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John forgave Sherlock. Of course he did.
Not just because they were inside a bomb when it was about to go off, although that would have been a good motivator. But the fact was that he’d already forgiven the idiot, pretty much as soon as Sherlock showed up at the restaurant, just because John was so damned glad his friend was alive. The bomb just made it a bit easier to confess.
The residual anger was a whole other matter. It was slowly burning off—John no longer wanted to punch his friend in the face when he looked at him, so that was good—but two years of grieving, of guilt and agony, didn’t just vanish when their cause did. Especially if their cause, er, caused it, then treated it like some kind of a joke.
But they were getting better. Sometimes the relief, the outright joy, of seeing his best friend back and annoying people and leaving disgusting things in the kitchen and vomiting observations and condescension, almost staggered John. That went a long way toward dispelling the misery and resentment of the last two years.
It was as the fug of euphoria and fury cleared that John finally started observing some things himself.
Like how Sherlock wasn’t completely well. Really, the doctor in John should have noticed sooner, but he soon realized his friend had not only lost weight, but also stamina, appetite—even when not on a case—and some of his fluid grace. He wheezed after running, stuck to blander foods, appeared in the morning looking more tired than when he’d gone to bed.
And then, one morning, John happened to catch him just leaving the loo after a shower, still shrugging on his dressing gown. The livid marks he glimpsed on Sherlock’s back stopped John in his tracks.
“Sherlock!”
Naturally, it only took one look for the detective to surmise what had upset John. “It’s nothing,” Sherlock said—reflexively?—before his eyes slid away and he pulled his belt tight.
Well, that might have satisfied any so-called medical professional who may have taken a look at him over the last two years, although knowing Sherlock, that hadn’t happened. But it certainly didn’t suffice for John Watson, MD, Best Friend.
He followed Sherlock into his room. “Let me see.”
“No,” Sherlock said succinctly, ignoring the invasion.
“Let me see or, God help me, I will have you admitted to hospital for a full examination,” John said flatly.
“I’m a grown man. You can’t make me.”
Anger rose in John, more ready and sharp than it would have three years before. “You’re a grown man who faked his own death and did God-knows-what for the last two years.” Sherlock continued to be vague about the details whenever John asked. “And who has a serious amount of making up to do for that. So either you let me examine you or…” What, he’d go? He wanted to, but that would still leave his idiot friend in possible need of medical care.
Sherlock was watching him, however, seeing more than John wanted him to, no doubt, and the stubborn set to his face softened. Without a word, he sat on the edge of the bed and turned away, throwing off the top of his dressing gown.
John took a breath, and then another, because a vague nausea had struck. The welts he’d glimpsed striped the whole of Sherlock’s back, some old, pale scars, and some still-healing red slashes. Two of them showed signs of infection. And all of them, John was pretty sure, had come from whips and cudgels, applied repeatedly at different intervals.
He swallowed. “Is there more?” he asked quietly.
Sherlock didn’t hesitate this time, but he also didn’t look at John as he disrobed completely.
John went and got his bag, his hands shaking.
A half-hour later, he had the full story. He could read a body like Sherlock could read clues: two toenails removed at least six months past, regrowing slowly. Broken and healed left kneecap. Bullet hole on upper right thigh, dangerously near the femoral artery. Burn scar tissue on upper left chest. Several long, shallow cuts across chest, still healing. Tenderness indicating deep bruising of abdomen. Injuries quite possibly spanning two years.
John eased the dressing gown back over his friend’s tense shoulders, then sagged down on the bed next to him, arms touching. “God, Sherlock…” he breathed.
“I am fine.” For once, though, the words came out gentle instead of defiant.
John knew Sherlock had spent the last two years going after Moriarty’s network. He’d never figured that had been easy, but it had hurt to think about it too much and so he’d vaguely pictured Sherlock in his usual the game is on mode, swanning about crime scenes, chasing criminals across rooftops, then sending them off with the local version of Lestrade. Not…torture. Shooting. Beatings. Struggling alone.
John reached up and squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder, hard. He felt Sherlock deflate with a slow exhale, guard dropping. Relaxing for the first time in…years? “You’re going to tell me all about this sometime,” John said mildly.
A pause, then Sherlock inclined his head once.
John patted his shoulder and stood. “But for now, Lestrade’s expecting us in an hour. I’m going to put on some tea.”
“Don’t use the green teapot,” Sherlock murmured.
John paused. “Why n—?” He caught the little twist of the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “Never mind. Get dressed. Mind that ointment I put on your back.”
No more was said. But it gave John a lot to think about.
The next bit he learned was a slip from Mycroft. Or, knowing Mycroft, a deliberate reveal disguised as an unwary word.
Mycroft had been coming by more often than he’d used to. At first John thought it was because, well, Sherlock was back from the dead and needed checking up on. Eventually, John realized that while that was true, his own wedding preparations were also disconcerting Sherlock, and Mycroft was being the thoughtful big brother he would have vehemently denied being. It led to more awkward conversations around the flat, but for John, more people concerned about Sherlock was only a good thing, so he didn’t complain. Much.
“Why are you here again?” he couldn’t help ask, however, when one such visit had stretched past its natural end, about two minutes after Mycroft’s arrival. Sherlock had made an excuse of asking Mrs. Hudson something and vanished, probably not to reappear until after Mycroft left, which Mycroft doubtless knew. And yet here he still sat, across from an impatient John.
“Reports of a possible insurrectionist nearby,” Mycroft said smoothly.
“Ah. Well, I wouldn’t want to keep you from that.” John started to rise.
“How is your delightful Mary doing?” Mycroft surprised him by asking.
John sank back down, frowning. “She’s fine. Great, actually…sorry, have you two met?”
“No, one just…hears things. We wanted to make sure you were getting on all right, after everything.”
“‘We’?” John asked carefully. The government we? Or…the Holmes we?
Mycroft actually seemed to hesitate for a half-second, though John probably imagined it. “Removing himself from the board didn’t guarantee the other pieces would be safe,” Mycroft answered without that usual smirk of his.
John blinked. He’d been around the Holmes brothers long enough to understand Mycroft was talking about Sherlock then, since he fell. John figured Mycroft had been keeping some kind of eye on them the last two years, but it hadn’t occurred to him that Sherlock would have been the one to request that.
John wasn’t sure what to do with that. The thought of Sherlock asking his brother to look after John was both touching and insulting. “Did you tell him I was bloody well not ‘getting on all right’ after watching my best friend commit suicide in front of me?”
Mycroft’s eyes grew serious. “I was tasked with ensuring your safety, not your psychological well-being.” He paused. “Though I do rather suspect my brother thought his false confession would ease your loss. And that his death would not take a serious toll on anyone.”
That left John gaping just long enough that Mycroft stood and tendered his goodbyes before John could find his tongue.
He’d actually suspected as much on occasion himself, going back to when they first met and Sherlock was surprised that John was impressed by his deductions instead of annoyed. Sherlock was aware he rubbed people the wrong way, and most of the time didn’t care, or at least appeared not to. John knew himself to have been one of the few exceptions in Sherlock’s life. But that this brilliant man still didn’t seem to grasp that his friends actually cared about—loved—and deeply mourned his apparent death: that just broke John’s heart a little. And made Sherlock’s charade far more understandable.
John just hadn’t expected Mycroft, of all people, to make that point.
The last piece was one John, in a feat of detective work that would have made Sherlock proud, put together himself.
First there was Mrs. Hudson’s offhand mention of the nice young man who’d been doing repairs in the flat on the day of The Fall. The man she hadn’t seen since, oddly enough, but who, after some careful questions, John realized was almost certainly an assassin, perhaps one of those who’d been keeping an eye on him and Sherlock. Which was…disconcerting.
Then there was the man Scotland Yard arrested. The gent, trying to curry favor, had volunteered that he knew the gunman who’d been positioned to shoot Greg Lestrade a few years before. Which, considering no one had known Lestrade had almost been sniped, was indeed information of interest. It turned out, Lestrade related to John over beers at the pub, the gunman was dead now but had been a known associate of Moriarty’s. He just couldn’t figure out why the man hadn’t taken his shot.
Oh, and did he mention this also had all happened that day?
Yes, John thought with a sudden chill. He was starting to get an idea as to why Lestrade hadn’t been killed.
John hurried home in the rain, bursting into the flat with enough force that Sherlock’s bow actually screeched across the strings.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded, breathing hard and wiping wet hair out of his face.
“All right,” Sherlock said calmly, setting his violin and bow down on the table. “I really think that jacket of yours doesn’t suit—”
“Not that!” John snapped, then did a double take. “Wait, why do you—? Never mind. I’m talking about that day at St. Bart’s.” He never knew what to call it—the day you died? “Did Moriarty threaten you?”
“Of course,” Sherlock said, sounding bored. “You know this.”
“I do,” John said, nodding. He rubbed a fresh trickle of water out of his face. “I know you said he threatened to kill people if you didn’t sacrifice yourself. I figured you meant blowing up St. Bart’s, or-or a busload of tourists.”
“Why would he threaten me with tourists?” Sherlock asked with genuine puzzlement.
John ignored him. “But you were talking about people you cared about. Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade.” He hesitated. “Me.”
“Well, I’m not certain Lestrade—”
“Would you just—!” John realized he was yelling and took a breath, leaning back on his heels. “Just tell me the truth, for once. Was Moriarty promising to have us killed, me and Mrs. H and Lestrade, if you didn’t jump?”
Sherlock looked at him a long moment. Had his eyes been so weary all these weeks? John couldn’t remember. Then again, he hadn’t been able to really see Sherlock through the cloud of emotion for some time after his return.
Sherlock sighed and crossed the room toward him. Just as John braced himself for…he wasn’t sure what, his friend passed him. Was he actually going to ignore this?
No, he was back in seconds, offering a towel. “You should have taken an umbrella. The clouds were clearly—”
“Sherlock.” John said quietly. His anger had fled.
“Yes.” Sherlock plucked one of his violin strings, then looked up at John. “It was a replay of the pool again—he really wasn’t as clever as he believed. He had weapons trained on all three of you.”
John let out the breath he realized he’d been holding for weeks.
He wasn’t even shocked. Sherlock wouldn’t have let a busload of tourists, or even a single irritating American, die for him, of course. But the few people he considered friends? Those, John was certain, he would have very willingly traded his life for.
Or pretended to, keeping them safely in the dark until he was sure the threat was eradicated.
Another dribble of water made its way into his eye. John finally gave his head a quick scrub with the towel, then draped it around his neck, all the while thinking hard.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he finally asked, voice a little unsteady. “Since you got back, I mean.” Knowing that would have lessened John’s anger, made Sherlock’s homecoming so much easier for him.
“It didn’t matter—it had been my choice to make,” Sherlock said. But his usual arrogance was completely absent.
His choice. Translation: it wasn’t a burden on his friends then; they weren’t beholden to Sherlock. The only cost would be to him. Because no one would miss him that much anyway, right?
“Sherlock,” John said with considerable feeling. “For someone so brilliant, you are a bloody moron. You seriously think you could die and we’d all just merrily continue on with our lives?”
“Yeesss?” Sherlock said like he suspected it was a trick question.
John stared at him a moment, then nodded to himself. “So if I were to, say, draw my gun, like this.” He pulled out the weapon, and Sherlock flinched. “And I proceeded to blow my brains out in front of you…” He tucked the barrel under his chin. “You—”
With a motion so swift John barely tracked it, Sherlock flew at him and yanked the gun away.
They stood staring at each other. John was calm, but Sherlock’s chest bellowed and he was swallowing convulsively.
“And that was a little bit what it felt like,” John sighed. “For two years.”
Sherlock was the color of chalk, gaze turning inward. “Oh,” he murmured. John suspected his view of the world had just been upended. Sherlock had always been careless with his life, because why not?
John stood there, a solid, inarguable reason why.
Sherlock sank down on the sofa. “Oh,” he uttered again. Then, more thoughtfully, “You really should have thumped me a few more times.” He utterly failed at smiling, struggling with meeting John’s gaze.
“I was getting tired of being tossed out of restaurants.” John reached over and carefully eased his gun out of Sherlock’s grip. Sherlock watched him closely as John checked the safety and laid it on the coffee table. Sherlock would need it to be out of John’s hands for a while. Rather like John figured he’d need Sherlock to indefinitely stay off roofs. “And, I forgave you.”
He pretty much had that same night, and not just because Mary had encouraged it. John was so angry that Sherlock seemed to think his shocking return was funny, but Sherlock had never been good with feelings. For all his little stunt had been stupid, hurtful, and infuriating, this was who he was, what John had signed up for years before. He would have gladly offered the pain of those two years in trade for having his friend back, and lo, God had taken him up on it. It would’ve been pure hypocrisy to not forgive Sherlock for returning from the dead, however cluelessly he’d done so.
And if he’d had any concerns that he’d shined up the memory of his friend, given him too much credit, the utter panic in Sherlock’s tone when he’d pulled John from the burning Guy Fawkes—the fire he’d charged into to save John—really put paid to that.
That was all before John had glimpsed the horrors Sherlock had endured during those years, though. The way he’d looked after his friends even in his absence. The very bloody reason he’d taken that fall in the first place. Sherlock hadn’t taken it lightly at all. And now…now John truly felt it.
Sherlock took a breath and met John’s eyes. “I suspect…I might not be the only ‘bloody moron’ here.”
“Eh,” John said, dropping into his chair. “It’s good company then.” And he grinned at his friend.
Sherlock’s smile was a little more hesitant, but he nodded to himself like he’d just confirmed something. Then he stood, sweeping the gun off the coffee table into a drawer with seeming casualness. “Tea?”
“Tea,” John affirmed. "Just maybe not in the green pot."
And that was all that needed to be said.