Archive of Our Own

It’s almost too easy for him to pick the lock to John’s (dull) new flat.  It’s an an old lock– much older than the lock at their old flat (granted that one had to be replaced quite regularly).  It’s almost as if John hadn’t quite turned the lock all the way. Like the doctor still hasn’t gotten used to having to turn it so hard and having to wait until he felt a click.  Sherlock deduces John has only been living here for a little over a month.  Which is confirmed once he enters and notices the pile of empty boxes stacked unceremoniously next to the door.

Sherlock is honestly just surprised that John had stayed at 221b for so long in the first place.  His flatmate had been dead for nearly 3 years, after all.

Sherlock’s eyes roam the room, wondering why the man chose another beige flat.  John Watson is anything but beige.

He admits to himself that, upon concluding that John was both unquestionably home, and— judging by the copious amounts of steam billowing from the bathroom, nearing the end of a very long, hot shower— he probably should not stay.

He should not stay, and he definitely should not make his way over to stand outside the bathroom door, which, to Sherlock’s delight (delight? Why was it to his delight?), is a little more that slightly ajar; Allowing the detective to peek in and make out the silhouetted form of a very naked and very wet John Watson reflected in the partially steam-glazed mirror.

He should not stay, because surely the world’s only consulting detective would know that a naked and wet John Watson would be marginally more angry upon discovering his supposedly dead flatmate has broken into his flat than would a clothed and dry John Watson.

The problem is, Sherlock cannot seem to bring himself to leave.  In fact, he even goes so far as to gently push the door open a fraction, allowing him to see the man without the aid of the mirror.

Through slightly frosted glass, Sherlock gazes at his closest and dearest friend for the first time in three years.  John is scrubbing suds into his hair, and he starts to hum Tchaikovsky’s 1812 overture–apparently still John’s favorite piece–surprisingly on-key.  Filtered beams of sunlight from a small, open window pierce the steam and cause the vapor around John’s body to glisten as it swirls and falls into the air.

Something deep inside him stirs.

Sherlock stays– unblinking and unmoving.  His legs and feet had taken root to the cold linoleum.  His heart begins to beat so hard and so fast it is as if he has just found a lead on a suspect.  As if he has just solved a case. As if he is racing through the streets of London, dodging bullets and jumping fences.  As if when he looks back, he sees the exhilarated, determined, and constant John Watson, forever and always two steps behind him. 

He stays, and his vision pierces the fog until he can see the vapor around John glisten as he rinses off his arms (still the same amount of muscle tone, if not slightly more, meaning John has been taking care of himself in Sherlock’s absence), his legs (short, thick, powerful; able to run long distances without tiring), his chest (broad, more defined), his back (also broad, also more defined, faint shadow of scar visible), his hair (color still undetermined, increase in canities) his face (eyes closed, mouth parted– seems relaxed);  He stays and stares until his mouth parts because christ all he can smell is John and he has not smelled that scent in so, so long and fucking hell, he cannot breathe.

His eyes follow John as the doctor (his doctor) bends over to twist a knob, and the water immediately shuts off, leaving only the crescendo of 1812 Overture and the heat slowly beginning to dissipate through the open window.  John slides the door open a fraction and grabs his towel while wiping the excess water out of his eyes.  Sherlock is mesmerized for a moment watching the water droplets glitter as they cling to his skin.

Sherlock quickly snaps out of the trance, confused in a way that he never in a million years thought he could be. 

It’s been too long since he has blinked.  He think’s he has begun to see spots and his eyes are on fire. He squeezes them shut for some relief; but god, he cannot not stop seeing. 

Then, he knows.

"Oh"

All his life, Sherlock had been taught never to stare directly into the sun– that prolonged exposure to solar radiation would lead to solar retinopathy (damage to the eye's retina, particularly the macula) and he could damage is vision. But Sherlock being Sherlock (and even more curious at the age of six), had sought to test this theory. Luckily there had been no permanent damage, but the young scientist had been rendered sightless long enough to never attempt it again. If becoming a pirate ended up not working out, he’d had plans to become a detective– he’d needed his vision to be 100%.  

He wonders if his retinas had in fact sustained permanent damage that day, because he is a genius– how could he not have seen?  How could he not have known? This is John Watson.  This is a man– a seemingly ordinary, contradictory, infuriating, beautiful man; A man that, even after everything Sherlock has done, he will never be able to fully repay.

John Watson has saved him from himself in so many different and inconceivable ways.  John is a man whom Sherlock has died for and who he has come back to life for;

John Watson is also a man whom Sherlock has not seen or heard or smelled or touched in almost three endless years; whom Sherlock has broken; whom is probably going to hate him.

But he can’t hate him forever, can he?  He has to forgive him eventually.  He just has to listen–hopefully he will listen. 

It is imperative for him to hear the entire explanation. 

Because after Sherlock explains to John that faking his death was absolutely necessary in order to ensure that he not be assassinated, John will surely understand!  And even if he doesn’t, he definitely will after Sherlock explains that Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were in danger as well! John has always been unflinchingly loyal, and he’s also a doctor- so if the idea of Sherlock lying to prevent the death of his only friend does not make him understand, the revelation of the added threat of others would most certainly make him see why Sherlock had to do what he had to do.

Only an idiot would be stubborn enough to still be angry.

And, despite the fact that Sherlock used to refer to him as one on a near daily basis, John Watson is decidedly not an idiot.

This is John Watson, and Sherlock– in a permanent, cavernous, undeniable and complete way that he still does not fully understand– loves him.

God, the Detective thinks,

I am a genius– I see everything, and yet I have been so unforgivably blind.

The slide and slam of the shower door and an almost imperceptible intake of breath reaches his ears, and he curses himself for having such loud epiphanies.  He has been found out, and he actually rolls his eyes at himself because of course he was found out, he is standing in the middle of an open doorway making no attempt to run or hide.

He waits a moment, clutches the doorframe as if it is the only thing keeping him from sinking into the floor, and jerks his eyes wide open.

A six-year-old boy dressed as pirate blows a stray black curl from his eyes and takes a deep breath, bracing himself. Determined, and with a mind and a heart that is open and whole and unmarred by death and drugs and the cruelty of humans, Sherlock Holmes stares directly into the sun.

And for a moment that lasts forever and burns with the sharp, jagged edges of hope— 

He is blinded.