Chapter Text
The moment John entered 221B the same way that he always had, without knocking, as if he still lived there, Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat.
He had to get rid of his parents as soon as possible in order not to give them a chance to embarrass him in front of John.
John was in the sitting room. Of his own volition. Images of the previous day when Mary had come running with information that John had been in danger came to Sherlock’s mind. His suspicions about her be damned, she’d proven that she cared for John. She’d immediately reacted accordingly by coming to the best person who could help her. Him. And he had done just that.
Looking at John standing in front of him, Sherlock saw in his mind’s eye his friend’s charred face, his eyes rolling back as Sherlock had pulled him out of the bonfire just the day before. The memory of John being in danger caused him physical pain in his chest and a flashback to the time he had spent in a damp basement in Serbia. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and schooled his expression.
After their time spent apart, Sherlock finally came to realise how much John meant to him, but in the light of the nearly-tragic event, he confirmed his willingness to kill and die for John Watson if need be. But most importantly, he would let him be happy with a woman if that was what he chose to do.
-
After Sherlock had worked in tandem with Mary to save him from the bonfire, John had to admit to himself that his anger at Sherlock’s disappearance and lying about it had dwindled substantially. John was glad that, at least this time, he managed to get to the flat without being kidnapped. That was a big improvement over the previous time.
“Did they know too?” John asked after Sherlock shooed his, surprisingly ordinary-looking, parents out the door. “Hmm?” He looked at Sherlock who desperately tried to avoid his gaze, shuffling something on the desk. How such ordinary people could raise such an extraordinary man was beyond his understanding, John thought. “That you’ve spent the last two years playing hide and seek?”
“Maybe,” came the meek response.
“Ah, so that’s why they weren’t at the funeral!” John couldn’t keep the exasperation from either his voice or from his whole demeanour.
“Sorry, sorry again.” Sherlock’s apology was sincere despite the theatrical execution with flailing hands and raised voice. “Sorry,” Sherlock repeated and this time John’s heart ceased for a second. In that one word, there was more pain and regret than he’d ever heard coming from his friend.
-
Sherlock actually did feel like a complete and utter shit. He’d no idea his absence would hurt John so greatly. Neither had he anticipated the extent of the sacrifice necessary on his own part to accomplish his mission. He had been certain it would be all worth it. Worth his pain, his loneliness, and the acquisition of the new demons taking space inside his head.
His expectations dwindled after John had rejected him upon his coming back. “Sorry,” he repeated, truly meaning it, wishing John could feel what he tried to convey by saying just this single word. He hoped John would accept the apology or acknowledge it at least, but instead the only thing he got in response was a heavy sigh. He had fucked up. He had fucked up badly.
Hos new objective now was to try and make John smile at him again — the way he used to. A joke. A joke could save the situation. John liked those.
“So you’ve shaved it off, then?” The dead animal under John’s nose hadn’t suited the John Watson he knew and missed.
“Yeah. Wasn’t working for me.”
“I’m glad.”
“You didn’t like it?” John asked the question he knew the answer to before. It made Sherlock wonder if he had been the reason for the facial hair change. Spite.
“No, I prefer my doctors clean-shaven,” Sherlock smiled to himself, quite proud of the innuendo.
“It’s not a sentence you hear every day.” Sitting in his chair, John lay his gloves on the coffee table as if he had just come back from the shops and was going to stay. Sherlock had to swallow hard at the sight of John in his favourite place at 221B. It was right. He belonged there, in the chair, in the flat, with Sherlock. He realised how much he missed those little, seemingly meaningless, little things.
“How are you feeling?” Sherlock asked to break the sudden silence.
“Yeah, not bad. Bit smoked.”
“Right.” Jokes. John was making jokes. Maybe there was a chance to make up for the initial disastrous reunion after all.
-
It felt good, oddly familiar even after two years, to sit in his old chair at 221B knowing that Sherlock was back for good.
A pang in his chest told him that he should move back and live at Baker Street too. But time couldn’t be turned back. Sherlock had hurt him too much and he had Mary now; he had responsibilities other than running around with Sherlock at odd times of day or night. There had been so much left unsaid between them then, and now there was even more. John had to face the issue he had at hand with soldierly resolve, or so he kept convincing himself as the words refused to leave his mouth. On his way to Baker Street, he’d thought of many ways his conversation with Sherlock could go. In all of them, he had to at least make Sherlock realise how much damage he’d done to John’s heart.
“Sherlock.” John swallowed before lifting his gaze. “Have you any idea what you’ve done?” His voice sounded brittle.
“I saved you from the fire...” Sherlock’s voice was hesitant as if he was unsure of John’s meaning.
“I mean when you left.” The last word dripped with venom mixed with hurt. “Because...” He let out a short nervous chuckle. “You didn’t die, you... left.” You left me.
“John...” Sherlock’s voice was neutral, placating and that riled John up even more.
John breathed through his nose, his jaw set, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. His eyes stung. He had to make a choice which emotion to let out and which to hide deeper inside. His fuse was usually a lot longer and Sherlock hadn't done anything specific at this moment for him to be so riled up. But it was too hard to rationalise his emotional state when he was finally alone with Sherlock. In the battle of emotions, anger won. He recalled all too clearly how he had been hurting during that time, how he considered the worst, how ending his life had made the most sense back then. Thankfully, Mary couldn’t see him now and see how that period in his life remained a dark cloud over his head despite her presence.
“Of course you have no idea...” John shook his head and let his voice bellow. “You egocentric cock!”
-
Sherlock hoped John wouldn't hit him again, but he was unable to control his body’s response as he flinched at John’s angry words. Watching John’s balled-up fists, an idea occurred in his mind that maybe he could turn John’s anger to his advantage.
“It killed me, Sherlock. You killed me right there on that roof,” his former flatmate managed to say more calmly through half-gritted teeth as he stood up and faced him.
“Did you think for even a second that I died there too?” Sherlock’s own frustration came out in his spoken words far louder than he intended. I would die if it meant I could protect you. I had to die for the public to believe it, to destroy the network, to make sure you were safe. Moriarty’s death-wish made it a lot more difficult than I anticipated but it was still doable.
“You faked it,” John’s voice was hard as he visibly tried to leash his temper; his left fist clenching and unclenching at his side.
“That’s not what I meant and you know it. He threatened you. Twice.” There was no need to clarify who Sherlock was talking about as he tried to modulate his trembling voice to no avail. “And as long as his syndicate was still out there, you weren’t safe.”
“Oh so I was your damsel —” John tried to interrupt but Sherlock was like a train on his way to a station; there was no force that could stop him now.
“Yes! You had to believe I was dead. If even you believed that, then the world would as well and that gave me the upper hand.” So I could annihilate all of them. Because no one threatens John Watson. No one threatens...MY John. He couldn’t say it out loud but he hoped John could someday fully forgive him. He had moved on after all. He was happy, about to get married. And Sherlock was ready now to stand there next to him, always.
Sherlock couldn’t have contacted John to tell him that he hadn't died. John might have told someone inadvertently, hinted it on his blog, and then Sherlock’s whole plan of laying Moriarty’s minions in the grave would be ruined. John would have remained in danger, and Sherlock couldn’t allow that. Not ever again. He promised himself that he would keep John in trouble but out of mortal danger no matter the cost to himself, his health or sanity.
“But Mycroft knew! Molly for God’s sakes! And 25 people from your network! I asked them, you know, I walked around like a lunatic and asked homeless people about the whereabouts of the DEAD Sherlock Holmes!” John flailed his arms, then balled them into fists at his sides again.
“You could have... No, you would have been killed, John.” Sherlock strove for calmness so as not to rile his friend up even more. It was an arduous effort.
“But it would have been my choice! You took that away from me. If I had chosen to die next to you, I would have done it in a blink of an eye. And it would have been MY choice.”
And that is exactly why I hadn’t told you the plan , Sherlock thought.
“I already said, I’m sorry. But if I had to choose now, I’d do the same.”
“You would leave again. Leave me without a call or a text… just… disappear.” John’s voice lost the volume but the quiet manner in which he uttered the last words was even worse. “Did you think I’d wait for you? Well, surprise, but I’m not your fucking dog.” He took a breath before he whispered. “I’m your friend.”
John’s voice broke a little with the last word and Sherlock felt it like a punch to the gut. The clear memory of the beautiful sight of John on his knees with Sherlock’s belt around his throat back at the inn during the Baskerville case, flashed through Sherlock’s mind. “Though you heel beautifully, if memory serves me well.”
Sherlock realized that what he had said might have been a tad inappropriate when a fist connected with his jaw. He didn’t even lift his hands to cover his face when another blow landed until everything went black.
He woke up sitting on the couch with John straddling him and gently slapping his face.
“You scared me,” John’s accusatory tone made his head swim. This time the slap was harder as John’s face loomed right above his own.
“Would you stop,” Sherlock grabbed the doctor’s hand mid-flight by the wrist and brought it to his lips to kiss the inside of it. John’s expression softened. Sherlock didn’t know how else to apologize or how to make recompense for what he’d done to John, but at least he could defuse him now.
Taking John’s other hand, he pulled them behind his doctor’s back. John’s nostrils flared but this time not with anger as his breathing picked up pace.
“Sherlock...” Closing his, John shook his head, the warning clear in his tone. “You can’t just —”
His words drowned in the well of Sherlock’s kiss on his lips. Opening to it, he met Sherlock stroke for stroke in a hungry and angry battle of tongues. “I’m still mad,” John gasped in the second he came up for breath.
“I know.” Sherlock released John’s hands to grab his arse and pull his hips closer.
“I have a girlfriend, you know...” John started to get off Sherlock but was firmly kept in place by a set of strong arms.
“Yet here you are, being so deliciously bad,”
“You cock,” John exclaimed before taking a hold of Sherlock’s curls in both fists and sealing their mouths together again.
I’ve missed you too , Sherlock wanted to say. There hasn’t been a day, nay an hour, during those two years that I haven’t thought of you. Of us running on the rooftops of London together, of us eating breakfast together, of us waking up together in bed after a night of sweaty pleasures. Not a single day without you, John, in the very front of my mind. He couldn't let those words out of his throat, but hoped that John could feel the weight of them in the kiss, in the way Sherlock held him as if he wanted to keep him there, straddling him, till the end of his days.
“You need to go back to your girlfriend then,” Sherlock smirked through kiss-swollen lips when they broke apart.
“It’s not about that,” John said, trying to even his breathing. “We just can’t come back to what we had before. Not after the two-year stunt you pulled.”
“Is that the only reason?” Sherlock’s brows lifted in surprise.
“Yes, it is,” John said without hesitation.
“What about your fiancé?”
“She’s not my fiancé. Not yet. But...”
“Don’t you want to marry her?” Sherlock did not bother to hide the hopeful note in his voice.
“Of course I want to marry her,” the lie came out of John’s mouth so effortlessly, Sherlock was certain he must almost believe it himself. “Even if she’s not wearing my ring, I made a promise to her, a commitment. I will not break it.”
Before the fall, Sherlock wouldn’t have known what that emotion was in his heart but he had had too much time to analyse his feelings when it came to John Watson, and he knew that this was heartbreak.
“What would she say, if she knew you were here with me?”
John’s face turned red and this time not from anger.
“Oh I see,” Sherlock said knowingly.
“No, you don’t see shit.”
“She sent you here.”