Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first thing they teach you in the Army is how to stand.

Attention, parade rest. The firm, balanced crouch that holds you steady against the kick of a gun. John’s body remembers them all, little rituals in and of themselves. It’s always his first response to danger, all unconscious; the shifting of his weight, the spreading of his toes. He has faced down much bigger men than himself, and every time he feels it, the sense of calm and confidence that spreads through him, head to firmly planted feet.

When he moves in with Sherlock, the two of them fall naturally into step. Sherlock runs and John follows. Sherlock flings them into danger and John fights. Sherlock starves himself, retreats into thought, spins madly among the electric possibilities of his mind, and John forces food and sleep and reality upon him. Each of them is balanced by the other’s gravity, and if they pull against it it is only for the satisfaction of feeling the tug back into place. Sherlock loses himself, loses John, for long periods sometimes, but when a case ends, when he stops being lost in his massive intellect, he returns to earth as tamely as ever.

John grows used to the feeling of grounding Sherlock; of having the look, the words, that can call him back from his dangerous heights. He is the antidote to danger nights; Sherlock provides greater equilibrium than the cane. The more danger and uncertainty they face, the stronger is his grip on the cool black handle of the Sig, the cold bright metal of the cuffs.

And if their universe of two ever threatens to become unstable – if sometimes they pass closer than others, threaten to collide – it does not happen, not yet. Other forces make themselves felt, of habit, of embarrassment, of fear. They work so well. They hold so steady.

And then Sherlock jumps.

Sherlock jumps and John falls. The words that have always had weight, had meaning, no longer do. Stop it. Come down. Don’t.

I’m a fake, Sherlock had said, but it is John who doesn’t seem real for a while, staggering and unbalanced. The body is not real, with its glassy eyes and matted hair; nothing is real but the sharp tug of pain in his gut as it is wheeled away. But the words never take. He does not believe I’m a fake, and he never will. And as he recovers his balance and takes his first fumbling steps forwards, the certainty of this grows stronger. The connection is not broken. Keep your eyes fixed on me. And he will.

If what he is and was is the one person who truly saw Sherlock Holmes, that is enough. He will be one point of truth, of clarity, of steadfast and unshaken memory. He is Sherlock Holmes’ last connection to life.

So he squares his shoulders. He plants his feet. And he stands, steady, resolute, paying and paying and paying out the cord.