then John steps back reluctantly and gives Sherlock the space to slip past and out the door. He doesn't see or hear Sherlock as he puts Rosie down to sleep, giving a soft kiss to her forehead. She smells like baby powder and soft blankets and Sherlock, and he breathes in deep. Eventually, he manages to pull himself away and down the stairs. Sherlock's door is cracked open a little and John quickly peeks in, spotting the detective face first in his blankets, snoring quietly. He smiles fondly and moves into the kitchen, deciding to make the Sheppards pie. It's one of the only things that Sherlock will eat when John puts it in front of him. Provided there's the right ingredients in the kitchen. 

—

Gabriel walked with him the few short blocks, their shoulders brushing as they move. Sherlock is still limping from a re-set sprained ankle, but the tight dressing and bigger sized shoes will have to  do in terms of health care. Gabriel doesn't offer an arm or a shoulder, there's no room for softness, no mercy, here. Sherlock hadn't brushed up on his Portuguese before he'd left London, hadn't planned on travelling this far from London. It had been foolish wishing, but strong. However, he had to follow where the trails led, and they led him to the docks of Beira, where Moriarty had his hands in a few human trafficking rings. 

They reach the entrance of an old warehouse, the old Gabriel had told him about, with crumbling walls and newspapered windows. Sherlock can make out one of the bolded headlines, "Outro navio perdido no mar", another ship lost at sea. Gabriel hisses to catch his attention, and Sherlock looks down at him. He's only young, no more than 19, his head shaved like you see in those prisoner of war movies, teeth missing and what seems like a perpetually split lip. Gabriel nods at him, "este é o fim da estrada". Sherlock hadn't managed to become fluent in the week he'd spent here, but he got the gist: from here on, he goes it alone. 

Gabriel scampers off into the night and leaves Sherlock very much alone. All there is is the rustling of wind, the distant shoving off of boats at the coast. He waits, one of his hands resting on the pistol stuck in the pocket of his, ugh, jeans, for a noise, some kind of proof of his targets. He could go in, guns blazing, but he'd recently made contact with local international authorities and was hoping he could call them in instead. He just needs proof. 

In the silence, his brain wanders. He doesn't let it wander, not often, but he's been stuck here for days, unable to have a full conversation. And Gabriel, with his unique navy eyes. His brain meanders down the coastline, imagining a different beach, company other than the bitter cold. He hears a crunch, like gravel and tenses. Before he can react, before he pulls his senses away from that imaginary beach, he feels his body fall. 

His brain catches up to the inertia of his body , neurons shooting off signals of pain. There's blunt forced trauma to the left side of his face. It's heavy and cold, likely something metal. A tire iron? His right side cracks on the concrete where he falls. He has a moment to think my headache is going to be awful before his attacker is back on him. There's a heaviness on his chest, a body between 60 and 80kg. There's the sensation of a fist, one he knows well, slamming against his nose. His eyes blur at the pain, his vision dimming further in the low light. The punching stops, not as an end to the violence, but to make room for the fingers wrapping themselves around his throat. He blinks, and blinks, closes his eyes and 

opens them to the dim light of 221B. The light of the moon and a streetlight is coming in through his window, indicating it is much later than when John came home. He breathes once, twice, reminding himself of where he's been, of where he is now: before Mozambique was the exit from London, then France, Venice. He'd wanted to follow the flow of the continent, knock out Eastern Europe next, but there was a desperate call from Los Angeles. Then Florida (what a trip down memory lane), Vancouver, a brief sojourn on the Indonesian continent, then Beira. Not long after he'd made his way back to Europe, into the depths of Russian winter. Six more months, then home. Then he'd come home. To John. 

To another bloody nose and bruised fingerprints on his throat. 

No, he tells himself sternly. He shakes the images away and flings himself out of bed. He finds his dressing gown and throws it on over his pyjamas. He hadn't actually gotten changed since they'd come home yesterday evening. John will probably tell him to shower and change, and Sherlock will roll his eyes and complain, then he'll do it anyway. Because John asked him to. He'll do anything John asks. 

Might be a bit not good, that. 

John smiles at him at him when he walks into the kitchen. It's smile no. 2, his 'you are so daft' smile. Sherlock smiles in return and wonders if John had all of his smiles catalogued too. Probably not, his mind supplies, unbidden. He physically waves the thought away and ignores John's questioning stare. He looks past John at the steaming thing sitting on the stove. In a ceramic dish is a pile of browned mashed potato. He raises a questioning eye at John. 

"Sheppards pie, come on I'll serve it up." The thing with the peas, Sherlock thinks absently, pulling two plates from the cupboard above him. He places them by the stove at John's elbow and John uses a steel serving spoon to serve out portions. The inside is still steaming, the brown of the lamb mince contrasting with the green peas, the mashed potato browned from the oven but still soft underneath. Sherlock's stomach grumbles happily but his eyebrows frown. 

"There's no pastry."

"'S not Sheppards pie if there's pastry, Sherlock. Besides, you ungrateful git, there was no pastry in the freezer, and not enough butter to make it. Just shut up and eat it." Sherlock grins at John, taking a seat opposite him at the dining table and digging in. The mince is perfectly cooked, soft and juicy, salty and full of flavour. The peas are a burst of freshness and the mashed potato is smooth with a generous amount of creamy butter. Sherlock absently listens to the doctor talk about his day at the clinic, struggling to keep a grip on his reality. His mind keeps slipping, pulling him back. Back to Los Angeles and the feeling of a heavy class ring hitting him square in the jaw. In Belarus and the feel of a punch to his kidney, his solar plexus, his throat. Serbia, and the feeling of half a dozen fists, brass knuckles, on his temple, his chest, his shoulders, before they got creative, before they— 

There's a pressure on his shoulder and he flinches. Like a coward, he jumps, pressing his back against the kitchen wall. His hands immediately come to cover his face, his shoulders hunching. Protect your most important organs, he reminds himself, on autopilot. It all happens so quickly, his entire brain chemistry is reworked for fight or flight. He hasn't felt like this in months. And you don't need to, he tells himself, you're safe now. He's safe now. Everyone is safe. 

He takes one, deep breath and releases it, lowering his arms. He opens his mouth to speak, to make an excuse for John. Because it was obviously John who touched his shoulder. In camaraderie, or concern maybe, if he'd seen how far Sherlock had drifted away. John is standing on the other side of the kitchen, pressed against the bench and cupboards, as though he is trying to give as much space between them as possible. His face is sheet white and his eyes are wide, shining. 

"John," Sherlock says gravelly, "I'm sorry, I— I'm sorry..." John's shoulder slump and he folds, resting his hands against his knees. He breathes in deep and heavy, working through his own panic. Sherlock's heart clenches seeing John panicked. He clears his heart, trying again, "I'm sorry, John. That reaction was... unexpected for both of us. It wasn't you." 

"I know," John says around a heavy breath. "I know, Sherlock. You were... I don't know, wherever you were. Away. But still... still..." Sherlock knows exactly what this is about, but he doesn't know how to navigate it. They haven't had this conversation before, not really. They've skirted around the issue, an entire conversation with glances and eyebrows. 

I'm so sorry Sherlock 

All is forgiven, John 

I will never forgive myself for this 

That is why I'll do it for you.  

But they'd never really talked about it: the scar above his eyebrow that's still there even months later, the bruising around his ribs that had lasted weeks, the blood vessels which had blown in his eyes from the hard knuckles of John's hand. They hadn't talked about the way Sherlock had stepped, gently, gently, around John in the proceeding weeks. How even now, when John is tired or frustrated, Sherlock will compact himself into a tinier version of himself. Sherlock Holmes: divided. By the way John is looking at him, intense and unwavering, it seems tonight is the night. "How about we move into the living room?" the detective offers. 

— 

They just sit together on the couch for a few moments, allowing both of their aging hearts to settle. Sherlock is ashamed that his hands are shaking. His physiology is still inundated with biological imperatives: adrenaline, cortisol, increased oxygen to his brain and heart. John’s physiology is going through the same, and Sherlock can be patient.

Eventually, John releases a heavy sigh and turns to Sherlock. Their knees are pressing together and Sherlock can feel the heat of John’s body through two layers of fabric. It’s not a burning heat like acid or flame, but gentle like a dying hearth, warmed coals. Sherlock breathes, and breathes, and breathes.

“Are you okay?” John asks first.

“I am okay,” Sherlock confirms. He considers leaving it at that but knows if the two of them are going to get through this conversation, it has to be together. “I had a nightmare and it’s been pulling up memories. Sometimes, when the vault opens, it’s hard to close it again.”

“What did you dream about?”

Sherlock fusses with the band of his dressing gown for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts. “Beira. I was… closing in on a human trafficking ring, and someone found me, attacked me. They nearly,” he takes a fortifying breath, looking at John. “They nearly killed me, but my ally Gabriel had managed to call the authorities and they came just in time.” John stays silent, processing, and Sherlock gets agitated, worried about pity, or more anger. “It’s just my brain processing memories, events from my life. It activates my flight or fight. It will get better, just give me time, I—”

“Sherlock,” John soothes, “I’m a doctor, and a soldier, remember? I know all of this. I know it’s just… part of experiencing a trauma. But I’ve seen it. I’ve seen you flinch too, if I move too fast, too close. When I get angry or I shout. You try to contain it, but I can see it.”

“John,” the guilt washes through Sherlock’s veins, but John shakes his head, pressing his pointer finger against his bottom lip.

“Sherlock,” John’s eyes are shining, full of pain and… admiration? “I’m not trying to make you feel bad. It’s just the truth, and it’s important to acknowledge. What— what you went through… alone. I wish I had been there.” John takes another breath, deep into his chest. Sherlock absently wonders how long they would survive in 221B’s living room if all external air supply had been cut off. “I wish I had been a safe place for you to come to, instead of… everything that I was.”

“I don’t blame you, John. You were angry when I returned. It was your right, you were entitled to—”

“No,” John says fiercely. “I mean no, about all of that. I’m not just talking about that night, I mean.. the morgue, too.” The words are tight but John soldiers on. “I never had any reason to hit you.”

“But I—” Sherlock doesn’t know what he’s about to say, what excuses he’s about to give John. The fall? Mary’s death? His arrogance? He has an endless list of things he has to pay penance for.

“No. I’m not going to make this about Mary, because god knows we’ve had that conversation a hundred times before. And the Landmark, too. We’ve argued, time and again. But I’ve never just apologised. I’m sorry for every time I’ve laid my hands on you. Every time I’ve contributed to your pain. I’m…” he clears his throat through what sounds like a sob, “every time I’ve become one of them, one of the people I want to protect you from. I will never forgive myself for that.’

“John,” Sherlock butts in gently. “I appreciate your apology, and your openness. I can’t — I’m still learning to recognise my own worth, my own inherent, inalienable worth. I am shackled with the guilt of everything I’ve done to you, too. It’s hard to accept your forgiveness, to not allow you to… do what you need, as penance. But Ella has been telling me—”

“You’ve been seeing Ella? My therapist, Ella?”

Sherlock glares at John, “don’t interrupt me, and she’s not your therapist, you’re not even seeing her. I’ve been seeing her since… since Mary’s passing. Anyway. Ella has been telling me that living in my guilt won’t make my mistakes go away, it’s just more likely to enable me to make the same ones. It has, in the past. My guilt for leaving you and making you unhappy caused me to place even more importance on your happiness. That’s why… with Mary, Magnussen, Culverton and— and being willing to sacrifice myself again at Sherrinford. In an effort to make up for everything I’ve done, for hurting you with my fake death, I’ve managed to put us back in the same situation. It’s… the same for you. The more you try to repress, to ignore your anger, to hold back from telling me what I’ve done. The more you live in your guilt, self-flagellation: nothing will change.”

John nods thoughtfully, staring down at his hand which is clenching and unclenching by his knee. It’s a tell John has had for so long, a sign that he’s angry or uncomfortable. Sherlock watches the muscles in his fingers move, the shifting ridges and mounds of his palm. “I need… I can’t do this on my own. Sometimes I just get… so angry, I black out, I watch myself from the outside, I can’t… stop.”

“John,” Sherlock says, a bit uncomfortable now. He knows what he should say, what he needs to say, but he doesn’t know how to say it… kindly. With compassion.

“I need help,” John says for him. “I know. I need a professional. And I need you. Please. I need you to trust me, be patient with me.”

“Of course, John. Of course.” Sherlock, feeling braver than he has since he introduced himself to John at St Barts, the name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street, lays a large, pale hand on John’s knee, right beside the clenching-and-unclenching fist. “Anything you need from me, you can have.”

John smiles tiredly, “I just need you to be here, yeah? For the rest of our lives, right?”

“Right,” Sherlock agrees. His heart is pounding, the rest of our lives. Does John know what his words insinuated there? Sherlock doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to hope. “The rest of our lives.”

— 

Outgoing [9:23] : Hey, Sherlock, thanks for agreeing to pick Rosie up. Remember it's a half day, latest 12:30. My appointment should be done not too long after. Meet at Baker Street?

Sherlock [9:25] : See you then, John. Don't worry about Rosie, we'll be fine. Just focus on you. SH

Outgoing [9:29] : I will. It'll be shit

Sherlock [9:32] : It will be good. Worth it. Ella knows you. SH

Outgoing [9:35] : Right. She does. it'll be fine. It's all fine.

Chapter Text

B: Bang

When a bullet pierces the skull and moves through the soft membrane of the brain from close-range, damage is almost instant and certainly fatal. As the home base of your entire being, your brain controls all of the life-giving processes of your body: breathing, thinking, managing your nervous system. A fatal gunshot, a pistol inserted into the mouth for instance, tears through tissue at an alarming force, splintering shards of bone from your protective skull: it's like a marionette, cut. 

Sometimes that initial, cleverly aimed shot isn't what kills you, a desperate bullet is enough. Exsanguination can occur within minutes, suffocation as your brain fails to send signals to your lungs, loss of motor skills to protect yourself from further danger. 

The worst part of a shot to the head isn't the dying, or the pain — you'd hardly notice. The worst part is watching it happen. Seeing someone's brain matter splattered over cement, the blood slowly seep in to the infinitesimal cracks and pocks of set concrete, staining it forever. 

Your own death is something that happens to everyone else.

—

Sherlock stared, unblinking at a faint spot of blood on his dress shoes. He shivered, twisting his foot this way and that to watch it shift in the light. His Belstaff was gone, stashed somewhere safe, and he was cold. The chill of London night was pressing in from the outside, seeping through the windows of St Bart's lab and piercing through his skin, attacking his nerve endings. He watched the shine of his shoes and shook. 

There's the sound of a door opening and Sherlock's head shot up, admitting Molly. He ignored the falling of his heart, berating the small part of him that had expected John to walk through the door. John is home, safe. Molly approached slowly, holding out a bundle of clothes. Sherlock took them with a grateful smile, sliding out of his seat to stand up and find a storage closet to change in. 

When he stepped out again, he handed his clothes to Molly, gently folded. She took them, tsking at the blood stained on his shoes and the cuff of his trousers. 

"I can't very well take them to the dry cleaners, Sherlock" Molly chided, "couldn't you have been more careful?" 

"It's Moriarty's," Sherlock responded, numbly.

"What?" 

"It's Moriarty's blood, not the fake stuff. He shot himself in the head." 

Molly gasped, "Oh, Sherlock! I'm so— I'm so sorry. I didn't know." Sherlock just shrugged in response. "Are you okay?" 

Sherlock closed his eyes, remembering the sight of brain matter, bone shards, hair and scalp. Blood. So much blood. He didn't respond. 

— 

In the cartoons and animated movies Little Watson will watch growing up, there's a running gag about gravity. A character runs off the edge of a cliff, or gets hit in the head — there's a long pause, a look down or around, an 'oh geez!' and then they're falling, falling, falling. Self-fulfilling gravity. Self-conscious physics. In real life, inertia doesn't wait for you to realise what's happening to you, you just fall. 

There was an unnatural space of time between when Sherlock pulled the trigger and when Magnussen's body fell. Usually, the thump of a body is drowned out by the sound of a firing gun, or the momentary tinnitus of the noise. There's just the bang! and the landing and the silence of guilt. Not this time. Even with the loud chop of helicopter blades and Mycroft's voice over the radio announcer, there was a held breath, and then the heavy thud. The sound made Sherlock flinch. 

He listened to his brother's voice from the helicopter. He raised his hands behind his head, submitting to the swarm of special agents. He didn't notice, he didn't look at the growing puddle of blood, the way Magnussen's body twitched and seized as his shattered brain misfired signals. At the special ops who were trying to preserve his life. He didn't notice, and he pretended not to care. Safe now. 

— 

It's no wonder his drug addled brain was obsessed with Ricoletti. No wonder it conjured Moriarty into his living room, taunting him, gun muzzle in his mouth: Bang! He thinks about it all the time anyway. 

—

 "Sherlock? Come back to me." Sherlock forces his attention back to the woman in front of him. Her dark hair is expertly styled into cornrows (oh yes, it was her sister's wedding last weekend) making her clever, kind eyes look even sharper. "Where did you go?" 

He scratches a slow line up and down his clothed knee, avoiding her eye. "I was just... remembering something, a memory from a long time ago." He shrugs casually, trying to convince Ella to move on. She just watches him. "Someone did something in front of me, something... bad. Something that I think about often."

"Is this person Moriarty?" Ella prompts.

"That's confidential!" Sherlock snaps suddenly. Ella knows it's true, but she also knows that Sherlock uses it to deflect when they need to talk about something painful, so she only smiles encouragingly. "This person killed themselves in front of me. Shot themselves in the head. I... it bothers me." 

"I see," Ella says, "this was traumatic for you, yes? That kind of thing would be traumatic for anyone, have all kinds of side effects for their mental health. Does this experience affect you more than, say, your own experience being shot? We've talked about that before, and you say apart from the physical side effects, it doesn't bother you much. This, you think about often, why is that, do you think?" 

Sherlock scowls, pressing his hand subconsciously against his chest, right over the scar. Ella and he had spent many sessions talking about the bullet that had pierced his chest, and it's true he doesn't think about it often. Definitely not as often as he thinks about this. "Because it happened to someone else?" 

"Could be," Ella agrees, fiddling with her pen. "I'm sure that's part of it. We've had discussions about how you view your self worth before, but you've seen many bullet wounds in your life, doing the work you do. We've had a few basic conversations about your time away, some of the things you've seen there, how is this different?"

"I don't know," Sherlock admits, agitated. "You're the psychologist! You tell me." 

"That's not my role here, Sherlock. I'm just here to facilitate you in your journey understanding and processing your experience. I can make some suggestions, but it needs to ring true for you. You have to stand on your own, remember? Be honest and compassionate with yourself." 

"Yes, yes. I've heard it all before. But I don't know. If I knew I could stop it from happening." 

"I could make a suggestion, and you tell me if we're on the right track, how about that?" Sherlock nods his acceptance and Ella leans back for a moment, thinking. When she talks again, she talks slowly, "Perhaps the reason why gunshots to the head affect you so much more than others is because you place such a high value in your own brain. Everything you value about yourself is stored in your skull. Your intelligence, your observations, your deduction skills. Even a non-fatal shot to the head can have permanent, debilitating consequences. Is that ringing true for you?" 

"Yes," Sherlock responds around a tight throat. 

"Watching someone die is already an immense trauma, one that no person should have to experience. And you've experienced more of it than most. But the other elements of this event: the style of the injury being a fear of yours, and your connection to the victim—" she holds her hand up to Sherlock's interruption, "— we both know Sherlock that you were invested in Moriarty. You admired his intelligence, valued his brain. That's okay. It's the truth. All of that," she gestures vaguely to the air, "compounded. Of course you would struggle with this." Sherlock nods his acquiesce.

When he'd first met John, he'd blamed Ella for the lack of progress. Decided it was her fault that John was obviously suicidal. He's learned, in the half year of working with her, that you only get as much out of therapy as you give in. John, back then, hadn't been willing to put in the work. Sherlock, however, is. He's sick of feeling like this, being taunted by memories and dreams of Moriarty's lifeless face. Seeing the man in that video on that plane and again in Sherrinford had nearly broken him. That everything he'd been through had been for nothing, that the weakness of his brain, ruined by the image of Moriarty shooting himself, had been worth nothing. 

He and Ella had talked about it extensively, that. What his actions were worth. "So, what things can we do to help? What tools and practices can you use when these thoughts and memories are getting to you?" She folds her hands in her lap and waits patiently. 

He sits thoughtfully for a few moments, processing and pulling at his memory. "I can... be open with my friends and family about how I'm feeling, ask for their support." 

"Great," Ella says, "that's a great start. What else?" 

"Reframe my thoughts. When I'm feeling ... guilty or overwhelmed, remind myself that I am safe now. Take a walk or play my violin. Talk to J-my friends." 

"Good. Remember, too, when these feelings start to overcome you, to check in with yourself. Have you been keeping up with your self care? Drank water, eaten food, all of those things." 

"Boring," he says with a roll of his eyes. Ella smiles, 

"Boring, but important. You will not believe how much of a difference it makes to be hydrated and fed. Okay?" 

"Alright," Sherlock mutters. "I'll try." 

"Thank you," Ella says. Sherlock hates it when she says 'thank you' especially when he hasn't done anything. All he's done is lie  promise to try something, not even to do it. Even then, even though she knows him, she still just smiles, says 'thank you' and moves on. "We're almost out of time today, but I want to ask: have you made any progress with asking John to move back in to 221B?" 

Sherlock groans, putting his face in his hands. "No. I can't — I can't ask him to. He won't want to, he'll say no. It'll push him away more." 

"How do you know that is true, Sherlock? Have you deduced it? What evidence have you observed?" Sherlock squints his eyes at her, frowning. He hates when she does this, when she uses his words and his methods against her. It's annoyingly effective. 

"No," he mutters. "I haven't... observed anything." 

"Then why not go for it?" 

"I'm frightened." 

"That's understandable," she smiles at his pout, "but just because it's frightening doesn't mean you shouldn't do it anyway."

—

John calls out from the kitchen as he opens the door, "Hey Sherlock! I've just boiled the kettle." 

"John," Sherlock says in surprise, cutting in  through the kitchen door, "I didn't know you were going to be here." John smiles awkwardly, pushing a steaming cup of tea into Sherlock's hand. 

"Sorry, I should've texted ahead but I knew you had your appointment. It was a slow day at the clinic so they let me off early. There's only an hour 'til Rosie needs to be picked up and Baker Street is closer." 

"Ah," Sherlock replies, taking a sip of the tea. John always makes great tea, makes Sherlock's favourite tea, actually. He misses it in the mornings when John isn't around, though he'd never tell Mrs Hudson. "No worries, I don't mind." He takes a seat at one of the kitchen tables, unable to handle the walk to the living room. He always feels physically and mentally exhausted after his sessions with Ella, even though all he'd done is sat in a chair and talked. He does that all day, anyway. 

"Okay?" John asks, settling in on the other side of the table. "Those sessions are always exhausting, eh? Do you want to talk about it?" 

Sherlock looks at John, considering for a moment. He always feels hesitant bringing up that day, worried it will ignite John's mostly-dormant anger, or heighten his clinging guilt, but he might benefit from talking about this with John. John has seen people die before during his service, and he was there on that night with Magnussen. He takes another fortifying sip, "Moriarty." 

"Oh?" John asks, his eyes turning slightly guarded. Sherlock doesn't blame him. Any mention of Moriarty fills his body with tension, too. 

"About his... how he killed himself. That day. It is... harder for me to think about then I expect. And I think about it often." 

"I see," John says, his shoulders slumping. He smiles softly at Sherlock, regret and compassion shining in his eyes. "That would have been terrible for anyone, Sherlock." 

"Ella said the same thing," the detective sniffs, "I'm not anyone."

"I know you're not. You, with your eidetic memory and your constantly thinking, I imagine it's worse than any of us mortals could imagine." Sherlock shifts uncomfortably in his seat, half-shrugging. 

"I'll be fine." 

"Yeah, you will. You always bloody are, you insane git. When you're not, though, I'll be here, yeah? Me and everyone else, Greg, Mrs Hudson and Molly. Rosie." 

"Greg?" Sherlock asks, trying to pull away from the sickly sentimental turn this conversation has taken. He refuses to admit how much it makes him feel better, when John says things like that. I'll be here. 

"You know who I'm talking about," the other man responds with an eye roll. "Don't act stupid. You're not that great an actor." Sherlock gasps in mock-offence, placing an affected hand on his chest. 

"How dare you. I am an excellent actor."

"Yeah, yeah, you keep telling yourself that. Finish your tea already and you can come with to pick Rosie up, how about that? How do you feel about Chinese?" 

"Acceptable," Sherlock says. I feel very good about it, John. About all of it. 

Chapter Text

C: Cameras 

Sherlock's skin was itching, pin-prickled nerve endings. He scratched absently at the crook in his arm, watching the dust motes dance in the sunlight. How long ago was his last hit? He couldn't even remember. Wiggins was still tinkering away in the kitchen-turned-drug-lab, cleaning a few dirty beakers, or setting up the next cook. Maybe he was just making noise to try and get Sherlock's attention. He ignored the effort. 

A buzz penetrated Sherlock's wonderfully empty brain, the noise picking at his inherent curiosity. Too heavy to be a fly, but its not a bee either. He shoved the thought away, swatting at the buzzing creature as it flew past his ear. He rolled off the couch and strolled — he did not stumble, because even when he was high off his mind

(go to hell, Sherlock)

he was in control of his transport — into the kitchen that had become his drug lab. 

(go right into hell.)

— 

7/12/2013

Missed call [16:04]: Bastard of England 

Missed call [17:53]: Bastard of England 

— 

13/12/2013

Missed call [10:32] : Fatcroft 

Fatcroft [10:43]: I think it's time you end this nonsense, Sherlock. MH

— 

16/12/2013 

Missed call [21:00]: King Dumb of Dumbland

King Dumb of Dumbland [21:04]: Do you think this is the best way to manage your spat with the good doctor? Have you considered talking to him like a grown up? MH

King Dumb of Dumbland [21:04]: If you do not evict William Wiggins from 221B right now I will inform some of the officers at the MET of a possible drug trade happening on Baker Street. MH

— 

20/12/2013

Worst Big Brother in the Whole Wide World [18:15]: Are you really going to let Mary Morstan ruin everything? MH

— 

His legs are stretched out along the length of the couch, his feet hanging over the arm rest. His fingers are pressed together into his thinking pose, resting gently against his chin. Eyes closed, brain racing with a hundred inane thoughts in an attempt to fill the empty silence of Baker Street. Both of the Watson's are absent tonight, a mercifully uncommon but not unimaginable occurrence. John had said something about needing to be at the house in the morning. Sherlock hadn't been listening, he'd been watching John pack up all of the toys Rosie had scattered around the living room into a small bag, his ears ringing. It had felt very permanent, the alphabet blocks that had been in the corner for weeks disappearing into a dusty old bag. He'd picked up his violin and ignored John's goodbyes. 

His skin itches, pin-prickled nerve endings. The feeling causes him to simultaneously tense and open his eyes. He sits up stiffly, unnaturally, softening his focus and watching the room out of his peripheral. There! Blinking faintly between two books (Rosie had pulled a few down with him to read, they were still piled on the kitchen table, relieving the tension of his usually packed bookshelf). A red light. On. Off. On. Off. 

Sherlock sweeps himself to his feet, storming over to the bookshelf. He pulls a handful of them down carelessly, ignoring the heavy thud as they fall to the floor. Tucked into a crack in the wood is a bug. A tiny camera, the light indicating its current recording capabilities. Sherlock grabs it between two shaking fingers, bring it up to his eye. The tiny lens reflects the lamp light from the corner of the room. 

"Mycroft, get your fat ass here, now!" 

He pulls the bug apart, tearing cords. He watches the light blink and fade as the power is lost. He slams it down on the coffee table and heads into the kitchen to find his screwdriver. 

His hands shake as he pulls it apart. First the base for the wires, the frame, the lens, the chip and sensor. He puts it together again, his laboured breaths matching his unsteady fingers. 

He pulls it apart, wires, frame, lens .He puts it back together again, he pulls apart—

—

Living in a sustained space of fight-or-flight for any amount of time, but especially years, can have severe consequences for the human brain. Most common in survivors of abuse, but also soldiers, prisoners of war and the homeless, is this sense of feeling watched. 

Survival, in these instances, is dependent on being aware of current and possible threats. The brain is rewired for heightened level of awareness, of noises, movements, exits and entrances. The feeling of 'having eyes on you' is attributed to an anxiety response. An elevated pulse, shorter breaths, tensed spring-board muscles. Prepared for action. 

There were nice hotels, and a week in grand-mère cottage. He got to try Mandioca frito and watched the rising tide from a hostel in L.A. Crisp, white snow fall in Eastern Europe before he was locked in that dank cell. There are stories he'll tell Rosie when she's older, there are more he won't:

Ambushes in alleyways. Chains around his wrists and ankles, keeping him tightly pulled apart so he couldn't move. Pitch dark rooms with sharp knives and heavy fists lurking in every black corner. CCTV which would drag him back into the spotlight, drag the people he loves back into this twisted, post-mortem game. Awake for 76 hours at a time, just moving, keep moving. Ignore the blood pooling in his shoes from blisters. Just keep moving. 

Watch. and run.

—

He wakes with a crick in his neck, uncomfortably hunched over the coffee table and with dust motes highlighted by morning sun. It takes him a few, slow moments to realise it wasn't the sun or the pain which woke him but the familiar thump of an umbrella coming up his stairs. He holds in a groan as he leans backwards, resting his sore neck against the cushions. The camera on the table is half reconstructed. 

Sherlock doesn't move or open his eyes when the door to 221B opens, admitting his annoying older brother. After a few moments Mycroft says, "I believe it was you who summoned me, dear brother."

"I was angry then," Sherlock mutters, "now I'm just annoyed. Go away."

Mycroft sighs, "Often, I wonder how you turned out to be such an ungrateful child." Sherlock is on his feet, furious, in seconds. He stands chest to chest with Mycroft, poking him roughly in his chest, 

"Ungrateful? You think I should be grateful that you insist on violating my privacy — not just mine, but the Watson's— completely against my will? I should be glad, should I?"

"Don't be dramatic Sherlock," Mycroft responds condescendingly. He's not baulked by Sherlock's antics, merely adjusts his jacket, "I have no interest in violating anything. I employ surveillence equipment for your protection."

"I don't need your protection!"

Mycroft raises an eyebrow at him, "oh? So you've spent your six years of residence at Baker Street and never once been infiltrated, robbed, almost assassinated, blown up, or very nearly died from drug overdose?" Sherlock doesn't respond and Mycroft shakes his head, "I'm trying to keep you safe—" 

"I do not feel safe!" Sherlock screams, his voice cracking. Mycroft nearly steps back in surprise. Since Sherrinford, the two brothers had been a lot more patient, more understanding, with one another. Sherlock doesn't really want to be yelling at Mycroft, but the feelings from last night creeps up his spine, wraps itself around his throat so he feels like he's suffocating. 

He doesn't just feel violated. He feels hunted. 

"I can't do this, Mycroft," he whispers, "I can't do this anymore. Being watched, always. I can feel it, in my skin. It short-circuits my brain. It makes me fucking useless," Sherlock digs sharp fingers into his skull, pulling at his hair. "I can't breath." 

Suddenly, Mycroft's hands are on him, removing his fingers from his twisted curls. He slides his palms from Sherlock's elbow to his wrists, a thumb on his pulse. They stand together, looking into one another's eyes. Mycroft breathes, long slow and measured, and Sherlock follows his lead. The younger brother bows his head, leaning his forehead on Mycroft's broad, suit-clad shoulder. They haven't been this physically affectionate since Mycroft was fifteen-years-old before he went away for school. Only once since, when he'd gotten Sherlock out of that cell in Serbia and had to carry him to the truck. He'd laid his tired head in Mycroft's lap the whole way across the border. 

"I'm so tired," Sherlock mutters. Without another word, Mycroft leads his younger brother to his bedroom. Sherlock drags his feet as they go, suddenly overcome by a bone-deep weariness. It appears his kip on the couch had not been restful at all. He feels completely exhausted. He wants to argue with Mycroft, to tell him to sod off, keep screaming angry words, but instead he curls up into a ball amongst his soft sheets, grunting a grateful noise as Mycroft lays his soft downy doona over him. He hears a chair scrape in the kitchen as he falls asleep. 

— 

When he wakes up again, Mycroft is sitting on one of the kitchen chairs beside his bed. Mycroft is just watching him, likely reading how Sherlock slept and what he was feeling on his face. He slept alright, dreamless and un-interrupted, but he's still feeling exhausted. GABA neurotransmitters are settling in his body and sapping his energy. He'd expected that, he was used to it. 

He had not expected Mycroft to be waiting at his bedside. 

"Sherlock," Mycroft starts. Sherlock groans noisily, pulling his sheet over his head to block out his brother's voice. "I didn't realise you were feeling this way. I would have organised something to help you... manage." Sherlock remembers the way he had hid his face in Mycroft's shoulder, a defeated confession slipping from his lips. He pushes the sheet from his head and sits up, swaying momentarily from hypotension. 

"It's not..." Sherlock takes a deep breath, wiping frustrated at his eyes. "It's not only that. I'm— I can manage that, most of the time. I haven't felt that way in months. I was just... surprised." Mycroft tips his head in acknowledgement, allowing Sherlock to keep talking. He feels like Culverton. He's started confessing and now he can't stop. He takes a deep breath. "I'm nearly forty years old, Mycroft. I'm a grown man. And after everything that's happened, I feel as though... like you should be able to trust me to look after myself." 

"The work you do is dangerous, Sherlock. If we ignore your history of self-destructive behaviour, there's still many things that could befall you and the Watson's. I don't do it because I don't trust you are capable of looking after yourself and the ones you love. It's... entirely selfish. I feel like I must keep eyes on you at all times. We both have revealed, recently, how we care for each other. I can't deny that having CCTV on you at all times is not a relief for me."

"You do the same with Eurus," Sherlock points out, "keep her under wrap. Control her." Pain flashes across Mycroft's face, there and then gone. "I don't want that. I want to be able to stand on my own, to have to. Not rely on my big brother to save me anymore." Mycroft stays silent for a long, few moments, watching him. Sherlock raises his chin, watches back. 

"Ella Thompson deserves more credit than I give her, it seems." 

Sherlock smiles back at him, "indeed. I had the same thought." 

Somewhere on Mycroft's person a phone rings. The man sighs, a hand coming up to his rest on his breast pocket. "I have to go. I've delayed important meetings waiting for you to wake up." He stands, smoothes down the thigh of his pants with one hand, holding the umbrella loosely in his hand. He looks down at Sherlock, their positions causing an immense height difference between them. For a second, just one second, Sherlock sees it in Mycroft's eyes: a big brother, scared and out of his depth, trying to look after the strange character that is his little brother. Mycroft nods once, finally and heads towards the door. "I imagine Doctor Watson will be on his way home soon."

Sherlock looks out the window and follows the track of the sun. It must be a few hours after noon by now meaning Sherlock had spent a few hours sleeping. He tries to remember in John had said anything about visiting for dinner, but their last conversation had been a rush of anxiety and a screeching violin. He follows Mycroft to the door, granting him an absent goodbye. He picks up his violin, stares out the living room windows, and plays. 

John finds him exactly where he left him, unaware of the events that had happened in his absent hours. He returns with two suitcases full of clothes and Rosie's alphabet blocks (amongst other things). The good doctor makes them both tea, leaves a steaming cup by Sherlock's elbow on the desk and falls down into his own chair. Before he takes a sip, he says "it's good to be home."

—

Mycroft [8:23]: All of the personal cameras in and immediately surrounding Baker Street have been withdrawn.

Mycroft [8:23]: I'm sorry

Chapter Text

“Why don’t you tell me what happened, in your own words?”

Sherlock shifts on his seat, tucking one skiddish hand under his thigh. His wool blend trousers are itchy on his skin. “It was early, just before sun up and I heard Rosie crying upstairs. When I went in she had…” his free hands flaps in the air, “had an accident. The smell was everywhere.”

“She wet the bed?” Ella confirms.

“Yes,” Sherlock scowls, “it’s perfectly normal. She’s only been off nappies a few months, and she can’t go down the stairs on her own.” Ella raises her hands, palms out, in surrender. She raises a brow like ‘go on’; “Anyway, just as I managed to pick her up, John woke up. He didn’t realise what had happened at first until he smelled it, I suppose, and then he snapped at me.”

“He snapped at you?”

“I told him to go back to bed, that I’ve got it. He said I shouldn’t have to clean up after their messes and I said I don’t mind. He took Rosie from me and I started to strip the bed and he said, ‘stop it, Sherlock. That’s not your job. She’s my daughter, not yours’.” As Sherlock recounts what happened, he looks down at his thighs, blinking away stinging tears in his eyes. “Then he just stormed out.” Sherlock remembers the feeling, being left behind. He closes his eyes and sees the faint stretch of sun move through the window, the smell of stale urine and dust clawing its way through his nostrils and down his throat, a suffocating miasma settling in his lungs.

—

The idea of ownership, possession, is an inherently human idea. It starts as early as infancy with one’s parents, then in childhood with clothes and toys. When the body starts producing hormones in teenagehood, that increases and includes people, places, even non-corporeal ideas like a possible job, home or relationship. Possession, and later jealously, aggression, are a threat response to things which one has developed feeling of attachment.

The biology of attachment is extraordinarily simple for something so powerful and complex. A cocktail of oxytocin, dopamine, cortisol. Testosterone and epinephrine. Depending on who you are, how intense the biological factors for control, how your lizard brain perceives a threat, the response to previous traumas, all coalescence. You become a slave to your transport, the way you react to threats to the things you covet.

Attachment has high rates of oxytocin and dopamine, happiness in one hit. A subconscious perceived threat introduces testosterone, cortisol, epinephrine. Possessiveness is a heady cocktail of the lot, spiked to massive extremes. High blood pressure, increased perspiration, faster heart rate and breathing. Your body is primed to defeat the threat. Your lizard brain knows nothing except win.

People who like to believe they’re clever always point out the difference between jealously and envy, but the biology is the same — as is the resulting action. Love is a vicious motivator, after all.

—

Sherlock has felt jealously before, envy too, if you want to be pedantic. He’d felt it about The Work, and about John; he felt it about the incursion of Mary and after having exposed Mary’s pregnancy, why do you get to have everything you want? Why do you get to have everything I want?

Sherlock thought, sometimes, he saw it in John. He thought he saw it in the clenching of John’s fist when the Woman came to stay, when Janine moved the tea cannister in the kitchen. Sherlock had dismissed it the first time and ignored it the second. He had learned long ago that entertaining attachment and possessiveness leads to the end of things, the end of everything.

It has to be together, doesn’t it? At the end, it’s always just you and me.

—

There was something in his nose, pushing terrible tasting oxygen down his throat. At least it wasn't a ventilator, Sherlock thinks absently.  Despite the lack of invasive tub, his throat felt thick and dry. They'd sedated him again, idiots. Sherlock hates sedation, the way he it messes with his mind and disconnects his brain to his transport. He teeters a pendulum of awake and asleep, doors of his mind palace opening and shutting all on their own. It was like being haunted by ghosts.

He knew he had many things left to do. He had to protect John Watson. However, he had just wanted to rest, for a little bit. Just one day in this hospital bed, soothed by morphine.

Of course, that's not how his life worked. There was no peace when you're Sherlock Holmes.

I covet your hands, Mr. Holmes

He only registered the man's low voice when it hits close to his face. Somewhere in his mind palace a dog barked.

"Apologies for the dampness of my touch. You'll get used to it."

— 

“Why do you think that bothered you so much, Sherlock?” Ella prompts him, pulling him back to the present. “Your argument with John?”

Sherlock shakes his head, clearing ghosts, “possession, attachment, it’s … dangerous.”

“Yours or his?”

Sherlock shrugs absently, “Both, maybe?”

“What is it about attachment that is so concerning to you?”

“You know what,” Sherlock snarks. He had opened up an unprecedented amount this session, now that Ella had finally gotten MI6 clearance from Mycroft. They hadn't had a session for a few weeks while she was being forced through MI6 training (only partly of her own free will) but now as an official MI6 agent, with a signed NDA and clearance as high as Sherlock's, the detective can tell the whole truth. They'd talked a lot about everything that had happened in the past five years. “Attachment-cum-possession leads to … everything that has gone wrong in my bloody life.”

“Explore that,” she prompts.

“It all started with Moriarty. He felt … attached to me, in a twisted way. He thought we should be together, and he threatened John to make it happen. When I rejected him, he— he killed both of us.” Ella nods, writing something down on her paper pad. “Then… Mary,” they hadn’t actually spoken about Mary so much, Sherlock still struggling to navigate his tumultuous feelings on the subject, but Sherlock has no doubt Ella read the files on the bullet hole in his chest. “Even Magnussen, he…owned the world, he owned me.” He looks up at Ella, hoping that she could read his mind. There was no official report on Magnussen’s visit to his hospital and he didn’t feel ready to talk about it, really. Ella can obviously read something on his face, but not his mind.

“Tell me about it.”

—

The dampness was spreading. Hyperhidrosis dampened his skin where Magnussen’s wet palm glided along it, the man’s rubbery, wet lips pressing circles of warm breath against his palm, his wrist. As he talked, spittle flew from his mouth and landed on Sherlock’s skin, an invisible branding. There was another pool of wet, a spreading dampness. There was a sensation in his gut, a reluctant pull he hadn’t felt for over 30 years. The dampness seemed to spread; warm wetness travelling through the fibres of the 200 thread count cotton sheets. It had been a long, long time since he'd done something like this such, since he was a very young child.

Sherlock struggled. He struggled to do anything. He wanted to tear his hand away, he wanted to scream. Magnussen hovered over him and between the haze of pain and morphine, he saw those dead, grey eyes staring back. Wide, lifeless, cold. A shark come to nibble its meal. He was making a vague threat, Sherlock thought, but he couldn't distinguish the words. All he could hear was the constant hum of the man's low tone, see his face. He will see that face in his nightmares, he's sure of it. When he's alone, in pain, when he can't do anything to help himself but lay there, Magnussen will be there taunting him. Pressing spittle-slick lips to his pale flesh.

Moriarty will be delighted to watch on, Sherlock's sure.

A dog barked off in the distance, or maybe it was laughter from the basement, and then Sherlock was once more alone.

You'll get used to it.

—

“Do you associate John’s brand of paternal possessiveness with that of Moriarty, Magnussen or even Mary?”

Sherlock takes a breath, considering the question. “No,” he eventually settles on, “because he’s trying to… protect her. When she’s vulnerable, he wants to protect her. It’s not about… owning her, it’s about keeping her safe.”

“You can look at something rationally, Sherlock,” Ella says softly, “you can understand the biology, the physiology of it, but that doesn’t take away the feeling. Can I ask you another question, something that might re-frame your feelings on the situation?” Sherlock nods his consent and she writes something out on her paper, talking all the while, “was your response to your and John’s disagreement this morning about attachment, or was it about your ability to be there for John? You have been rejected by John before, when you first came back and after Mary Morstan’s death. You know how it feels to be alone, as well as how John struggled with single parenthood in the beginning. Is it perhaps that his rejecting your assistance in this matter brings up similar feelings of rejection in the past? Pushing you away, leaving you on the outside of a family unit.”

“That…” Sherlock takes a deep breath around the constricting feeling in his chest, “yes. That makes more sense.”

“And what steps can you take to manage that, Sherlock? Perhaps, to bridge the gap between the two of you?”

“Talk,” he grumbles, “be open and sincere.” Ella ignores his sarcastic tone, nodding.

“Exactly. I know it’s hard now, but you’ll get used to it.”

“It’s just…” Sherlock tries to gesture with his hands, to explain all of the feeling. Ella seems to understand.

“These conversations are hard, especially for someone like yourself. Being vulnerable and open like this exposes yourself to a lot of risks. A lot of risks you can’t control, which is unusual for you. But Sherlock, be willing to be open like that, right? Despite what may have happened in the past, it’s not always dangerous to be vulnerable, and it doesn’t always have to end in an argument. You need to be willing to be open without restraint. I know that’s hard, considering the past you and John have had, but you’ve both come a long way. Would you be willing to give this a try?” Sherlock nods in response, tucking his second hand under his thigh.

“And Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Remember, the people in your life love you more than you could imagine."

—

He takes his customary walk around Regent's park. He'd started the habit after he and John had a blow out after one of his sessions and Ella had suggested it as a way to give him time to process his thoughts and feelings alone. Sherlock, of course, had scoffed and rolled his eyes. It's like restarting a computer when its memory is overloaded, she'd said. Speaking his language. He uses the walks to recalibrate, to sort through what memories and thinking patterns, as Ella calls them, he needs to integrate or delete. He has to admit, he usually feels much more ready to face the Watson's after he's had the space. This walk, however, is about finding the words he wants to say to John.

He practices his speech as he makes his way back to Baker Street. He stops in at their favourite Chinese restaurant for dinner and chases the slowly dipping autumn sun. As he wanders closer to 221, giggles waft from the open windows and a smile pulls at his lips.  

The Watson's welcome him into 221B with happy smiles and a tight hug (from Rosie. John and Sherlock are a lot more physically affectionate now than before, but still not like that). They sit together and eat their sweet and sour pork and dim sum.

Sherlock’s mind is still wandering, painting words on the wall of his mind palace. He can hear Rosie giggling and squealing in delight at the tv, quelled by the crunch of a bite into a vegetable spring roll. Sherlock nods absently when John tells him he’s taking her for a bath to prepare for bed. Sherlock eventually returns from his mind palace and packs up the Chinese, listening to the muffled voices upstairs. He creeps up the stairs to hover by the doorway, watching the little girl’s bedtime routine. He tries to stay quiet, but Rosie sees him and reaches for him, causing John to turn around. The other man waves him in, gesturing to where Rosie is waiting in her cot.

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asks hesitantly, taking one aborted step into the room.

“I’m sure,” John says, a sad smile on his face. “Rosie wanted to say goodnight to you. How about I pop on the kettle meanwhile, then we'll talk, right?"

“Talk?” Sherlock frowns in mock confusion, “I don’t—”

“About whatever is going on, this morning, I’m guessing?”

“How did you—”

“I saw it on your face, all throughout dinner. Rosie called for you four times at dinner but you’d gone, up there” he taps his own forehead.

"John, I'm sorry."

"'S okay, Sherlock. I know the sessions can be draining, and I know you. You’ll think the problem to shreds. Let’s just talk about it instead, yeah?" Sherlock nods gravely and John smiles at him softly, putting a comforting hand on his elbow. He smells like baby powder and Rosie and wool. He's wearing one of his old sweaters, one he'd left in the cupboard upstairs even after he moved away from Baker Street and into his flat with Mary. He looks like home, the way Sherlock had pictured it when he had been away. It sends a terrible ache through Sherlock's chest, seeing John so soft and comfortable in the low light of Rosie's nightlight. He looks like he belongs here, like he could stay forever. "See you down there, then," John says and scurries off.

Sherlock slowly approaches Rosie's crib, mindful of if she's asleep already. When he peeks down, he sees her bright blue eyes still open, her mess of blonde curls spread out over the pillow. She really looks like her mother sometimes, he thinks idly. He brushes his hand softly over her cheek, "Goodnight, Watson."

"Goodnight 'Lock," she replies sleepily, her eyes already slipping shut, "love you, 'Lock, love you."

Sherlock manages to choke out a "I love you, too, my little bee," wiping at the tears on his cheeks before they can fall and disrupt the little girl. As much as he regrets the course of his life with John, the missed opportunities and the pain, he cannot bring himself to want to change a second of it, not when it would risk the existence of this lovely little girl. Rosie had managed to worm herself into Sherlock's heart so quickly and thoroughly that she has become an integral part of his happiness and survival.

Like father, like daughter.

He grabs the baby monitor and makes his way back downstairs and into the living room where John is waiting with two steaming cups of tea. Sherlock replaces the tea cup with the baby monitor, sitting opposite John in his chair and cradling the warm mug in his hands.

"Thanks for that," John says, "she wasn't going to sleep unless you came to say goodnight."

"It is my pleasure, John," Sherlock says, "it's my privilege. I love her, you know that, I love her like my own heart. I will always do as she asks, as you ask, because I don't want—"

“Sherlock, Sherlock” John says. He had put down his mug and is holding Sherlock’s shoulders in his compact, warm hands. “Of course, of course I know that, and I love it. I love the relationship you have with her. And she loves you, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock mutters pathetically, embarrassed by the swell of panic which had overcome him “I’m sorry that I— if I, overstepped boundaries.”

“You didn’t,” John says sternly, “you didn’t. I’m sorry about this morning, I was… tired, and embarrassed and frustrated. Not at you, not at her, just at the situation. It was wrong of me to snap at you and I appreciate your help, I suppose I just didn’t want you to have to deal with the unsavoury bits. I didn’t want you to be reminded of why you don’t want a toddler in the house.”

“John, a little bit of nocturnal enuresis isn’t going to change the way I feel about her or about you. I want you both here.”

“If you’re only.. if it’s only because she’s mine, I understand that—”

“John,” the detective says sternly, “I love her inherently because she is your daughter. I will protect her because she is your daughter. But I adore her, I enjoy having her around because of her. She is funny and curious and intelligent for her age and sweet. I love her because she’s yours, but I love her for her, too. And I don’t want either of you to leave, ever again.”

“Okay Sherlock, thank you.”

“I mean it, John,” Sherlock says, remembering the words of the speech he’d written in his head, a bit late. He observes the words written in his mind palace in bright yellow spray paint, “I know you may think 221B is unsuitable for a child long-term but we can make it work. I have already purchased everything we need, plug covers and a gate for the steps. We can teach her safely to go down them when she’s old enough. I don’t do dangerous experiment anymore, and I keep the bodies parts in a separate fridge. I know as she grows up space may be an issue but we can manage that when the time comes, I’ll move into 221C or something, but that’s years away yet, please just—”

“Sherlock, are you asking us to move in?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, feigning his usual everyone around me is an idiot tone, despite his shaking hands. John laughs and Sherlock’s frantically beating heart freezes in his chest. He had expected a no, maybe some more arguing, but not laughing. Ella didn’t say anything about laughing. “You don’t have to, but I don’t want to be left on the outside anymore, John. I want to be a part of your family, in whatever way that looks like. Stop laughing!”

John’s giggles die down, “sorry, sorry. It’s just.. Sherlock you are already a part of our family. You’re Rosie’s godfather to start, but also—” John’s giggles burst up again and Sherlock pulls away from his touch, wounded. John holds on and pushes down his laughter, “we are already moved in. We had this conversation weeks ago, don’t you remember?”

Sherlock frowns, looking at John underneath his lashes, “no, we didn’t.”

“Yes, we did,” John insists. “I said ‘Sherlock, I want to sell the flat’ and you said ‘whatever you think is best, John’, and I said ‘can we move into 221B? Rosie and I,’ and you said ‘excellent, John’. Were you not paying attention?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to argue, but closes it with a clack. “I’m sorry, I must not have been.” John laughs, but his laugh doesn’t sound mocking, just fond, maybe happy. 

“I thought you gave in too easily. The flat sold three weeks ago and we moved in permanently. We’ve been here every morning and every night, you didn’t notice?”

“I tend to delete the days you aren’t around,” Sherlock admits, “I don’t dwell on it.”

John laughs once more, shakes his head and sits on his arse on the floor, letting go of Sherlock’s shoulders. The heat of John’s palm leaves and Sherlock tries not to whimper at the loss of contact. His head is spinning with all of this new data: John had touched him, consistently, for at least five minutes. He had moved in, weeks ago, sold his flat. Sold the flat that had belonged to him and Mary and he moved into 221B Baker Street. With Sherlock. He lived with Sherlock again. He wanted to.

“So,” Sherlock gathers, “is that a yes?”

“Yes, you daft git,” John says fondly. “We’ll move in, both of us.”

Sherlock nods solemnly, “thank you.” John shakes his head, muttering under his breath.

“Is that what you and Ella talked about today, belatedly asking me to move back in?”

“Among other things,” Sherlock says.

“Anything you wanna talk about?” John gets off the ground and back to his chair, where his tea is no longer steaming. He takes a sip of no doubt tepid tea and shrugs, drinking it again.

Sherlock considers telling John what he and Ella had talked about, about loneliness and loss of control. He considers telling John about Magnussen’s visit to the hospital, the way he had been alone, at mercy to warm, damp horror. The way the smell of piss reminds him of Magnussen’s chapped lips. He finds it still too big, all of the feeling. Instead he shrugs and says, “I just don’t want to be alone, anymore.” It’s meant to be I don’t want to make my own tea, I don’t want to have to grab my phone sitting two feet away from me, I don’t want to have to buy my own groceries, but his voice cracks on the word, his eyes sting and it’s I don’t want to be tied down to a hospital bed, frightened and alone.

“I’m sorry,” John says just as honestly, “I’m sorry I haven’t been here for you. But I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere, right?”

“I know,” Sherlock responds.

“Great,” John stands and they smirk at one another when his knees pop. They're both a lot older now, a little slower. Sherlock finds he's not as worried about growing old as he once was. Not if John is with him. "I think I'm going to head up to bed, that okay? Are you going to be able to get some sleep?"

"I'll be fine, John," Sherlock assures him, wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand and surprised to find them damp. "I have to do some mind palace maintenance. I'll be fine right here."

John smiles at him. Fond, warm, home. "Good night then, Sherlock."

"Good night John." Sherlock watches John disappear into the kitchen to tidy their tea mugs, then watches him as he goes into the bathroom for his evening ablutions. He watches as John finally starts to ascend the stairs to the second floor.

Words catch in his throat, but he keeps silent. There's the other thing he should say. The thing Ella had urged him to say, in so little words. But not now, not yet. They have time, now, all the time in the world.

—

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock, Sher-lock. You think you have time, but how much time? Haven't you learned, yet, that at the end, it’s always just you and me. John Watson will leave again, as he always does, then it'll be you and me.

Chapter Text

E: Ego

[on a piece of lined paper in a mix of John and Sherlock’s handwriting]

            Baby powder

            Milk

            Hydrochloric acid

            Oranges

            Ginger nuts

Robert Simon       wife Hatty Doran, husband and wife. Are they even in love? Disappeared after the wedding.

Possibly cold feet?  She’s only young, and he’s our age. Sherlock looks keen, at least. He keeps nodding. Bloody hell, this guy's a bit of a tosser. Fucking Americans.

No word from wife for two days. Was she kidnapped? Possibly for ransom?

Never bloody mind, Sherlock’s solved it.

—

Mrs Hudson, Sherlock and John are eating a lackadaisical lunch together when Robert Simon comes storming up the steps. Rosie has been put down for her mid-day nap and the grown ups are around the kitchen table when the man pushes through the door.

“Oi, Holmes! I need a word with you.” Sherlock, as gracefully as ever, stands and gestures to their living room.

“Please, take a seat and we’ll be with you presently.” John raises an eyebrow at Sherlock, wondering what Sherlock could’ve done in less than 12 hours to piss off the man. Sherlock had sent the man out of the flat, announced 'this is going to be pathetically easy, John' and typed furiously away on his phone. John had watched Sherlock exit and enter the flat three times over the course of the day before he had finally flopped down on the couch and announced 'case closed!'

John has no idea if the american storming into their living room was part of the plan or not. Sherlock sits down in his chair and crosses his ankles, “what can we do for you, Rob?”

The man red face turns even redder at Sherlock’s tone of voice. “You closed my case. I am not ready to leave matters be just yet—”

“There’s nothing left to do. Your case isn’t only closed, it’s solved. I suggest you go home to lick your wounds in peace.”

“Now, listen here. I didn’t pay you a thousand bloody dollars to send me a single text message. I told you to find my bride—”

“Which I did, I found her quite happily—”

“and bring her back to me!”

“Uh-uh,” Sherlock tisks at the man. “You asked me to ‘find out what happened to Hatty’, well, I did. I gave you a comprehensive report in that text message, as well as a generous recommendation of what to do going forward and I suggest you follow it.”

“I’m not just going to let her bloody get away! I love her, goddamit.”

“Do you?” Sherlock's demeanour changes instantly for boredom apathetic to... tense. He stands, his face thunderous, his shoulders tight All John can do is sit and watch him, his mouth slightly agape. He knows the client is a bit of a dick, and based off what little he'd picked up from this conversation, in the wrong somehow, but he didn’t expect Sherlock to react so strongly. It sounds like the kind of badly written romance dramas on the tv he hates. “Do you love her, Mr. Simon? Because, excuse the gap in my knowledge — high functioning sociopath and all that — what I understand about love, is that it is selfless. When you love someone, what matters is their happiness, regardless of if its with you or not. When you love someone, you make sacrifices, you do whatever you can, for them. It means making space, when they choose someone else. It means standing by their side, if you can, and being content with that, because it’s that or nothing, and nothing feels like death. Love means… means more than your shrivelled, grey heart can understand. You don’t love her, Mr. Simon. You think you deserve to own her and that is vastly different.”

“You’re not allowed to speak with to me like that, Mr Holmes!” Robert splutters, standing up to match him. “I am a grieving husband, my wife scampering off to sleep with someone else, like a common whore.”

“Oh, please,” Sherlock says dramatically, “your wife isn’t some common whore. She’s reuniting with the man she loves. With the man she thought she’d lost. There is no love lost between you, this was a purely political relationship.”

“That is not true! We loved each other, we—”

“You tolerated one another. Or at the very least, she tolerated you. She did her best to make it work, and I admire her ability to maintain the façade. She held her own against your narcissism, your self-delusion, your avarice, Why, I think she deserves extra credit for dealing with your problems in the bedroom. Getting on in your years, aren’t you? I bet you could only get it up—” Sherlock had been shouting, Robert had been shouting and John had been watching the sparring, growing slowly more on edge as Robert got further into Sherlock’s space, a shaking hand aching to get its fingers around Sherlock’s throat. John wonders, absently, how they hadn’t managed to wake Rosie yet when Mrs Hudson’s voice cuts above all the rest.

“Norbury! Sherlock, Norbury!” Everyone freezes and, like clockwork, Rosie starts crying upstairs. “Goodness me, boys. You’re all grown ups, what is with all the shouting?” John had forgotten Mrs Hudson was hovering in the kitchen. She pushes into the circle and presses a soft hand to Sherlock’s elbow, “come on now, dear. I’m going to go and get Miss Rosie, you send this nice gentleman on his way with an apology, and everything’ll be alright.”

John watches as the detective deflates into Mrs Hudson. His face is white as a sheet, his eyes wide. “Mrs Hudson,” he whispers.

“It’s alright now, dear.” Mrs Hudson turns to their client, “goodbye Mr. Simon. It was awful to meet you. Get out!” Robert splutters, but he has no chance against Mrs Hudson’s steely gaze. He grumbles all the way down the stairs and out of 221 Baker Street. Mrs Hudson gently leads Sherlock to his chair, “stay here, dear. It’s alright now.” Rosie cries again and all heads turn to upstairs. John goes to stand, “you stay, too, John. I’ve got her.” Mrs Hudson gives Sherlock one, last inscrutable look, gently touches the side of his face and then leaves to pick up Rosie. 

Sherlock is barely breathing, his fingers white-knuckled where he's gripping the armrest of his chair. He looks like he looked that night at Dartmoor. 

"Sherlock?" 

—

[written on unlined paper that has clear food lines, like it has been opened and folded again and again. The letters are shaky but precise, with so much force put into writing it that the paper is marked with the tip of the pen]

I can't believe I ever trusted you. Sally was right, all those years ago, there's dead bodies all around me and it's because of you. You're a selfish, stupid, egomaniac, Sherlock, and I don't want to see you ever again. You killed all those people with Moriarty's games, you killed Magnussen, you killed Mary. You might as well have killed me. 

You're never going to be a proper human being, are you? You're never going to stop making the same, stupid mistakes because you don't care about anyone but yourself. And you know what? I've made mistakes, too. Bringing you into my life was the biggest mistake I've ever made. I'm not making it anymore. 

I  don't want to see you ever again. Stay away from me, Sherlock.

—

"Sherlock?" John has called out to him three times and Sherlock hasn't responded, staring at a place far off in the distance. His fingers don't even twitch the way they sometimes do when he's organising information in his mind palace. He's gone completely catatonic. 

John doesn't understand what just happened. Sherlock had been doing his usual thing, flaming righteous, putting that arrogant shit in his place. He had been prepared to step in if things got violent but, well, he rather thought the man deserved it. Mrs Hudson had stepped up and silenced everything with one word. What did she say? 

Norbury 

Norbury 

... Norbury. 

Mrs Hudson appears from upstairs, holding a sleepy Rosie in her arms. She looks at Sherlock, still catatonic, and smiles sadly. "Oh my boy. John, I'm going to take Rosie downstairs away from all the excitement," she adds. "You and Sherlock have some talking to do, I think." She carries Rosie over to John, who pushes her curly fringe from her forehead and gives her a kiss, whispering "sleep tight," to her. Mrs Hudson takes her over to Sherlock, too.

"Sherlock," their landlady says sternly, "say goodnight to Rosie." Rosie makes a sleepy noise, a hand falling away from her body to reach out to the detective. He reanimates slowly, pressing a painfully gentle kiss to her head.

"Little bee," he mutters. "Mrs Hudson," he looks up at her, eyes wide. He truly look terrified. 

"Talk to John Watson," Mrs Hudson orders, "he deserves to know." Sherlock nods obediently, but falls back into his chair, his shoulders hunched and his knees up by his chest. John watches Rosie and Mrs Hudson disappear downstairs, then turns to watch Sherlock. 

"Sherlock?" He asks again. "What's... going on? Why did she say that?" 

Sherlock seems, finally, to realise the doctor sitting opposite him. John watches the moment Sherlock comes back online, beginning to build up the wall John spent so long breaking down. Suddenly, Sherlock’s silk blue dressing gown looks less comfortable and soft and more like royal armour. He tosses his head back with a sigh, before launching himself out of his seat and towards his violin. John waits, patiently. He knows what it looks like when Sherlock is psyching himself up to be terribly vulnerable. It’s only once Sherlock is applying rosin to his bow that he says, “just a little agreement between Mrs Hudson and myself. A reminder.”

John knows where he got ‘Norbury’ from, he doesn’t need to ask, but he does ask “why?” 
Sherlock looks at him pointedly, “I believe you recognise the name and the surrounding circumstances.” 
“yes,” John says, ignoring the sudden but familiar clench of his heart. Not for Mary, not after this long and everything they’d been through, but for Sherlock. For the way Sherlock had to watch another person die, feel like he lost two friends in one, for John’s blinding grief and selfishness. John knows Sherlock still blames himself for what happened, no matter how many times John tells him it's not true. “But why.” 
“You’ve said it yourself many times, John. I get too involved in my deductions, I get arrogant, and I make mistakes. I risk people’s lives, the lives of people I care about. I can’t keep making the same mistake.”  
“Sherlock, you can’t keep blaming yourself for other people’s choices.” 
“Why not?” Sherlock strikes his bow roughly against his violin once, to shake off kinetic energy. “I have collected the data, reviewed it. Assessed it from all possible angles. The truth is: if I wasn’t around, things would work out. If I didn’t exist, it wouldn’t have happened. It’s better if I… stay away.” They both know Sherlock isn’t just talking about his deductions now, or about Mary’s death. They’re talking about everything: the plane being turned around after Magnussen, returning from the Fall, meeting John at the lab. Sherlock seems to think John’s life would be better if Sherlock had never existed in it at all. 

He is dead wrong. 

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” John says firmly. “I would… go through everything all over again, to keep you.” 

Sherlock smiles bitterly, “you shouldn’t say things like that, John. It doesn’t do to inflate my ego more than it already is.” 

John hums, watching Sherlock pace back and forth by the window. He's holding his bow and his violin, rested on his shoulder, but he's not playing. John can hear the swish of the bow as it swings through the air. “I read an interesting thing online the other day, about ego."

"Oh?"

"Everyone thinks ego is about believing you’re so great, that everything is perfect. Like, narcissism or something. The true voice of ego is ‘I, I, I, everything’. Not just, I’m cleverer than everyone else; also, I’m to blame. I’m the worst, I,I,I. Yes, Sherlock. I think you have the biggest ego of anyone I’ve ever known, and it breaks my heart.” 
“John,” Sherlock says.
“Let me make it worse, right? I think you’re brilliant, I think you’re devastatingly intelligent. I think you can be crass and rude and get ahead of yourself, and I think you’re not the only one who has those flaws. I also think you’re one of the most kind, caring, thoughtful people I know. I think you give so much of yourself to the people you love, Sherlock, you don’t know how to do things by halves. And that’s not a common thing, and it’s beautiful. It’s dead scary sometimes, sometimes it feels like so much, like I can’t hold all of everything you give to us, to Rosie and me. And it’s scary to watch you tear yourself apart for others, because you deserve better.” 
“John, you’re rambling,” but Sherlock’s eyes have gone soft, a light blush on his cheeks.

”Right, sorry. I guess what I’m trying to say is, it’s good that you want to work on, you know, agitating potentially violent clients, or suspects and stuff. I guess if you really stopped there would be no use for me, eh? But it’s great. Most people don’t try and work on their flaws. But I don’t want to use … what happened with Mary, what I … blamed you for, unjustly. To do that. I want you to grow because it feels right for you, not because of misplaced guilt or… or penance.” 
“I want to be better,” Sherlock says in a small voice, “I don’t know how.” 
“it guess it just takes time,” John responds, “and practice, but Sherlock, you’re amazing already. Just the way you are, yeah? And I’m so sorry I ever … made you want to change, or hurt you. I don’t blame you for what happened with Mary, I don’t.” 
Sherlock’s mouth is pushed into a thin line, so much soft, plush lips lost in anxiety and fear. “Thank you, John.” His voice is politely distant.
“No,” John says, putting up a hand. “I mean it, and I want you to say you understand, and mean it, too.” 
“I do,” Sherlock responds, “I understand, and I am grateful. Everyone, my whole life, has been trying to change me. For someone to lo-accept me, just the way I am. It means more than you could know.”
“You have done the same for me,” John says easily, “you accepted me as I was: a traumatised, busted up army doctor, now with toddler and extra trauma. I’m a grumpy, bitter, dull old fool, and it’s… good, to be in your life. At Baker St and with the work. Thank you.” 
“Your ego, Doctor,” Sherlock says with a smile. John laughs and Sherlock continues, “I think you are quite useful, patient, a loving father and an excellent friend. My best friend, in fact.” 
“Yeah," John says, smiling back. “Good, same. You too, I mean.” 
“Good.” 

— 

There's another case, this time with a chase across London and blood. John is cleaning out Sherlock's Belstaff pockets for the dry cleaner when he finds it. 

He can see the press of the words on the clean side of the paper, shaking S's and hard-dotted I's. He opens it anyway, recognising the easy unfold. If he were trying to deduce this, a letter from a random client, he would say it was highly prized, precious. 

It's not prized, it's not precious. It's foul. It's certainly at the top of the ever-growing list of the worst things John has ever done. It's untrue and, based on its home in Sherlock's coat pocket, wormed its way into Sherlock's precious brain like a virus. 

He places it carefully on the coffee table and sits back, staring at the middle space. He needs to go to the dry cleaner, he will, in just a moment. He just needs a minute. 

Sherlock bursts out of his room after one of this rare post-case naps. His dressing gown is sliding down off one shoulder, pulling down the faded cotton t-shirt with it and exposing his neck. His hair is a tousled mess and he looks so vulnerable, so soft. John knows that despite the masks Sherlock puts on (high-functioning sociopath, detective, murderer), he is very easily wounded. That letter would've done more than give him a paper cut. John thinks about how Sherlock had been, after, during the Culverton case. Mary had done that to him, Mary and John. John launches himself from the couch and nearly tackles Sherlock into a hug. After that hug on Sherlock's birthday, where he selfishly broke down in the wounded detective's arm, physical gestures like this were still far and in-between but not so daunting. Sherlock lets out a surprised grunt then tentatively wraps his arms around John. 

"John? What is it? Is Rosie okay?"

"Fine," John says into his chest. 

"Then wha— oh." He must've seen the letter on the table. 

"Sherlock I'm so sorry," John says, still unable to pull his head away and look at him. "I totally forgot about that. I was drunk, and that doesn't make it okay, but I swear, I don't feel that way."

"I know, John," 

"Then why... why keep it? It was in the pocket of your coat! Do you always carry it with you?"

"Often," Sherlock says cautiously, "John, I know you don't mean the things you said, but I keep it... as a reminder."

"Like Norbury." 

"Yes."

"Sherlock," John presses his face tighter into Sherlock's chest, "christ, I'm the worst friend in the world." Sherlock places his large hand on John's necks, like he did the afternoon of his birthday. 

"You're the best friend I could ask for," he rumbles. John can feel the words in his teeth and right down to his toes. 

"You need better standards," John says. 

"Ego, Doctor Watson." John grumbles wordlessly, giving Sherlock one last squeeze before letting go. Sherlock's hand lingers on John's nape in a way that makes John shiver. He looks up into mercurial eyes. 

"Will you get rid of it?" 

"I— I want to keep it." 

"If I write you a new one, will you keep that one instead?" 

Sherlock opens his mouth, considers for a moment, then says "yes."

"Okay," John nods, his mind already whirring with everything he's wanted to say for years. Sherlock doesn't like his tedious romantic writing, but he'll have to deal with it. John has lots of tediously romantic things to say. 

— 

[comments on the personal blog of Doctor John H. Watson, blog entry The Noble Bachelor]

p_anderson@theemptyhearseclub: Sherlock didn't really say all that stuff to Simon. He doesn't go in for that sort of stuff, he's too clever 

bmurray1974: Wow, what an ass. I'm glad Sherlock put him in his place. A grandiose speech like that doesn't seem his style. 

DoranDoran: Thank you for what you did, Mr Holmes. I'm so sorry Robert wasted so much of your time. Well wishes! 

MraTurner: Hello boys, this is Mrs Hudson again. Mrs Turner never logs out of the computer and I can't find the button to switch. What a wonderfully written write up John! You're so talented as a writer. Sherlock is lucky to have you. And for all of you in the comments, yes of course Sherlock said all that. He's different than you think. He's certainly been in love. Well, I'm going to go now, the scones in the oven are nearly done. I'll bring them up to you boys for afternoon tea! Goodbye. 

Chapter Text

I consider myself married to my work.

Friends? I don't have friends. 

Alone protects me. 

No. Stay exactly where you are. Don't move. 

I didn't understand I was being asked to be the best man. 

John. Stay with Mary.

—

Afghanistan or Iraq? 

I just have the one. 

You're a conductor of light.

Not dead. 

I never expected to be anybody's best friend.

I don't want either of you to leave, ever again.

—

Sherlock lives a life full of contradictions. He avoided the sea when he was younger (not afraid, never afraid, just aware and honouring its power.) but he wanted so desperately to be a pirate. He considers himself a genius, above the rest, but still strives to prove his intellect to everyone around him. He was able to talk his way into a sociopathic diagnosis in a rehab facility when he was in his early 20s, then he went to his private room and cried and cried and cried. He told Mike Stamford he did not want or need a roommate, he'd been at Baker Street for nearly a week before he'd met John, and then invited the man to stay the same hour he met him. 

Mycroft had only agreed to use Sherlock's trust fund money on rent for a dingy Victorian flat in central London if Sherlock could prove he would never touch drugs again: living with a doctor had seemed like evidence not even Mycroft could dispute. It had nothing to do with being lonely, or wanting company. Sherlock had never needed a friend, but he suddenly found himself in possession of one. 

—

There's a man sitting across from him in that lumpy, old chair. It's red and scratchy and too small to hold all of ... Sherlock. He had considered throwing it out. The man across from him likes it. Chose it, all on his own. Fallen into it like it had been his, always. 

He's sitting across from Sherlock, absently sipping tea and flicking the newspaper pages as he turns them. He's humming something low under his breath. The man brings takeaway home for dinner. He just clicks his tongue at the body parts in the fridge and pushes them aside to store the leftovers. The man sits in the lumpy red armchair and takes notes when, finally, an interesting client comes to call. The man follows him when he runs, through alleyways and over roofs, past storefronts and out of windows. The man doesn't complain, just giggles his way up the stairs to fall into the scratchy, old armchair.

He's sitting across from Sherlock, living there.  Even enjoying it. It's contrary to everything Sherlock understands. 

Somewhere along the way the man becomes John, becomes the most important thing in Sherlock's life. Important enough to wait for, important enough to clean for. Eventually, important enough to fall for. 

—

It had always seemed, to Sherlock, like he'd had a crystal clear sense of self. An identity so sharp it could drill through metres and metres of bedrock. His genius shone like a lit up diamond, encompassing, brilliant light. 

He'd never wondered where the light came from. Not until then. 

Here, you can use mine. 

— 

Earthquakes are caused by tectonic plates under the Earth's surface colliding, rubbing together and reverberating through the crust of the Earth. It topples buildings and splits the ground and moves oceans. Earthquakes occur about 20 000 times in a year, ranging from pitifully small to potentially disastrous. People notice earthquakes, scream in fear and hide, riding waves as the planet shifts underneath them. But the planet is moving, even when the tectonic plates are gentle. The Earth is spinning, thousands of kilometres an hour, hurdling through space. No one screams then, no one holds close to their loved ones every minute of the day as the world turns and turns and turns. When you're safe inside the force of gravity, living and working away in the eye of the storm, you don't notice. But you're still spinning and spinning and spinning. 

The moment you realise you're in love is like the terrifying impact of an earthquake, but there's all that orbiting that happens beforehand. All of the falling 

and falling 

and falling

— 

The first shockwave hits that night, after John shot the cabbie, sitting in the dim light of the Chinese shop. A dim sim falls from John's chopsticks and lands on his plate with a plop. Sherlock watches as the doctor laughs at himself. Just gently, under his breath, but then he looks up at Sherlock with a sparkle shining in his eye and Sherlock bursts into giggles too. He is face flushed in a blush, both of them trying to choke down their laughs in the quiet restaurant. He looks away, wayward giggles turning into a smile. He sees John is in his peripheral, smiling too. His heart clenches in a way he refuses to understand. His fingers shake like tectonic shifts when he pays the bill. 

The shockwaves come and go in the proceeding months, always at random times. When John hands him a cup of tea, when he laughs at one of his jokes, when he says that one thing, just some simple thing, and it sets Sherlock's deductions on the right track. 

It was the final shockwave, the main event, that tipped him over the edge of the roof of St Barts and down to the ground below. Even if it had, ultimately, been a magic trick. He'd still fallen all that way. He thought the falling would be over, once he completed his mission and was able to return home. He'd been wrong. 

Even back in London, he's still falling. 

— 

outgoing [12:34] : John. SH

John [12:36] : Sherlock? You okay? What is it? I'm at work. 

outgoing [12:42] :  You and Sarah broke up. But you're still working with her. SH

John [12:44] : What? Yes. It's a job Sherlock, you don't just quit your job because of a break up. 

outgoing [12:45] : J But you're obviously still comfortable working with one another. Most people get embarrassed or uncomfortable being around their ex. Some kind of guilt or regret. Attraction rekindled which leads to bad decisions, the reigniting of a relationship that didn't work out. People are so good at being wilfully ignorant. SH

John [12:53] : Are you just bored? Is that it? I don't know what to tell you, Sherlock. I'm at work. I can't entertain you. Deduce me another time. 

outgoing [12:55] :  I'm just trying to understand. SH

outgoing [12:55] : Do you intend to rekindle your relationship with Sarah? SH

John [13:18] : What, Sherlock? No. Sarah and I are done. We're just work colleagues, and friends maybe. But no. No more dates. SH

outgoing [13:28] :  Oh. SH

outgoing [13:35] : Good. SH

—

to: [email protected] 

from: [email protected] 

subject: how could you 

Sherlock 

You've been back for 4 weeks and you're acting like nothings even happened. You died, Sherlock, you were dead. So dead we buried you six feet under. I was there. I saw it. Closed casket, granted. Maybe I should've been suspicious then, you never gave up an opportunity to show off. You with your cheekbones and your.. christ, anyway. 

I'm on my lunch break at work and I just started this email because I have all these thoughts in my head and I can't get rid of them. I'm in the middle of telling someone they need their next round of vaccines, 'I know needles are scary, but' and then it just slips out instead, 'how could you do this?' like I'm talking to you in my head, all the time, and two conversations blend together. My patients look at me like I'm crazy, like its not a big deal they haven't had two years worth of vaccines (which it is, it is. Sherlock did you keep up with your vaccines? Did you got to a clinic or something, wherever you were?). 

There's a rumour going around that people, falling from great heights, die before they hit the ground. A heart attack, some people say. Oxygen deprivation, if you fall far enough. Inertia tearing your body apart. Whatever. It's hard to diagnose what causes death one there's so much inside messed up. Molly wouldn't let me read the autopsy report, see your body anything. I thought then she was being kind, in a really fucked up way, trying to save me from it or something. Like if I didn't read the autopsy or see your body, I wouldn't know you were dead. But I knew, every second I knew. Every moment, every breath, every step, I could feel it in my entire body. Every cell in my body knew. I was just... dead. Without you. That's fucked up, right? That I felt.. dead on every level, just because my flatmate was dead. But you were more than my flatmate. Colleague. Friend. Best friend. More? 

Anyway, I know now that she was doing all that to cover up your trick. Maybe she knew I would be too smart, that I'd notice too much. Not you, you underestimated me, eh? You bastard, 

What was I saying? oh yeah, there's this idea that people die before they hit the ground, but we can only make educated guesses. Observations, you would say. I spent so many nights laying awake, watching you fall and fall and fall in my mind. I wondered if you'd died somewhere past the fourth floor, or if your heart was still beating while you bled out on the concrete. I wondered if I could've done something. 

Now that's all wasted, I guess. So much time, wasted. I have wasted two years of my life mourning an empty casket. And fuck, that's shite, Sherlock. Fuck you. 

I thought watching you die was what killed me. But that was just the falling, falling, falling. Living without you was the impact, the part that really killed me. 

Now everything's happening in reverse. You're back and I... I don't know what to do with myself. I don't know myself anymore. 

I don't know you anymore, either. Maybe I never did. I had thought maybe.... but I was wrong. 

I tell you marriage won't change anything but it will. I can't be what you want from me. Not now. 

Sorry.

Save message as draft? Message saved. 

—

The planet is throwing itself around the sun when Sherlock makes his best man speech. Into battle was right. The two people who love you most.

He hadn't said it before, and he hasn't said it since. He thinks maybe he never will. What he has with John is precious, fragile and unique. Too important to put pressure on, too many stress fractures already. No need to push. 

The tectonic plates rub together, cheek-to-cheek on the dance floor, and Sherlock packs up his violin and leaves the wedding, early. 

— 

Outgoing [21:21] : Hey, Sherlock, how's the case going? You okay? Sorry I missed it, couldn't beg off work. 

Sherlock [21:32] : John. SH 

Outgoing [21:34] : Sherlock? Are you okay? Where are you? 

Sherlock [21:42] : Lestrade. SH  

Outgoing [21:46] : Greg? What did he do?

Sherlock [21:53] : Took me to a pub. Got me. Drunk. SH

Outgoing [22:19] : Drunk? You? At a pub? That's practically magic. 

Sherlock [22:22] : Magic isn't real, John. SH

Outgoing [22:24] : Hey, I think you're a bit magic, sometimes. But I know it isn't. Just a lot of effort. I haven't even taken you out to a pub. Except for my stag night, that is. 

Sherlock [22:31] : You're rambling. In text. SH 

Outgoing [22:35] : Haha, yeah, right. bit impressive, that. Anyway, I was just wondering. Why you want to the pub with him.

Sherlock [22:47] : I think the right answer is, because we're 'mates'. Greg says 'to celebrate' but I'm not sure what we're celebrating. SH 

Outgoing [22:48] : Right. Right. Well, have fun. 

Sherlock [22:50] : I'd be having much more fun at home, reading Rosie a bedtime story. SH

Outgoing [22:52] :  You could come home, now. I want you home, Sherlock  I'm sure you and Greg are having fun, too.

Outgoing [22:53] : I don't know you could... pick someone up, yeah? You do that kind of thing don't you?   Rosie will be waiting, its okay you have time. 

Outgoing [22:54]: Sherlock?

Sherlock [23:07] : John? What is it? SH

Outgoing [23:09] : Nothing. Have fun.  

Chapter Text

He wasn't technically high, because the high had worn off about an hour ago, but when the detective had squinted his eyes to look into Sherlock's and pronounced, "you're off your tits" he didn't even bother to correct him. He could've said no and would have been basically correct, or more honestly, not anymore. Even a clever repartee as you can no doubt observe, I am a man, which means I am not (okay, so it's not that clever, but it was also true). Instead he said, 

"It is best for your budding career if you trust me. Sir," he tried it on to be polite and found he didn't like it. The man was almost a decade older than Sherlock himself at 23, but he was not in any way Sherlock's better, or that old. Maybe 'mate' would've suited better, though it didn't give quite the professional vibe he was going for and they didn't know each other, hence they couldn't be mates. The man pulled Sherlock from his introspection by saying, 

"My name's Detective Lestrade, if you want to use it. And you didn't answer my question. Do I need to lock you up in the drunk tank? Or take you to the hospital?" Sherlock scrunched his nose up at the detective, Lestrade. 

"Please," he scoffed, "if you put me in jail or the hospital, my brother will simply remove me, or I will remove myself. I merely stopped on my way past to tell you what I saw, which was everything that was vital to the case that you didn't see. I'm telling you, it's not a mugging gone wrong. It was a panicked murder to hide another, seperate murder. You would be a fool to ignore me, more than you already are." 

"Alright, alright." The detective held his hands up in defeat, "look mate. I'd tell you you're crazy 'cept you made some great points, there. We'll consider what you told us, but you can't come wandering onto crime scenes or get high. It's not just illegal you know, it's a waste. A waste of your obvious talent." 

Sherlock didn’t know what to do in the face of the man's words, almost a compliment, that he just scowled and said "don't call me mate. We are not mates." 

"What's your name then? What would you rather I call you?" 

He hesitated for a long moment. Revealing his identity to the cop could be a bad idea, especially if he's going to end up thrown into jail anyway. On the other side, making a connection like this could be very important. The watch on the man's wrist was new and not inexpensive. Based off the quality of the rest of the man's clothes, he was not one to live a lavish material lifestyle, which meant the watch was most likely a gift. Considering the badge proudly displayed on the man's belt, the bags under his eyes and his prematurely silvering hair, he works hard and does well. A gift from his superiors then, a prelude to a promotion. Within 24 months, this man could be a DI: just the kind of person Sherlock wanted on his side. 

Sherlock had discovered the way crime-solving buzzed in his veins like cocaine years ago, reading about the case of Carl Powers in the news. Of course, he hadn't known the high of cocaine to compare it to then, but it fizzed through him nonetheless. Recently, he thought solving crime may be a great alternative to getting high, thus getting his brother off his back and leaving some... unsavoury, lifestyle choices behind him. "Sherlock Holmes," he offered. 

"Sherlock Holmes," the man, Lestrade, parroted. "Here, take this." He handed Sherlock a card. It was basic and palm sized, with 'detective Greg Lestrade NSY' and a phone number printed on. "If you can think of anything else about this scene or... if you want help with anything," he emphasised, "just give me a call. Okay?" Sherlock slipped the card into the pocket of his trousers, unwilling to say anything for risk of saying something to ruin this, this brilliant opportunity which had just fallen into his lap. He nodded his goodbye and walked away, leaving the curious detective behind him. 

— 

Sherlock showed up at crime scenes high three more times before Lestrade finally did throw him into the drunk tank. He kept him there from early evening to the next morning and, when Sherlock had finally gotten sober with his toes dipping into the first waves of withdrawal, brought him to an empty interrogation room and offered his ultimatum: 

"I like you, Sherlock. I don't know how or why, with you being a careless arrogant sod, but I do. And I can't deny you've made my job easier over the past few months. But you can't keep breaking into crime scenes, and you can't do it will off your face with illegal substances. So, here's my deal: find help, get off the drugs, and I'll take you on as a consultant for real. I can even negotiate with my supervisor about—"

"No! No. I don't want a job with the NSY."

"Then why do you keep showing up to crime scenes? Why do you keep sticking your nose in our business? if you didn't care about solving crimes, why—" 

"Don't be thick. I do care about that. I want to come to crime scenes and solve them, I just don't want to be on a payroll, or under the police's command." 

"You don't want to get paid for your work?" Lestrade sounded incredulous. Sherlock only shrugged, 

"I don't need the money, and I'd rather have the freedom. if I ever feel like I need it, I take on private clients. I want to come on as a freelance consultant." 

"A civilian?" 

Sherlock only shrugged again, "if you like." 

Lestrade watched him for a few quiet moments, before accepting defeat. With a huge sigh he said, "fine. That's the deal then: stop getting high and you can help out on cases when I call you in." Sherlock frowned at that last stipulation, but conceded. 

It would only take a few more months of showing Lestrade how invaluable he is to the work for Sherlock to get away with doing as he pleased. 

The two men shook hands, and Sherlock left NSY with a new goal for the future, and a favour to ask his blasted brother. 

—

It was eighteen months later when Lestrade cornered Sherlock in his new office, forcing him down into one of the new chairs and pours them both a whiskey. He clinked their glasses together and they toasted to Lestrade's new promotion. 

"Yes, very good. The moment I saw you I knew you were viable for an Inspector's position. I had given you twenty-four months. I must say, I'm surprised by your efficiency, Lestrade." 

"Thanks, mate, I think. And you know, you can just call me Greg, seeing as it's my name." 

"You never told me that," Sherlock argued. 

"I figured a bloke as clever as you would figure it out, considering you saw it printed on my business card the first time we met. And all the other times my co-workers called me Greg, or the placard on my desk and my new door. It's not like you to have to be told things, Sherlock." 

"It's never bothered you before," as a non-response. 

"I guess.. you can call me Greg, yeah? We're friends, aren't we. I call you Sherlock and all."

"Ah, so I've earned it now."

"What? No. This isn't bloody Victorian England mate. You can't only call me by my first name when we've an 'intimate friendship' or however it went. I just figured after all this time, well, I guess I deserved to be called Greg, right? As your friend?" Sherlock had nodded his understanding, stayed to finish his drink and then begged out of another. He didn't mention the man's name when he left, merely waved with an absent hand on his way out the door. The next time they met, he called him Lestrade and pretended not to notice the way Greg's face fell.

—

When Sherlock was a lot younger, and he still lived at home with his parents, they would put on dinners for Mummy's important friends. People from her university and whom she worked with on publications would sit around their large wooden dinner table and talk about things nine-year-old Sherlock didn't care about. Every time someone had something to say, they would start, "oh, Mrs Holmes". These same people bid goodnight to Father with a polite "good evening, Mr Holmes" and slip out the front door.

They visited for dinner for a total of weeks during Sherlock's childhood, and spent innumerably more hours around and corresponding with Mummy for work and the like, and even after Sherlock left for school, they would say 'Mrs Holmes'. 

In his first year at University, there was a professor who Sherlock had found, surprisingly, not entirely tedious. The man taught chemistry well, though the both of them often got into sharp battles about the legitimacy of a lab reading, or the importance of modern equipment (the man was a Luddite and a traditionalist), and they formed a close bond in the years Sherlock actually managed to stay at King's College. During one extended email volley, Dr. Miller had written 'please, just call me Tom'. 

When Sherlock had stopped showing up to Tom's classes, too high and too bored to bother attending lectures he already knew all about, the man had sent a few emails wondering about his absence, ones that had eventually dropped the familiar valediction,

'Warmly, Tom.'

'Warm regards, Tom.'

'Regards, Tom.'

'Regards, Dr. Miller'

It had not been a profound loss, but it had been one nonetheless. 

—

"Ah, Mr Holmes."

"Sherlock, please."  It had sounded so overly formal coming from John, who was not only a few years older than him, but, if not his better, was certainly his equal. He had no reason not to call Sherlock by his given name, like he may have his friends or other kindly strangers he met on the street. Something about the situation had caused the doctor to use a formal greeting, instead. Maybe he was nervous, or entirely desperate to put on a good impression to win his place in the flat. Sherlock himself, who was trying to be on his best behaviour, couldn't stop the caress of John from passing his lips. Mr Watson wouldn't have suited the man at all. He remembered what Greg had said, months ago, about Victorian intimate friendships and wondered if John had that inclination, too. But the man called him Sherlock not too much later, and the detective couldn't help but wonder, did that make them friends, already?

— 

Sherlock slips his phone back in his pocket and returns his attention to the man in front of him. The lights in the pub make Lestrade's hair seem lighter, direct yellow shining on the strands, but somehow makes his face younger, hides the lines and patches of ageing skin. He is in his last 50s at this point, and has seen much in his career as a DI. Not as much as Sherlock has seen in his own career, but much more than a regular non-sociopathic genius would have, maybe should ever have. He's strangely glad he had agreed to Lestrade's impromptu invitation tonight and offers a small smile when the DI smiles at him. 

"John all right?" 

"Oh yes. Rosie's down, he's having a relaxing night at home. Enjoying himself."

"I bet he is. Can't have many of those with you around, eh? One toddler is hard enough, let alone two!"

The smile on Sherlock's face becomes strained and he blinks away the sharp, surface flash of hurt. It's not the first time he'd been compared to a petulant child, in fact it's not even the dozenth time Lestrade had made the joke himself, but it still pricks at Sherlock's skin, even this many years later. Sherlock had rather thought he'd grown up a lot in the last five years; learned more than a child would in their formative ones. Ella's voice echoes in his head, it's healthy to tell people when they have hurt you. People who care for you will not be offended, will not leave you. Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, but sudden fear seizes his windpipes. He coughs a little and lowers his eyes to his drink. He must have said something without words, or else Lestrade's powers of observation has improved, because he says, "shit, mate. I'm sorry." 

Sherlock waves the apology away with a gesture but can't raise his eyes. A warm hand settles on his shoulder and he forces his gaze up. Lestrade is looking at him with a grim smile, "no, really. I'm sorry. I shouldn't insult you like that, even if sometimes you act childish. I know you're not a child. I know you've gotten enough insults over the years." Sherlock shrugs, but lightly so he doesn't dislodge the comforting hand on his shoulder. He should say something. Something dismissive, maybe, or something honest. Lestrade doesn't give him the chance, he just keeps talking. "I don't know why I do it. It feels so easy, I think. Especially because you never react. Always act like it doesn’t bother you. But I know it hurts you, I know it does. And I've stood by, before, and let it happen. People insulting you and I've just let it pass. With Donovan, Anderson and that whole thing with Moriarty. it was wrong of me, I hope you know that. I never said. I got so mad at John, after that Culverton case, I don't know if he told you. Told him that's not how friends treat each other, that you deserved better. I never considered how I was contributing to that." 

"Lestrade please," Sherlock interrupts, "you're not the first person to insult me, you won't be the last. I've dealt with insults my whole life, it's not new." 

"But it does impact you," Lestrade doesn't ask.

Sherlock shrugs hopelessly, this time dislodging the hand. The alcohol he's imbibed in the two hours they'd been here is slowing his thoughts, loosening his mouth. "I guess. I don't know. No. No worse than it always does. When I was... younger, it did. I spent... hours, in empty classrooms weeping. After a while, you learn to let it pass. It hits like frigid wind. It doesn't kill me." 

Lestrade frowns, but Sherlock knows he isn't angry necessarily, just contemplative. "I guess, after years, all the insults lose their edge." 

"Oh yes, freak, fairy, all of those. Pretty common," Sherlock laughs bitterly. "Actually, children in school were far more cruel than adults. Children have the benefit of imagination, most of the time." 

"What kind of shit did they say to you?" 

Another shrug, "They called me all kinds of things. Ugly, alien. All of that that tedious nonsense, about my appearance. I look a little different now, but I was skinny and long, with hands larger than most of their faces. My curly hair was pulled and cut at my desk. Shoved into bins and onto concrete. The more vicious and less creative called me Willy, like ... well, you know. Nowadays I'm just called a dick. But back then I was going by my first name, William, so they thought themselves very clever. Of course, in uni I was Sher-cock, but I'd gotten used to it by then." 

Lestrade is shaking his head, "I'm sorry, mate. Is that why you go by Sherlock, instead of William?" 

"I prefer Sherlock. It suits me better, the uniqueness. But I suppose... it's part of it. Did you know, in some cultures, mythologies, first names, true names are very powerful. You would not tell someone your true name unless they'd earned it, unless you truly trusted them, because they could destroy you." Sherlock pauses, rolling his pint around his cupped hands. "It's all hogwash, of course. The only power people have over you is social and physical influence, and only if you give it to them. But it's an interesting concept, nonetheless." 

"Are you sure you don't buy into that, at all?"

Sherlock scoffs, "I'm a man of science, Lestrade." 

"But, see, that's exactly what I mean. You know my name. I know you pretend you don't, but you do. You never call me Greg."

"If I believed in it, I would call you by your first name to exert my power," Sherlock points out, "then I could make you let me work on any case I wanted." 

"Nah," Lestrade says, "it's not about your power, about mine. You don't think you deserve to have my name." Sherlock blanches,

"that's ridiculous."

"When I first told you to call me Greg, you asked if you deserved it. And you called me Greg after that business with the well. The first time that you solved a serial killer case, you called me Greg. You know I wouldn't mind, right? If you had some true name power over me. I trust you." 

Sherlock ignores the way his cheeks heat. "That makes no sense at all, Greg. No sense at all. It's a stupid story."

Greg smiles at him, a raised eyebrow, "alright mate, fair enough. Well, anyway, call me whatever you want, s'long as you keep working with me to solve cases like today. That one was a bitch."

—

Sherlock, please.  Sherlock had given his power up to John on the second day of their meeting, and John had never had objections to the use of his own name. People didn't go around calling their friends by their last name anymore. Sitting in the cab on the way back to Baker Street, Sherlock dismisses the idea with a physical shake of his head. 

He called Molly Hooper by her first name after a single week of their acquaintance. He didn't feel about Molly the way he felt about John. He did not call Mrs Hudson by her first name, Martha, even after a decade of knowing one another. He only ever used Jim's last name, Moriarty. He'd love to have exerted some false magical power over the consulting criminal. After everything he'd been through, he'd deserved that, at least. 

It can't be about how Sherlock values himself, for them. About deserving anything, because then John would never leave his lips. As much as he wants to, he doesn't think he deserves the doctor. 

He thinks about how he never calls Rosie by her first name. Always little Watson, or little bee. He thinks about a broken vow which left her mother-less. 

He throws a handful of miscellaneous notes to the driver and slips out of the cab. When he opens the living room door, John is not waiting up. He must be upstairs asleep. Sherlock creeps up the stairs into their room. He can see in the faint moonlight John sleeping on his stomach, his face turned towards Rosie's cot. He tiptoes over to the sleeping child and looks down at her, reading her afternoon in her face, in the way her arm is half untucked from the arm hole of her shirt. He puts gentle fingers on her forehead, pushing away some wayward blonde curls. 

"Goodnight... Rosie," he manages. "Goodnight, little bee." 

He creeps back down the stairs and falls into his own managing, only managing to kick off his shoes before he slips under the sheets. He stares at the ceiling, where the two loves of his life are sleeping, mouthing 'Greg. Rosie. John. Molly. Martha. Greg. Rosie. John. Molly' over and over again, until the mix of alcohol and an adrenalin-filled afternoon pull him under and into sleep.

Chapter Text

[in the pick up log book of Rosie Watson's daycare] 

7/03/2018 2:05 Sherlock Holmes

...

9/03/2018 2:00 Sherlock Holmes

...

12/03/2018 2:31 Sherlock Holmes 

... 

13/03/2018 2:00 Sherlock Holmes 

.... 

14/03/2018 5:00 Martha Hudson 

... 

15/03/2018 4:56 John Watson 

—

"'Lock!" 

Rosie is launching herself into Sherlock's arms faster than he can put down the case files he'd been flicking absently through and he opts to drop them to the floor in a scatter to catch Rosie. He spins her in a little circle and places her gently back on the ground, tucking a stray strand of blonde curls behind her ears. She grins back at him and, apparently exhausted by her day at daycare, plomps down at his feet and begins fiddling with the yellow manilla folder. Sherlock quickly collects the scattered papers, though Rosie didn't have an exceptional level of comprehension, her reading was above the average for her age and it wouldn't do for her to suddenly learn the words 'asphyxiation' or 'homicide'. He tucks the papers under his arms and finally looks over to acknowledge John, who had made his way to the kitchen to put on tea. 

Sherlock was supposed to get Rosie this afternoon, but John had finished work early and there'd been a case, so John had decided to go instead. The detective faintly misses his normal walk home with Rosie, but quickly got sucked into a minorly interesting case involving candy rope that melted with the sun and a red-tinted body. Sherlock had texted the details of his deductions to NSY before the Watson's had walked through the door. 

"John," Sherlock says in greeting. 

"Hey, how was your day?" 

Sherlock tilts his head this way and that, flicking a curl as it falls into his face. Last night, Sherlock and John had had a distinctly uncomfortable conversation, another in the long line of uncomfortable conversations they'd dedicated themselves to having recently. Sherlock hopes... well, it could certainly change some things, if John would let it. He watches John remove the teabags from their cups — painfully familiar movements, the way John makes their tea every time— and thinks maybe not. Ah well, at least it's out in the open now. No more misunderstandings. Regardless, Sherlock feels all emotion-ed out for a lifetime, so he settles on a vague hum which John nods at. Sherlock already knows how John's day went, based on the missing aglet on his shoes, the smudge of black on his left palm and the faint red scratch on his forehead, but he asks anyway. He sits in his armchair and listens to John talk about his day, taking sips of the tea-that-only-John-makes. 

John's shoulders start to pinch together, his chin raising high as he says, "Hey Sherlock" and the detective has to avoid a wince. It seems, despite Sherlock's overwhelming share of emotion, John is expecting more. He wonders fleetingly what he's done wrong, going through a list in his mind. He can't identify anything recently. Although... "have you been taking Rosie out of daycare early?" 

Sherlock's head snaps up. Unexpected. Oh, must have seen the pick up book. Should've written the wrong time, a few hours doesn't make a difference. A few hours make all the difference, in fact. Extra hours Sherlock can sit with Rosie, teach her things and watch her explore. When it's just the two of them, Sherlock doesn't have to worry about being 'found out' as it were. No one, except for maybe the secretary at the nursery (who had been vetted by Mycroft, of course) knew exactly how much Sherlock adored Rosie, and he preferred to keep it that way. 

"I was already out," Sherlock offers, vaguely. 

"You were already out of Baker Street, near Rosie's daycare, at 2pm basically every day of the week?" 

"Wrong. Mrs Hudson picked her up on Wednesday, and I didn't get there until 2:30 on Monday." 

John sits, sipping his tea, and stares at Sherlock for a long few moments. If John's skills of observation were keener, Sherlock would be worried that John could read it on him: how he cherished and craved time with Little Watson as much as he did the Big Watson, how he found Rosie's journey learning about the world vividly interesting and, though he'd never say it aloud, inspiring. Nothing pulls him from a rut or a black mood like seeing the world through Rosie's eyes: so much to explore, so much to learn about and be amazed by. The problem with wanting something so much is the risk of it being taken away. Little Watson takes after John in that respect, too. "I don't mind, Sherlock," John says softly, "I would never drop her off if I could. I want her around all the time, too." 

"Ridiculous," Sherlock sniffs, "daycare is important for socialising Rosie to get along with people her age, tedious as it may be. It's also important to ween her off of our presence all the time for when she goes into big school. And besides, you have strictly forbidden her to join us at crime scenes, and Mrs Hudson is getting on in years. Daycare is an important step in Rosie's life." 

John rolls his eyes, a smile on his face, "yeah yeah, you've told me all this before. No crime scenes is right. I mean... it's hard to let her go, yeah? So long as you aren't actually pursuing an active crime, it's okay to pick her up before 5pm." Sherlock sits up a bit taller and John says, "but no earlier than lunch time. She does need to actually attend." 

Sherlock dismisses the comment with a wave, his eyes catching on Rosie, who is entertaining herself with some toys parked in the corner of the living room. 

"I, honestly, didn't expect you to be like this," John says after a few quiet minutes. 

"What?" Sherlock says absently. 

"Loving Rosie like this, getting along with her." 

Sherlock frowns, "you think because I'm a sociopath—" 

"Oh stop with that rot. You're not a sociopath, Sherlock. We all know you're not. Children are just... well, not as intelligent as adults, are they? And they're fussy and demanding. I thought, you would care for her, of course. But I never imagined you picking her up hours early just to spend time with her." 

Sherlock debates saying it, debates declaring she inspires me, John. She brings me to life. Just like you, my conductor of light. But the near-confession of last night holds his tongue and he simply shrugs. John stays seated, like he's waiting for something, but eventually gets up to take their empty mugs to the sink. 

— 

"Someone said something similar to me once," Sherlock says, unbidden, a few hours later. Rosie had been put to bed earlier and the adults had spent the evening in the living room. Sherlock was absently flicking through some more cold case files and John was reading one of his ridiculous pulp crime fictions. How the man still had a desire to read detective novels, when they've done the things and more that he reads about, Sherlock will never understand. The words spill out of him without him understanding why, but John is looking at him expectantly. He's looking at him the way he did last night. 

"Some people, sometimes, are not interested in romance, or sex. Sometimes, they’re completely happy, completely whole entirely on their own. The same way some people are attracted to only men, or only women, or a polychromatic variety. They’re just people, normal, happy, loving people; with no interests like that.”

“Some people.”

“Yes.”

“Like Wiggins?” 

“Exactly like Wiggins.”

“Like you?”

A slight hesitation, “no. Not like me. Not exactly.”

"You know of... Redbeard." Sherrinford had been a mess, from start to end. When John had found those dog bones at the bottom of the well, it had taken everything in Sherlock not to cry, like he had as a young boy. "I was.. fourteen when he died. I was away for school, and Eurus was bored, alone. She lured him out, threw him down. She said it was an accident, that he had gone exploring on his own. Only Mycroft knew, then. When I came home and Mummy told me what had happened," Sherlock takes a deep breath, "oh, I cried and cried. She said 'I didn't expect you to be like this.'" Sherlock looks down at his hands, his long fingers crinkling the paper. "He was my best friend, my first best friend and my only— my only real one for a long time." He takes a deep breath and forces his eyes to John. "It's not the worst thing she's done, and I know he was just a dog but he was— he was, really, everything to me. I fought my parents so hard not to go away for school. That's the only reason I did weekly stays instead of just coming home for the holidays. I couldn't bear to leave him but when I returned... he was gone." 

John knew some of this already, of course. He had heard the conversation between Eurus and Sherlock while he was in the well. The daunting, you never did figure it out, did you? I gave you clues. I wanted you to know, I did it. But you weren't listening. Too wrapped up in your emotions, like now. Pathetic things, emotions. They always manage to get in the way. 

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. He wasn't just a dog. He was your friend. That matters. I'm sorry." 

"Children, John, and animals... they're innocent. Those at Rosie's age, at least. They aren't malicious, they don't intend to harm. They are endlessly curious, and kind. Full to the brim with forgiveness, mercy. They don't judge me for," he gestures vaguely at all of himself, "it may seem odd. In fact, it probably makes me more of a freak. But I love children." 

"Like Archie," John muses, "I thought it was weird that kid got so attached to you so quick. But he just liked you, didn't he? You listened, took him seriously, appreciated his input. People don't do that often for children. Or for you." Sherlock blushes, ducks his head. "You're not a freak, Sherlock. I know... people, have made you believe that. That all of this stuff has made you close yourself off, behind the mask of a sociopath." Sherlock shrugs, trying to dissuade John from continuing. For a man who was, in his own words, not good with this kind of stuff, John sure had been leading most of their recent 'emotional' conversations. Ella ought to be very proud of him. "Sherlock, I want to ask you something about last night—"

"John, please." Sherlock holds up a hand. "I appreciate your enduring curiosity, and your kind words, but I feel practically emotionally exhausted right now. Can we... can we put a pin in, whatever it is you want to say?" John, staring intensely at Sherlock, lips his bottom lip absently and says, 

"Yeah, 'course. Sorry." 

Sherlock lays his hand back on the arm of the chair, "No need. I'm going to... it's been a few days since I've had a proper sleep. I'm going to bed." 

"Oh," John says, "right. Goodnight, then." 

"Goodnight John." 

— 

Mycroft [11:23] : Doctor Watson, I can't help but notice you've booked an evening at the theatre for the upcoming Saturday. MH 

Outgoing [11:27] : By 'can't help but notice' you mean you've been spying on me? What, are you tracking my credit card or something? Didn't Sherlock talk to you about this. 

Mycroft [11:29]: Both Sherlock and yourself agreed to a certain level of surveillance, in case of emergency or incident. MH 

Outgoing [11:32]: And my buying a few tickets is an emergency, is it?

Mycroft [11:36]: Who is the woman you intend to take to this show? Does Sherlock know? MH 

Outgoing [11:43]: I don't think that's any of your business. 

Mycroft [11:44]: While I'm sure Sherlock is content to babysit Rosamund for you, I think he may be disappointed to miss out on that showing of the Symphony Orchestra. It is, after all, his favourite set list. MH 

Outgoing [12:02]: Sherlock will not be babysitting Rosie, Mycroft, and he won't be missing out. Get your nose out of my business. Credit cards transactions to the orchestra DO NOT count as emergencies or incidents.  

Mycroft [11:04]: I see. MH

Chapter Text

Aerophobia. It is the intense fear of flying. When it is so intense that it impedes on someone's ability to travel, to work or to leisure, it is considered a quality-of-life issue. People are told that fear is an irrational fear: the odds of dying in an aviation accident (private or commercial, small or commercial size) is 1 in 9,821, most people will go their entire lives without the risk of crashing; in the instance of mechanical or human failure, there is a 90% survival rate. Symptoms of anxiety (like sweating, shaking, dyspnea and tachycardia) generally abate when the plane lands on the tarmac. The 'irrational' fear is soothed when the plane hits the tarmac. That final impact of wheels hitting the ground is a panacea for that foundless panic. 

It is a placebo. When you exit the plane, anchored back to the earth, there's still all of your life to live. The consequences of everything you left behind before is waiting. 

— 

"So you fake your own death. And you waltz in ’ere large as bloody life. But I’m not supposed to have a problem with that, no, because Sherlock Holmes thinks it’s a perfectly okay thing to do!"

There was blood gushing out of his nose, gums bleeding through teeth, and small, John-sized bruises forming on his windpipe. John was ten steps away, waiting in an idling cab. He refused to look at Sherlock through the window, even when Sherlock tried to catch his eye. None of that hurt, not even the distance, more than the lavender-clad woman standing beside him. 

"I'll talk him 'round." 

What an absolute fuck up.

— 

Watson was blinking at him from his chair, the red faded with decades and wear. This chair looked more worn than the one waiting in modern 221B, like it had been around for longer. Maybe it had just been used more frequently. 

"How are you going to wake up?"

"Why would I?" Holmes asked. 

"You have to, my good man. You can't stay here forever." 

"Why ever not?" 

Watson took a puff from his cigar, watching Holmes with sharp eyes, "you know this is a story, don't you?" 

"Is it? This is just as real as two-thousand and sixteen," Holmes hit the t's sharply, trying to dissuade Watson from pursuing this line of conversation. His dear friend, as stalwart and dedicated to tedious lines of questioning as he was to The Work, pushed on. 

"This," Watson gestured to the living room, "is history. 221 Baker Street existed in eighteen ninety-five, but you and I did not. Not like this. You said it yourself, here you are a man out of time." 

"I do not wish to return," Holmes admitted quietly. 

"Why ever not?" 

Holmes covered his eyes with his hand, shame and frustration welled in his chest. "All that is waiting for me is the villainous James Moriarty." 

"I will be with you, won't I? I always am."

"Not... like this. Not at Baker Street. You have... Mary, and a child. Your marriage is very important to you. Then. You are as honourable man then as now." 

"And yet here I am." 

Holmes smiled, a fragile lift of the corner of his mouth. "You are here because my mind wishes it so. You would do anything I could conceive you to do." 

Watson scoffed in affront, "I believe even in your mind, I am more stubborn than your creative limits can understand. That is why you will return to your real time."

"I have no such limits," Holmes prevaricated. 

"I will not do," Watson soldiered on, "because I am not him. Not really. And that will never be enough." 

Holmes watched Watson's hand clench and unclench, turning lightly tanned skin pinch-white. Does his visage of Watson find this conversation as... heartbreaking, as he? Or is this tell just an extrapolation of Holmes' own anxieties? "I do not wish to leave you. I will— Watson, I would miss you terribly."

"You will see me again." 

"Not like this." 

"This, is the not the way you wish for us to be either, Holmes. The world at large here prevents that. We could never leave 221B, not for your limits, but the limits of society. If you truly desire and care for me the way you say you do, then you must come back to me. The two-thousand and sixteen me." 

"Out there I would not even have this. This intimate attention. You do not want me."

Watson rose from his chair, "so much of our life together has been destroyed. There has been so much leaving. I understand why you wish to stay away, dear boy, but that would be our true ending. You must return to the real me, stay by his side as you have. Everything is wrong right now, but things, as you have judged so about our world, can only get better. Wake up, now. Solve the mystery of Professor Moriarty's return, save London and remember: I always want you, Sherlock." 

— 

When Sherlock pulled himself from the floors and layers of his Mind Palace, John was waiting. John was administrating medical care, his face stern and blank. There was none of the quiet fondness of Watson (and, blessedly, no moustache.) but he was here. Sherlock thought, for one light moment, that John would enter the car with him, come with him to Baker Street. But John only gives the driver the address to a local clinic and about-faces, walking away. He doesn't look at Sherlock again until the next week, after all the boxes had been unpacked back into the nooks and crannies of Baker Street.

— 

They're talking about Mary. 

"Have you told John?" 

"No. No, I haven't." 

"Can you tell me why not?" 

Sherlock shrugs, fidgets, shifts. Ella waits, patient as ever. "He doesn't need to know."

"Why not?" 

"It would only upset him."

"But keeping it all in, doesn't that upset you? What have we said about your suffering for the sake of John?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, "yes, yes. I just don't see why, exactly, he has to know."

"Why he has to know what his wife put you through? The threats and the insults and the drugs? Have you considered, why wouldn't he have to know? He cares for you, doesn't he?" 

"I— yes," Sherlock replies. 

"And, if the situation was reversed, wouldn't you want to know about all of the things that had happened to John? To help to carry some of the burden?"

"Of course." 

"What are you afraid of happening if you tell him?" Sherlock doesn't answer, and Ella guides him, "do you think telling him about the things his wife did, the way she treated you, would cause you to lose him? Do you think he cares for you so little that the truth would chase him away?"

Suddenly, they're talking about two things, or maybe three things. There's so many little truths he has kept locked away from John for so long. "I'm afraid," he admits. 

"When we were discussing the events of the morgue and your continued friendship with John, you told me you trusted him, is that correct?"

"Of course, yes. I do." 

"Then you must trust him in this instance, too. It's been months, Sherlock, years. It's time he knew." 

He hadn't noticed the tap, tap, tapping on his leg until he hears the music in his mind. The beat and melody of the Wedding Waltz. "I can't tell him all."

"Just something, just to start." Sherlock nods his acquiesce, 

"Mary?" It's Ella's turn to nod. "Right." 

— 

Sherlock intended to talk to John as soon as he got home. He didn't want to wait so long, to nurture the panic and fear bubbling in his gut. If they just talked, now, it would be over. Whatever was going to happen would happen. 

It hadn't gone to plan. Rosie had been fussy for Mrs Hudson and then there had been a ticket for the orchestra and John was beside him in a midnight blue suit which matched perfectly with his eyes and highlighted the moon-silver strands of his hair. He ordered them champagne, and they sat side-by-side and listened to the music. The orchestra was fantastic, the music beautiful, but John was all-consuming and Sherlock had had to close his eyes to stop from staring. He let the sounds permeate every cell of his being, drown out the wedding waltz still tapping in time with his fractured heart. 

They walked home and stopped by Angelo's for a late take-away dinner and a bottle of red. They had sat side-by-side on the couch, no noise except the crackling of a fire to accompany their peaceful quiet. The words are on Sherlock's tongue 

John,  there’s something I should say; I’ve meant to say always and then never have...

Then a bottle of scotch is opened. 

— 

"I'm sorry," John passes a hand over his face, "I shouldn't be talking about her. We've had such a good evening." 

Sherlock shifts in his seat, "actually..."

"What is it?" John sits up straighter. Sherlock sighs, carries his glass to the coffee table with suddenly shaking hands. He wipes his hands on his thighs and sits back, steepling his fingers. 

Red wine... generally signifies romance, sensuality. Alternatively, red pairs well with penne all'arrabiata. He chose the wine, but Angelo suggested it. He sat exactly 3.5 inches away from me at the theatre even though it meant his side was digging into the armrest, but the man on the other side of him had a bad case of halitosis. It would have to be before Mary. A disclaimer maybe. But...

"It's about Mary, actually. What I talked about with Ella."

"Oh?" 

"John... it's no surprise that I hadn't expected for my return to play out the way it did. For you to be so angry, and away from Baker Street with a new fiancé. But it wasn't just that it disrupted my, admittedly misled, expectations. Returning home and.. not having you by my side, was the worst possible thing I could have imagined. Indeed, I didn't imagine it, while I was— was away. I wouldn't have been able to survive."

John's face is pinched, his eyes glassy. He blinks a few times and leans forward, "Sherlock—"

Sherlock holds up a hand, "please, not yet. You know my relationship with Mary was, er, tumultuous. I put my all into it, to make it work for you. Or Rather, to not be directly responsible for it not working out," he should be making a joke by now, breaking the glass-sharp tension with easy banter. He wants to back out, to dismiss Ella's advice as pyscho-babble nonsense. He drops his eyes to the table, focusing on how the flames lift the gold in the brown scotch. "Even before she shot me, it was hard. To feel like a stranger to my own best friend, not just in our lives, but in my head. We were both so different, I didn't know how to proceed. Everything was slightly wrong. All I knew was that I needed you in my life and that meant making nice with Mary. Then, she nearly killed me." 

"I understand," John interjects. "I asked too much of you. Maybe I was punishing you, or maybe I was pushing you. Seeing how far you would go, how much I could get from you before you would leave again. It was wrong, and I'm sorry." 

Sherlock nods, not saying anything. There's no need for words, John is forgiven and he knows it. He is gathering courage to push through to the next part. "There's... more." 

"More?" 

"Yes. More things Mary did that" the younger man gestures vaguely to the air. To seek an apology is not in the cards. If anyone had to apologise it would be Mary, and even then it would mean little. John just needed to know. Ella was right, keeping all these secrets was slowly, covertly tearing him apart. If he can tackle this one, the harder, scarier ones will seem less daunting. 

—

You don’t tell him.

There was a shape moving in his peripheral. Somewhere in his mind palace, there's a flash of white lace. 

Sherlock? 

Blue eyes hovered over him. Not the soothing depths of sapphire blue, Not John, but icy blue. Glaciers shining with malice. 

You don't tell John. 

— 

"I can't believe it," John says. "I mean, you think I would. She did try to get you killed twice. She knew that I— what you meant to me and she still did that. Threatened you like that!" 

"Three."

"What?"

"Three times. Only once directly of course, but I think once she understood she couldn't kill me herself, she already risked you once, she thought it would be easier to just facilitate my own self destruction. Less chance for you to blame her, if nothing else."

"No, sorry. I don't understand. Twice. She nearly killed you twice: once when she shot you and then with the tape, with the Culverton Smith case." 

"Yes, and once more. That day on the tarmac, technically. it wasn't nearly as severe as the other two, but your quick medical intervention definitely saved my life, if not some brain cells."
"What?" John's voice is sharp and Sherlock's winces. "Sherlock, seriously. Explain yourself."
"John... I don't know. I don't know if it was payment for services rendered, getting rid of the Magnussen problem for her. I don't know if it was a taunt or if she'd somehow gotten access to surveillance footage from prison. She has seen hundreds of people facing their death, proud soldiers. I think she saw it in my face that day on the tarmac."

"Sherlock, explain!"

"'Six months at most' in Eastern Europe — that's the best guess Mycroft could give me. That's the longest he gave me to live. Being away from you, again, that is a death sentence all on its own. She saw it, I think. And she slipped the drugs into my pocket when we hugged. The drugs I overdosed to on the plane, she gave them to me." 

Go to hell, Sherlock. 

They stay quiet, together, for a long few moments. John has a knuckle white grip on his scotch glass. Don't apologise, Sherlock begs silently, don't be sorry, don't self-flaggelate. Be my friend. Be more than that. Forget about her. Stay here with me. 

The silence drags on for too long, "John?" 

"Sorry. Sorry, I'm just... I want to do it right this time. I'm... angry, at her. And devastated. And frustrated that you haven't told me before. Whatever feelings I have about this and about Mary are — are not important right now. Thank you, for telling me Sherlock. And I'm so glad you're still here. You promised me, when you returned, that you weren't leaving again. Against all odds, you've kept your promise. That means, everything, to me. You're my best friend, Sherlock, you're— you have no idea." 

Sherlock dips his head in acknowledgement, blinking away tears which match the ones stinging John's eyes, "thank you, John."

"Is there.. is there something I'm supposed to say?" He shrugs, 

"Ella thought I should tell you. It's something I've been... holding on to. Rotting inside. I don't blame you, John, for loving her. As much as she was a liar and a villain, she was also a beautiful woman. Thoughtful, funny, clever. I don't blame you for anything that happened. I never have."

"I know, Sherlock. I don't — I should never have blamed you and I know better now. I did love her, some of her. Sometimes. I didn't love what she did to us, to our lives." 

Us. Our lives. Us. "Me neither." 

John,  there’s something I should say; I’ve meant to say always and then never have...

"Thank you for tonight," John says, placing his glass on the table. "Thank you.'