Chapter Text
From the cottage, the riverbank, the forest, John watches spring storms shake the trees, spring calms coax them fragrant. Digs weeds from the roots of the roses.
Seven years, he thinks, the phrase surfacing in glimmers all through the season, a fish caught for a moment in sunlight: seven years we’ve been here, now.
Seven years since John and Sherlock--winking, bickering, once coming near blows over a pitch in the floorboards (John threw a hammer that clattered between slats, vanished, never to be found; hours later, laughed as they kissed on the uneven ground)--built their cottage by the River Baker. Set foundation and frame, chimney and shingle, hinge and pane til Sherlock stretched on the bed while John nodded, knocked a fist to fresh-cut wood, said, That ought to hold.
It has, so far.
Through clients, through seasons--autumns of smoke and cider, winters of sleeping close, springs of John taking the spade to the garden, summers of Sherlock sweat-soaked and terse (how am I supposed to think when that damned thing, he snapped, waved at the bright window, never bothers to set)--the house has held, and so have they.
But not without wear.
There was new glass for the window shattered when a client’s husband broke in (John knocked him out, grinned a wolfish grin), new boards for the floor burnt when Sherlock spilled acid, new mortar for the fireplace when freezes and thaws left the stones loose and John kicked them (you said you’d stopped, Sherlock, you said you were through with the needle), scattered them noisy away.
John’s wished, more than once, that what’s between them could mend so easy as their home.
They try. Apologise with mugs of tea, blossoms, touches, quiet words. Forgive, sometimes after minutes, sometimes after days at Molly’s.
Seven years, though. Seven years of promises broken, fights upon apologies upon fights, and John is--John is tired. Doesn’t feel this spring’s renewal. Tonight there’s a case, a client, a game on, but--.
I can’t, John says as Sherlock beckons from the front door. My leg.
Sherlock taps a foot. The evening--chilly, green-smelling--seeps into the cottage. There’s nothing wrong with your leg.
Apart from the fact that it’s been giving out more often, you mean?
It wouldn’t, if you would just--let’s go.
John crosses his arms. Has never told Sherlock what happened to his leg, has never wanted to, though Sherlock’s deduced it, more or less. Insisted that if John would just tell him about it (clearly it happened when you were at someone’s mercy, John, as your leg fails you more often when you feel powerless, and clearly the circumstances were traumatic, as seven years later you refuse to so much as speak of how it happened, though why you don’t think you can trust me with it, I cannot begin to fathom)--but Sherlock is wrong, John’s sure. Sherlock wants the thrill of being told he’s right, nothing more, and John won’t revisit it--any of it--for that. If I would just what?
Sherlock shakes his head.
Leaves, alone.
When he comes home with a blackened eye, John aches to mend it, but he can’t bring himself to offer. Sherlock doesn’t ask.
*
A week of Sherlock's silence.
John asks questions (any cases I should know about, where do you go walking at night, are the longer days bothering you again) but receives no answer.
Not even violin.
*
Sherlock’s eye’s still sore, faded to a sickly green, as he examines a body (a wash-woman, a picture of health, but dead, why) at Molly’s cottage.
Her hands, John says. Examines beneath a nail. Should they be so… swollen?
To John: Obviously. To Molly: Ignore him. He’s an idiot.
John’s silent for days. Leaves the tea Sherlock brings untouched. Watches Sherlock drink it cold.
Oh, Sherlock, John murmurs, later, when Sherlock, back from his nightly walk, slides into bed, finally sleeps. He’s nude, on his stomach, breath deep and slow; the sunrise lines his back with rose and gold. Makes him look otherworldly, like to vanish at John’s touch.
John felt that way about him, once, but the man John felt that way about, the man John was when he had those feelings--lost to time, never to return. Replaced by a tired healer with a leg that won’t heal and an irritable solver of crimes who for seven years has said obvious and you’re an idiot and gods’ sake John and never, not once, I love you.
How do they hold.
There’s a small black feather sweat-stuck to Sherlock’s fist. John slides it free. Brings it to his lips. Hides it beneath his pillow, a talisman against the dark.
*
A rabbit, Sherlock says just after the solstice, sunburnt as he slams the door, I’ve just spent a week chasing down a bloody rabbit, all because some hack alchemist had nothing better to do than paint it with phosphorus and let it run ‘round at night. He pulls a box from a shelf, throws himself into his chair, ties a tourniquet, fills a syringe. A waste, like everything else in this gods-forsaken, sun-blighted excuse for a season.
John puts down his mug. Feels a twinge in his thigh. Frowns. You said you were through.
And you said you’d stopped gambling--Sherlock flexes his fingers--but I see from your boots that you’ve been to the fights. Leave it.
John swallows. You were gone. Doesn’t say: I was worried. I was alone.
Yes, I was gone, and it took you all of a week to fall into old habits. Sherlock stretches his legs, crosses them at the ankle, lets his head loll back. Touching, if a shade pathetic.
A twinge in John’s leg: he stands. I'll not be abused.
Please. Sherlock waves, lazy, dismissive. You're half a cripple, you're aging, and you've deluded yourself into thinking you're needed. You'll never leave.
John stares. Breathes hard through his nose. Kicks over the table: the mug shatters, scatters slivers on the floor.
Gods’ sake, John, sit down. You’re overreacting, Sherlock calls as John storms into the bedroom, digs beneath their bed for his army rucksack. Throws into it what he can bear to take with him (nothing Sherlock gave him, nothing they made together), shoulders it, and limps to the front door. You’re really leaving.
Sherlock sounds--surprised, damn him, how can he not have noticed that John is, has been, hurting, has been--.
The afternoon air is still and humid. You noticed, John says. Clever you. Doesn’t look back as the screen door bangs shut behind.