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Dear John,
How are you settling in? Making friends? Christ, that was a bit not good, wasn’t it? I feel like I’m writing to a child, or someone I don’t know. I know you too well John, for this. I feel ancient and infantile at the same time. God, I really am melodramatic. Mycroft will be so pleased.
School is good. Jim graduated, so that’s one less thing to worry about. Mycroft’s a pain. I wrote a new piece on the violin for you. It’s called “What my heart feels like when John is gone.” The boys in my hall say it sounds like dying cats. They’re not lying.
I would write you a letter for every day of the year, but with the way censoring works and overseas shipping, I’m 93.4% sure you won’t get this for three weeks. Could be confusing.
Write back soon. I’m languishing.
All of my Love,
Sherlock
There are few things John registers doing anymore. He didn’t need to; everything is yelled at him, commanded to him by tall men in green camo. How and when to eat, how and when to sleep, how and when to move his feet and arms.
The first time he shoots a gun at a target, it’s exhilarating. And so he does it again. And again and again until his arm is numb and the captain tells him he’s free to go. Back to his bunk, of course, nowhere else. That’s his new definition of freedom.
John hangs three pictures above his bed. One of Harry and his Mum. One of his friends from The New London High School. And one of a boy, sleeping in the bottom of a canoe, inky black hair spilling into white wood.
One of his bunkmates sees it and calls him a photographer. No, John tells him. He always looks that way.
Dear Sherlock,
God, I miss you. This letter’s gonna be riddled with sentiment, so get used to it. I miss you almost every second of every day. The seconds where I don’t miss you are the seconds when my heart stops as I collapse on the floor. This is hard, Sherlock. God, this is hard.
I love my classes though, every one of them. All I ever wanted to be was a doctor, and they’re making me one. They’re teaching me to cut men down with bullets and grenades and how to sew them back up with thread and prayers. I wish you were here, but I’m glad you’re not. They’re teaching us to kill, but we’re disposable. If one of us dies, there are so many more of us, cut down and remolded in the same shape. You are indispensable. You are unique.
I bet you’re saving London was we speak from your Eton bedroom. Just six more months, Sherlock. Six months and you’re done with high school. Six more months and you’ll be on to better things.
All my love,
John
All it takes is one foot in front of another. All it takes is raised hands in a classroom, notes scribbled in margins, projects handed in on glossed paper. All it takes to pass school is half a brain.
All it takes to shoot a gun is one finger and Sherlock is vaguely aware that if the idiots around him can pass school, their counterparts can shoot guns and John can’t catch bullets. But John’s letters sit like promises on the floor of his dorm room, piling up on each other, and he could swim in them if he wanted to
I miss you loads. Finished boot camp. Your eyes are unfathomable. We shipped out today. God, your voice is-
There are few things about Eton Sherlock likes. His room is not amongst them and so he hangs no pictures on his wall. They don’t deserve the feel of John against their skin. No one does. Least of all him.
1.
He never expected, not in a million years, to look out into the audience at graduation and find, nestled between his Mummy and Harry, a blonde haired boy with tanned skin and bright eyes shining with pride. It takes everything he has not sod Eton and jump off stage.
When it’s all over, he runs down the stairs and into the waiting arms of his soldier, not even bothering to pick up his cap as it flutters to the ground.
“I didn’t know you were coming!” Sherlock cries, muffled in John’s shirt. He smells the same, honey over sunshine.
“I couldn’t miss your graduation,” John murmurs against his hair. “It was meant to be a surprise. Are you surprised?”
“I love you,” Sherlock said, leaning back, and kissing this glorious man in full view of every one of his detestable classmates. It is easily the best moment of his high school career.
They all go to dinner, both families, and for a moment everything fades into stills of black and white of people laughing and smiling. John’s hand is warm on his thigh, tracing small circles on his trousers leaving a heavy fire burning in the pit of his stomach.
Sherlock gets up to go to the bathroom. John has to take a call outside. They meet in the alley behind the restaurant and Sherlock’s back is up against a brick wall, John’s hands insistent and firm on his hips. Their foreheads touch and their breath intermingles, a simple exchange of out in.
“I would fuck you, right here, right now,” John growls, knee coming up to rub painfully against Sherlock’s growing erection.
Sherlock gasps, breathless. “I would let you,” he moans, breath hitched, and then John is kissing him, devouring him, open-mouthed and sloppy and Sherlock has never felt more complete, noses bumping against each other, fingers scraping against offered flesh, pushing up shirts and dipping down into the waistband of trousers, tugging and palming and Sherlock holds back a sob as he comes, muffled against John’s mouth.
The second goodbye is harder than the first was. They hold each other for a long moment at the airport, John rubbing soothing circles on Sherlock’s back. And then it’s just Sherlock, all alone. Alone protects him, he reminds himself. Alone is good.
Alone is miserable.
“Sherlock?”
“John! Oh god John, your voice, I missed you so much-“
“I know love. We’re settled just outside of Kabul now, I’m getting calls. I have ten minutes, love.”
“Oh, tell me everything! How is training?”
“I’d thought you’d find that dull.”
“John, nothing you could ever say would be dull.”
“Lies.”
“Okay, maybe some things. Right now, I’m just happy to hear your voice. Now tell me everything.”
“It’s wonderful, Sherlock. I did my first in-field patch up. I feel like I’m helping out here, Sherlock. Like I’m changing lives.”
“My little hero.”
“Shut up. How’s London?”
“Okay. I’ve been staying in Mummy’s flat. It’s quiet.”
“How are the cases?”
“Lestrade still won’t let me on site. Says I need to graduate college at least-“
“The prat.”
“Exactly. You’re perfect John.”
“I have had years of practice.”
“John?”
“Yeah, Sherlock?”
“I miss your breath on my neck in the mornings.”
“I miss the way your hair curls around your ears after your shower.”
“I miss the way your moans curve at the end whenever I-“
“Jesus Sherlock, this is a monitored call!”
“Let them be jealous.”
“You utter berk.”
“I love you.”
“Say it again.”
“God John, I love you. I think about you in the morning, in the evenings, when I’m trying to study, when I’m trying to solve cases- I love you so much it’s painful.”
“God, I love you. I-“
“Time’s up.”
Dear Sherlock,
We went to Herat today to pick up medical supplies. It’s such a small city, not even a city really, nothing like London. I saw a boy, couldn’t have been more than six, with grey eyes like yours. It was the strangest combination, dark skin, dark hair and grey eyes. I missed you like an ache.
I’m sorry I don’t write as much as you do. I read all your letters though, every last one. One of my mates, James, asked if you were my girlfriend. I didn’t correct him. Should I have? I should’ve, I know it, and I’m confused. I’m not ashamed of you, of us. There’s just something about being a group, being a mob- you don’t want to stand out. You don’t want to be different.
You never cared about being different. Hell, you shoved in the face of anyone who bothered to care. You are so singular, in every way.
When I see Orion, I think of you and that night you told me all the stars. You asked me why I was crying, and I told you I was scared you’d deleted them all. I lied. It was because you didn’t spend a second searching for them in some file in your mind palace. I know how you work, Sherlock. And they were just sitting there, in the bloody front parlor. No one ever loved me like that.
All my love,
John
2.
This time he’s waiting for him in the airport, and when he sees that familiar mop, now practically sun-stained white, it’s only seconds before they’re in each other’s arms, John still in fatigues, and he smells like sand and carpet when Sherlock rests his head against John’s shoulder.
They go back to the Holmes flat in Mayfair. They’re barely through the front door when John is up against Sherlock, backing him painfully into the door.
“Remember when I’d told you we’d have angry sex one day?” John murmurs dangerously in his ear and Sherlock swallows.
John’s fingers are digging deep into Sherlock’s arm, leaving bruises in the shape of fingermarks and it should bother him, should worry him, but it’s marks of ownership and Sherlock belongs to John, utterly and completely.
John’s kisses leave bright teeth-marks along Sherlock’s neck, his hands shove Sherlock painfully into a bed not my bed. Mycroft’s bed- how wonderful, before John is everywhere. Legs on either side of his thin frame, pulling off clothing fast enough to leave burns along their arms and legs, slotting their cocks in line so as John rocks against him in an endless source of friction Sherlock is moaning, luscious and rich and so loud they can probably hear them in Notting Hill.
John’s fingers slide up and into him, pushing, stretching, scissoring, until he finds Sherlock’s prostate and ruins him, rubbing and stroking at it until Sherlock is nothing more than an over sensitized, overstimulated puddle in the center of the bed and then John lets him come in an aching release of chemicals and endorphins and he screams John’s name, lets it tear out of his throat as he shudders to completion, aftershocks wrecking his body.
He’s dimly aware that John is crying as he comes, Sherlock fingers wrapped around him, and he takes his shaking soldier into his arms and holds him, arms and legs forming a protective enclosure as John sobs against his chest and it’s Sherlock’s turn to card his fingers through John’s hair, rub circles on his back, murmur nonsense words in his ear until John draws in desperate gasps, lungs seeking air and Sherlock can breathe again.
It’s at three am, when John has been silent for hours and Sherlock has considered going to sleep, that John softly confesses,
“I killed someone, Sherlock. Took a life like I was some kind of god, like that was my decision to make.”
Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but his grip on John tightens almost imperceptibly, and John continues, words just rumbles against Sherlock’s bony chest.
“We were in an envoy out of Ghazni. I wasn’t even supposed to be there, but one of the guys got sick and they asked me to come- hell. It was supposed to be a simple retrieve and return.”
John’s breaths shudder against him, fingers folding tighter to fistfuls of bed sheets. “We were ambushed, forty minutes from base. These shots just rang out from nowhere and two of them hit the tires-
“We had to run. I have James on my left and Harris on my right and suddenly Harris goes down and I shoot in the direction it came from and the bullets stop. James it taking care of two guys on his left and he’s fine and Bill and Keith have the last two. I check Harris is okay and then I run, I run to where I shot and there’s this man-“
John stops, gazing up to tangle his fingers in a mop of black curls. “Kid really. Not even older than you, cor. He’s bleeding, bleeding bad, I got him in the femoral artery and there’s not much I can do. So I bend down to try something, and he spits on me. Hits me right in the face and then he bleeds out my arms.”
John can’t even say it, can’t even speak it. “One of the guys we brought in said him name was Anzi.”
“He was going to kill you,” Sherlock offers but he knows it’s not enough, not nearly enough, for good, sweet John.
“But I killed him instead. Does that make me better?” John asks, voice shaking and Sherlock holds him, desperate and broken.
“No,” Sherlock whispers. “It makes you alive.”
John sighs, sighs with the weight of a death on his shoulders that promises to be joined by more, and Sherlock lets him fall asleep against him, safe in promise that no, I will never stop loving you. Even if you killed God himself.
“John!”
“Sherlock, you sound excited.”
“ John, I made a friend.”
“That’s absolutely wonderful! What’s his name?”
“His name is Victor Trevor. Oh John, he’s fantastically interesting! He’s in my chemistry class.”
“I’m so happy for you, love.”
“We got coffee, the other day. I told him all about you; he said you seemed too good to be true.”
“Then you grossly exaggerated me.”
“I did no such thing.”
“We discussed the practical application of quantum mechanics.”
“That sounds utterly stimulating.”
“Oh shut up.”
“I got you something, for the next time I come back.”
“You got me a present?”
“Yeah, found it off base. You’d like it, it’s-“
“No! I want to deduce it. It shall be a mystery.”
“You don’t have enough data.”
“John, I know you better than you know yourself. I have all the necessary data and more.”
“God, I miss you.”
“I want you so badly John, you have no idea. I think you must taste different now, like sand and grit. God, how can I not know?”
“Sherlock, please, they monitor these calls.”
“I have absolutely no problem with her majesty’s armed forced knowing how badly I want to hear you scream my name.”
“Christ, Sherlock-“
“How badly I want to run my hands over every part of your body-“
“Sherlock, stop it!”
“Scream louder, John.”
“Piss off, you git. Mycroft’s probably listening.”
“Let the prat be jealous.”
“Sherlock, I’m running out of time.”
“I know, I know. God, I know. I sent you a message on a star, like you asked. Did you get it?”
“I got it, love. I-“
“Time’s up.”
Dear Sherlock,
I know I never reciprocate when we talk on the phone, so here you go. A sex letter, sent especially from me to you. God, I’m writing this letter in the back of my barrack while the lads are eating lunch. Some poor sop is gonna have to read this to make sure I’m not revealing government secrets. I do apologize, poor guy.
Sherlock, if I dream of you I don’t dream about our first time. Or even the latest time, when I’m home and you’re real underneath me. I think about that kiss by the lake, after you told me you tried to delete us and you couldn’t. God, you had no idea what you were doing and it was the most adorable thing I’d ever seen. Sherlock Holmes, master of all things except kissing. Lovely.
I wanted you so badly, in that moment. I wanted to throw you up against a tree and peel all your clothes off with my teeth. I wanted to take you apart slowly, start with your face, kiss you boneless. Then I’d rub and scratch and push at your chest until you couldn’t breathe and then I’d take you down till you hit the back of my throat and swallow. Don’t tell me I don’t have that good of a gag reflex. It’s my dream; I can be a fucking porn star if I want to be.
The first time we came to the manor, I got out of the car and thought you were the most gorgeous thing I’d ever seen. Christ, you’re beautiful. Like stained glass. When you deduced me, I got chills. I still can’t decide if that means I’m cross wired, or you’re just special.
All my love,
John
“Hey love.”
“John.”
“God, how do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Sigh my name like that. Like it’s the best thing you’ve ever said.”
“It is.”
“I love you so much.”
“I love you more.”
“Impossible.”
“I considered getting your name tattooed across my chest but then I remembered I abhor repetition.”
“You’re wasted as a detective. You should have been a poet.”
“God, save us all.”
“How’s Victor?”
“…”
“Sherlock?”
“Victor and I are no longer on speaking terms.”
“What happened?”
“…”
“Sherlock, you can tell me anything-“
“He kissed me John!”
“Oh, love-“
“We went out with some of his friends. He got so drunk, really drunk, and he tried to kiss me. I had to push him off me.”
“…has he tried to apologize?”
“He’s been to the apartment five times. I won’t let him in.”
“…”
“Maybe you should listen to his apology.”
“He knew about you, John. Christ, I never shut up about you.”
“Sometimes people do things they really don’t mean when they’re drunk. At least let him explain.”
“I don’t understand. I thought you’d be horrified at me for even letting him into my life-“
“I don’t want you to be alone, okay?”
“John-“
“You don’t have anyone. And I’ll be damned if you lose your first friend because of some loyalty to me-“
“John, I don’t need anyone else! You’re enough.”
“God, don’t say that. Please love, never say that.”
“I don’t-“
“I’m not even close to enough. God, I’m 6,000 kilometers away, in bloody Afghanistan. You need someone, Sherlock! Listen to Victor’s apology.”
“John-“
“Listen to him. Please.”
“John, I-“
“Time’s up.”
3.
When Sherlock meets him at the airport, he tells him about it in the car.
“Victor wants to meet you,” he tells John as they sit in the back of the cab, wrapped in each other. “I invited him over for tea later.”
“I’d love to meet him,” John says, and kisses Sherlock for good measure.
Victor is gorgeous. That’s all John can process when he opens the door to the apartment for the boy, a tall, tanned, well-built man with perfect green eyes and the kind of black hair to make a model envious. John feels significantly less, in his military-regulation haircut, his most tattered jeans, and a worn tee-shirt of Sherlock’s he put on after they shagged on the couch.
The couch Victor now sits on after shaking John’s hand. “Such an honor to meet you,” he smiles, and damn him, he has perfect teeth, “To hear Sherlock talk about you, I expected superman himself.”
“No, just me,” John smiles as his skin bristles and leads the man inside, taking great pleasure in sitting him on the couch he had Sherlock begging for him on just hours ago. A pleasure that is significantly lessened as he somehow ends up on a chair facing the couch and Sherlock sits next to Victor, their thighs brushing.
They banter so easily with each other. John realizes. Victor keeps up with Sherlock in a way he never could, finishing his thoughts instead of prompting them. John watches as they smile at each other, exchanging thoughts almost telepathically. It takes everything he has not to run screaming from the room.
When Sherlock gets up to get more biscuits from the kitchen, John finds himself leaning over, arms on his thighs, to whisper viciously to Victor,
“Look, I know what happened. He told me. I get you were drunk, but don’t you ever let it happen again, okay?”
Victor smiles at him lazily, as if John’s amusing. “Let me explain this to you, Johnny. Can I call you Johnny? I regret what I did. Sherlock clearly loves you and while he does, I will not touch him or kiss him, out of respect for him. But should he ever change his mind, should he ever decide he’s tired of being shagged every eight months or so and waiting for the phone call that you’ve been shot, I will not feel the least bit of guilt in shagging him senseless. Do you understand?”
It’s John’s turn to smile, a conniving smile that, should he have had a mirror, he would have been horrified to see on his own face.
“Vicky, can I call you Vicky? Listen Vicky, I was the one who told Sherlock he could talk to you again, because Lord knows I already feel guilty for leaving him alone. But I own him. He is mine, and if you ever touch him, I will not feel the least bit of guilt in beating you senseless. Now, do you understand?”
Victor turns white and Sherlock comes back in, bearing penguins and staring in utter confusion at the practically domineering look on John’s face.
But as they’re lying in bed that night, John’s arm wrapped protectively around Sherlock’s stomach, fingers sneaking under his tee-shirt to caress pictures into flesh, John can’t help but worry.
“Sherlock,” he says softly, just a breath of air in the night silence. “When I’m gone, do you ever wish- do you ever want to… with someone else-“
Sherlock spins on his so fast, he can’t even blink before he’s staring into horrified grey eyes.
“Are you asking me if I ever cheated on you?” Sherlock asks, a touch of anger in his voice.
John’s flooded with shame. “No, god no! Love no, I would never- I know you wouldn’t,” he explains frantically, kissing Sherlock’s temple in apology. “I just- I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
Sherlock looks mildly disappointed. “John, I’m not some insatiable teenager who has to be buggered regularly or they explode. Lord knows, if I was just dating you for the sex, I would’ve left ages ago.”
Now it’s John’s turn to look offended. “I think it’s rather good,” he mumbles and Sherlock’s laugh rumbles against his chest.
“It’s wonderful, John,” he smiles against his forehead. “I may love your body. But I adore your mind. And I rather think I can wait for that, even if it does take you another four years to bring it home for good.”
John never felt like a particularly lucky person until that moment.
Dear John,
In your last letter you asked how my cultures were going. They’re well; I’ve rather been ignoring them lately though. Lestrade gave me a triple homicide in a locked room. Oh, Christmas. It’s so much harder without you, John. You always just know these things to say, idiotic things, but they’re invaluable. You’re invaluable.
Victor got me a skull called Victor Jr. I tried talking to it instead, but it’s not the same. God, I want you to come home so badly. I had a dream you had these wings, huge and white. Makes sense, in so many ways you’re my guardian angel.
I keep thinking about what you said that last night on your last leave. I think we both are so scared of the other leaving us, it’s ridiculous. John, sometimes I think you have no idea what it’s like in my mind. To want you so badly and having no idea how to keep you from leaving. But you keep leaving, you give me one glorious week every few months and then you leave me again, you bastard.
And yet, I love you so much I would wait years. I would wait forever. I can’t even hate you for leaving, although Mycroft says I’ve been stropping. Some of us are simply more dramatic than others.
You will always have all my love,
Sherlock
“Hello?”
“Sherlock, thank god. The phone kept ringing, and you weren’t answering. I got so scared-“
“John, it’s Harry.”
“Harry?”
“Yeah, I’m staying in the Holmes’ flat right now, me and mum. John-“
“Harry, what’s going on? Is everything alright? Where’s Sherlock? Is-“
“John, breathe. Please. Sherlock’s okay, he’s just… John-“
“Harry-“
“Victoria died.”
“…”
“No.”
“This morning. She was hit, drunk driver or something, last night. Died in hospital a few hours ago.”
“Shit. Christ, how’s mum?”
“Mum’s okay. She’s been crying a lot. We’re staying on the couch; Mycroft came in from Ireland to plan the funeral.”
“Sherlock-“
“Is in his room. He won’t come out, hasn’t eaten since we told him.”
“Let me talk to him.”
“John, he won’t talk to anyone, he’s-“
“Harry, go to his room and tell him John is on the phone and I get one bloody phone call a week and he better talk to me.”
“Give me a minute.”
“…”
“John? Oh god, I’m so sorry, I forgot you call today-“
“Oh love.”
“John.”
“Love, I’m so sorry. I’m so bloody sorry.”
“I need you, John. I need you so much, it hurts. Please, for the love of god, please come home.”
“I can’t baby, I can’t.”
“John, I need to-“
“It’s okay. Cry.”
“How much longer do we have?”
“Doesn’t matter. Cry, it’s okay.”
“Oh god, John I-“
“It’s alright love. That’s right, just cry it out.”
“I never told her I loved her-“
“Shhh, it’s alright. She knew.”
“Time’s up.”
John has never felt so helpless. He knows the army has some sort of protocol where you can leave for family emergencies, but he’s not sure how to justify this. I need to go home, my boyfriend who refuses to be called boyfriend’s mum died and he doesn’t know how to process human emotions properly.
When he tries to sleep he’s haunted by Sherlock’s shuddering sobs, coming over cracked and broken over the terrible connection. He looks for messages on stars and finds only silence. He feels like failure.
He mourns to, in his own way, for the woman who let him sleep in her house and sent him camping and gave his relationship with Sherlock her blessing. He mourns and he feels useless.
“Hey, love.”
“They read the will today.”
“How was it?”
“Okay. Not as hard as I’d thought it’d be. She left the flat in London to Mycroft and I. I’m staying in it for now though, but I think I’ll sell him my share when you get back. We can buy an apartment in a less posh part of town. I know it makes you uncomfortable.”
“Mayfair is just so pretentious.”
“I have to agree.”
“What about the country house? Are you selling it?”
“…”
“I thought your mum writes you letters.”
“She does, but she’s been quiet this week. Sherlock, what happened?”
“She left your mum the country house.”
“Christ.”
“Last Harry said, your mum’s moving there permanently.”
“I mean, we all suspected but Christ-“
“I’m glad.”
“Really?”
“That she’s moving. I would hate for that house to be empty. And I don’t think I could ever sell it.”
“That sounds suspiciously like sentiment.”
“Shut up.
“How are you doing, love?”
“Okay, I think. I’m pretty sure. I didn’t cry at the funeral, is that not good?”
“No love, that’s fine.”
“I miss her.”
“I know.”
“…”
“Father came to the funeral.”
“Wow, how was that?”
“Not as bad as I thought. He said I got taller.”
“You did.”
“I thought Mycroft was going to tell him to leave, but he didn’t. He just asked how he was doing.”
“That’s Mycroft, polite to a fault.”
“It was strange, seeing him. He looks like me, but so much older. And sadder.”
“…”
“He asked if I was dating anyone and I told him about you.”
“How’d he react?”
“Out of character. He didn’t yell. I expected him to at least throw something.”
“Maybe he’s trying to apologize.”
“Holmes men don’t apologize.”
“You’ve apologized to me.”
“That I have.”
“Time’s up.”
4.
He comes back not knowing what to expect, but it appears Sherlock would like to proceed with not talking about it. They have sex on the couch, Sherlock pulling off John’s clothes so fast he loses track of where they land on the living room floor. And then he’s kissing every inch of John’s skin, every strangely placed tan line, every newly formed muscle and healing bruise.
“I want to inhale you,” Sherlock tells him, kissing his jaw, hand working frantically between them. “I want you to sink so far into my skin, I can’t tell where I end and you begin.”
“Jesus Christ,” John moans, because that’s all he can say. And then Sherlock is pinning him to the couch and taking him apart, and when he slides into John, it’s like he can breathe again and John lets out a small, shuddering sob.
He’s just groaning into John’s open mouth, inches from climax, when the flat door opens and Mycroft comes in.
“For goodness sakes, Sherlock,” he drawls, rolling his eyes. “That sofa is from Italy.”
“What on earth are you doing here?” Sherlock snarls and John wishes the couch would swallow him whole.
“Did you forget I own this flat too?” Mycroft points out casually and John is reluctant to point out they are having this discussion while Sherlock is still inside him, hands placed possessively on his hips.
“You knew John was coming home, what did you think we’d be doing?” Sherlock cries.
“I forgot,” Mycroft excuses with a shrug, heading into the kitchen to make himself tea as though that is the only logical response to two naked men on his couch.
“You liar, you have an eidetic memory!” Sherlock yells after him. “And where are you going? You can’t just make yourself tea, we’re busy!”
“I’ve just come from Edinburgh; I dare say I deserve tea.”
“You bloody, insufferable, twisted-“ Sherlock rants, sliding out of John to chase after his brother, stark naked, and John sighs. He knows exactly what Mycroft is doing and he loves him for it. The man is rather good at providing something stable for his fragile brother.
Later, after Mycroft’s left and they’ve showered and dressed, they go to the grave. It’s incredibly simple and classic, like the woman herself, with the simple engraving Victoria Holmes, beloved mother and friend.
“She wanted us to use her married name,” Sherlock tells him as he lays the flowers they bought by the ivory tombstone. “Said she was more Holmes than anything else.”
John lays one, firm hand of Sherlock’s shoulder, anchoring him. “They caught the guy, the drunk driver,” Sherlock says softly. “Doesn’t change anything. I just kept thinking, is that what the families feel like when I solve a murder? Does it even matter? I can’t bring them back.”
“No,” John says, threading his fingers through the taller man’s. “You can’t. But it does matter.”
Sherlock sighs, imperceptibly. “She always liked you. Said you were good for me.”
“I am,” John tells him, smiling, and they kiss, right in the graveyard. Sherlock thinks it would’ve made her smile.
“Harry’s getting married.”
“I know. She wrote to tell me and ask when my next leave was so they can schedule the wedding.”
“She’s made Mycroft her maid of honor.”
“…”
“That is hands down the best thing I’ve ever heard.”
“He’s far too happy about it.”
“Leave him, Sherlock.”
“She’s not making him wear a dress.”
“Now that is a bloody wasted opportunity.”
“That’s what I said!”
“I can’t wait to see you in a suit.”
“I wear suits constantly.”
“Yes, but this time I have a private place to rip it off you after.”
“John, I’m appalled. This is a monitored phone line.”
“Oh shut up, you prat.”
“I love you.”
“I never get tired of hearing you say that.”
“I should hope so. Because I rather like saying it.”
“Who woulda thunk the great Sherlock Holmes would enjoy sentiment so much.”
“It’s hardly sentiment if it’s a statement of facts.”
“…”
“Dear god, I love you.”
“Guess what I’m wearing?”
“Whip cream?”
“You’re a pervert.”
“That’s rather undisputed.”
“I’m wearing the tee-shirt you left here. It smells like you.”
“Which one?”
“The blue one that says ‘Your Epidermis is Showing.’”
“I love that one. I actually got it cause of you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, while you were still at Eton, that’s three years ago now, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I saw it in a shop and thought of you, so I got it.”
“I’ve been refusing to wash it. Mycroft says I’m behaving like a child.”
“Wash it with my laundry detergent. You can get it from Harry.”
“… you’re a genius.”
“I do try.”
“I want something that smells like you.”
“Come home. You can have a me.”
“If only-“
“Time’s up.”
He’s in the medical tent when his commander comes in.
“Watson?” he calls out and John turns, covered in blood from the leg wound he’s stitching.
“Sir, yes sir?” John asks and the commander moves to reveal a female in fatigues, one of the few John’s seen so far. Conceptually he knows there are women in the British army, but he’s never gotten a chance to talk to one yet.
“This is Captain Sarah Sawyer, of The Lancashire Fusiliers. She’ll be assisting you after Captain Harrows reassignment,” he tells him and John puts down his sutures to shake her hand.
“Pleasure,” he smiles and she smiles back, sweet and firm, with a wisp of brown hair falling out of her military-tight bun.
They finish stitching the leg and John spends a few moments showing her around the medical tent.
“It’s small, and we’re always undersupplied, so try and reuse, if you can,” he tells her, and she nods.
“Same back in my old unit,” she supplies, taking stock of her new equipment. “I suspect we’ll do just fine.”
They work well together. Stitching and sewing, and he’s glad of the company. She’s quiet and centered, a lot like him, and when she asks him to join her for dinner in the mess hall, he accepts.
“Not to assume, but in the spirit of full disclosure,” he tells her as they walk down the stairs, “I’m taken.”
She spares him a half smile. “Should’ve guessed. She must be a lucky girl.”
And because he really, really, wants just someone to know, he says, “Guy, actually.”
He doesn’t know what to expect, but it’s certainly not the groan she gives him. “Of course, all the good ones are taken and gay. Well, I do hope we can still be friends.”
“Of course,” he smiles and he’s glad. He can always use more friends in these pits.
Dear Sherlock,
There are these moments, when I’m out in the sand, that I forget everything. I forget my mum, and Harry, and Mike and the lads, and everything. I forget that I haven’t eaten in hours; I forget that two of my patients died last week under my hands. But even in the middle of God’s hell, I can’t forget you. You sit with me always, in that place in my heart that tells me no matter how dirty my hands get, I am human.
You used to tell me they told you that you weren’t human. They’re bloody liars Sherlock, because you are the most human person I have ever met. You act like you don’t feel, but the truth is you feel more than all of us. Somewhere in that genius brain of yours, you understand people so well that you must get them. And sometimes you say things that are a bit not good, and do things that are a lot not good, but that’s you.
I rambled, I know. I just had to tell you that, Sherlock. I had to promise you that I will never try and change you, because god knows you’re the only thing saving me right now.
You had all my love since the beginning,
John
Harry’s wedding is absolutely beautiful. The brides both wear white, Clara in a signature long, flowing gown that sweeps out around her and makes Harry’s breath hitch when she sees it, and Harry in a loose white sleeveless pantsuit that makes her look taller and sets of her honey skin.
They both walk down the aisle, Clara accompanied by her parents, and Harry flocked by Cynthia and John. Mycroft does his duty as maid of honor and hands them their rings. They exchange vows and John thinks he’s never been happier for Harry than when they kiss, framed by a setting sun.
They have the party in large open tents outside, surrounded by the night sky. John sits next to Sherlock in the tux the younger man bought for him and feels absurdly posh. Sherlock laughs at his face.
“Don’t look so unhappy,” he teases, squeezing John’s hand under the table. “You look ravishing.”
“I feel like a penguin,” John comments, squeezing back, and nearly gasps at the look in Sherlock’s eye as he bends over to whisper in his ear.
“Don’t worry, I have big plans for you tonight that involve me peeling that suit off,” he whispers, hot breath sending chills down John’s spine despite the June warmth. “Possibly with my teeth.”
John doesn’t have even a moment to stutter before Harry is standing up and tapping at her glass.
“If I could have a moment,” she calls out and the tents fall silent, eyes on her. “Normally, the best man makes a speech about now, but we didn’t have one and my maid of honor staunchly refused,” she laughs, shooting daggers at Mycroft who sits at a table near the back, smiling softly at her.
“So if you would all permit, I’d like to say a few words,” Harry begins and John can’t help but grin at his wonderful, impulsive, and married older sister.
“There are so many people I want to thank. To Clara’s parents,” she smiles at the table to her left where Clara’s mum and dad, two very average suburban parents, smile back at her. “Thank you, for all the love and support you’ve given us. And thank you, for making Clara. That was absolutely lovely of you.”
The room laughs good-naturedly as Harry turns to the blonde woman sitting beside Clara’s mum. “Mum, thank you so much, for everything. For raising me proper, despite all that we went through.” Harry pauses to look upwards, an unshed tear in her eye. “And thanks Dad. I know we ended rough, but we started well, and that means something.
“And thanks to our siblings, Ginny,” Harry grins at Clara’s sister, just nine. “You are the sister I never had. I love you to bits. And my baby brother John,” John smiles back at her, bursting with pride. “Defending Queen and country. Thank you for always loving me, even when it wasn’t easy.”
She turns to face the back staunchly, and holds out one hand. “I would like to thank that beautiful man in the back of the tent,” Harry smiles as she lets two tears fall silently. “Mycroft Holmes, my best friend in this whole world.
“If it was not for that man, I have no doubt I would be very drunk and very unhappy in the cesspools of London. And instead,” she smiles down at Clara, who squeezes her hand. “I am six years sober, and never going back.”
Harry reaches up one hand to wipe her face as Sherlock glances quickly at Mycroft Holmes. The self-professed iceman has a napkin to his face and it takes the genius a minute to realize his older brother is actually crying.
“Lastly, I want to thank Clara, for marrying me,” Harry laughs and the room laughs with her. “I’m still not sure why, but love- I am going to make sure you never regret it.”
They kiss and the band starts playing as everything in Harriet Watson’s life falls perfectly into place. Sherlock takes John’s hand and leads him to the dance floor, twirling his incredibly manly partner in a waltz.
“Do you remember,” Sherlock whispers, dangerously close, “the last time we danced like this?”
John smiles at him, a ray of sunshine in black and white. “At my going away party, yeah,” he agrees, a faint smile on his lips.
“And do you remember what happened afterwards?” Sherlock teases and he can feel John stir against his leg at the memory, of sweat and bodies and whispered promises.
“Vividly,” John responds, a bit breathless, and Sherlock grins in triumph.
“I’m not opposed to recreating that,” Sherlock smiles against his ear and John shudders.
“Sherlock, I’m not leaving my sister’s wedding early just to have you shag me,” he protests firmly, even as he bends down to nip quickly at Sherlock’s neck.
“I wouldn’t dream of taking you home early,” Sherlock winks and twirls John out, catching him in a dip that makes the watchers on the sides gasp. “That’s why cupboards were invented.”
They find a janitor’s closet in the cabin next door and snog messily, hands everywhere, shirts rucked up and breaths coming out in short moans. Sherlock reaches down into John’s pants and jerks him off, fast and hot and desperate.
“Shit,” John groans, arching into his touch, “you’re going to ruin my suit.”
“Shut up and keep kissing me,” Sherlock orders, breathless, back against the wall. There’s a mop digging into his thigh and he profoundly doesn’t care.
“I only have one nice suit, you poncey bastard,” John says as his breath hitches and he doesn’t move out of Sherlock’s hand.
“I’ll buy you a new one,” Sherlock counters and he twists and John’s coming all over his nice fucking suit and gasping into Sherlock’s open mouth.
And if anyone gives them weird looks when they return to the reception, flushed and a little wrinkled, they pointedly ignore them and feed each other wedding cake, smearing it on each other’s noses.
They stay to wave Clara and Harry off as they head to the airport in a car. Then they get a cab of their own and go home, back to Sherlock’s flat in London. Mycroft’s staying with them for the night and they share Sherlock’s room, not at all considerate about their noise levels.
But as they’re shucking off their tuxes, and John is standing in front of the mirror carefully removing his tie, a comfortable silence descends around them. A silence that doesn’t have to be filled.
“Would you ever want to get married?” Sherlock asks suddenly. He’s sitting on the bed, still in his tight pants and dress shirt, watching John undress with soft eyes.
John considers the question a minute. “I don’t know,” he admits, removing his cufflinks. “I never really thought about it. Not now, certainly, not with me in Afghanistan.”
“No, of course not now,” Sherlock assures, enjoying the sight of John’s bare chest as he unbuttons his shirt. “But one day.
“One day,” John muses, toeing off his shoes and trousers. “Maybe. Would you like to get married?”
Sherlock sits up from the headboard and moves over to make room for John without prompting. “I wouldn’t be adverse to the idea,” he says carefully.
“How romantic,” John laughs, climbing into bed. “Now go get undressed so we can scandalize your brother.”
“The man works for our government, he is not easily scandalized,” Sherlock notes but he gets undressed anyway, laughing into John’s mouth.
”They got a new doctor at Bart’s.”
“Oh, that’s lovely. What’s his name?”
“Her name is Molly.”
“Is she nice?”
“Too nice. But when I told her about you, she got huffy.”
“Oh Sherlock, she likes you.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Why? I like you.”
“You fell on your head too many times as a child.”
“Unrelated.”
“Not even close.”
“Maybe you should set her up with someone.”
“I don’t understand. You want me to match-make?”
“Yeah. It’s a wonder you don’t already. You’re so good at reading people, you’d make a great matchmaker.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Cause she likes you and you want her to be happy. And it’s a nice thing to do.”
“How does one go about matchmaking?”
“Um, read her. See what she likes, what kind of person she is. Then figure out who would work well with her.”
“That sounds like a lot of effort.”
“Who are you, Mycroft? Go do some leg work, you lazy sod.”
“I told the new Inspector about you.”
“Did you?”
“Her name is Sally. She doesn’t think you’re real.”
“Tell her to talk to Lestrade. He’s met me.”
“She thinks we’re having her on.”
“We have pictures together.”
“I might not be showing any of them to her in the hopes that when you come home we can scare her.”
“…”
“I love you.”
“I know.”
“Time’s up.”
He used to crave adrenaline. But now all he wants is one calm day. One fucking calm day.
“I need an oxygen tank and four CCs of Saline,” John yells as he runs from the helicopter into base next to the gurney. He’s got his hands on some kid’s chest, staunching the bleeding as best he can. And it’s a kid really, no older than nineteen.
Sarah runs out to meet them. The Afghan sky is black against the strobe lights and he can see her hair is out, she was asleep.
“We don’t have four CCs,” she reminds him, grabbing the end of the gurney and helping it inside. They’re surrounded by soldiers, boys in green with white faces, covered in soot and blood.
“How much do we have?” John asks, frantic.
“Two, max,” she guesses as they roll inside, the hallway unnaturally dark compared to the bright landing ground.
“Then give me that,” he cries, exacerbated. “I need a transfusion going. Is anyone-“ he scrambles at the boy’s dog tags Nickolas, “type AB? Who’s type AB?” he yells into the crowd of soldiers.
A voice in the back speaks up. “I think Jackson is.”
“Then fucking get me Jackson,” he orders and the boy runs out.
Sarah’s at his side, taking his hands off the bullet hole to begin surgery. Other people would be screaming by now. But she’s a good doctor, she’s calm, the teeth marks in her bottom lip the only sign she’s falling apart inside.
“John,” she calls and he knows what she’ll say.
“Shit,” he whispers, taking in his blood-soaked hands. He should wash them. Jackson comes in, two minutes too late, and John waves him away. “Shit.”
Sarah finds him on the ground outside, staring up at the cacophony of stars like they hold some kind of cosmic answer. She doesn’t say a word, just settles down next to him and offers him a beer. Must have cost her a fortune. He takes it gratefully.
“I’m sorry,” she says, like it’s her fault. Like it’s any of their fault’s.
“What is that, three this month?” he asks her, drinking.
She doesn’t say anything and he swears. “What the hell are they dying for, Sarah? What are we doing here anyway?”
“We’re saving people,” she tries and he finally looks at her. She’s been crying, dirt smudges under her eyes reveal tear tracks, and he feels like shit.
“Sarah,” he says softly and it takes him a minute to realize she’s kissing him, soft lips against his chapped ones. He doesn’t push her away but dislodges her carefully, holding her arms.
“I’m sorry,” she says again, silent tears running down her face. “I shouldn’t have, I know, I’m sorry. I just-“
“It’s alright,” he whispers, the biggest lie he’s ever told, holding her to his chest, running his fingers through her hair. “It’s alright.”
“Hey love.”
“I miss you.”
“God, I know.”
“When you come home, I’m going to chain you to my bed and never let you leave. “
“Oh? Talk dirty to me.”
“I’d tie your hands above your head, to my headboard. Tight, even with your military training you couldn’t get out.”
“Then what?”
“I’d fuck you till you fall apart. Slowly, just barely so you can never get off, and then fast. So fast you scream and scream and our neighbors call the yard.”
“Dear god-“
“Then we’d eat terrible takeout and watch those films you love so much. I’d have to feed you, but I’d survive.”
“You’re terrible at dirty talk.”
“You could teach me next time you come home.”
“I’m amendable to that.”
“I did what you said.”
“What did I say?”
“I set Molly up.”
“Oh great. Do I know the guy?”
“Mike.”
“My Mike?”
“You hardly own him. He started teaching at Bart’s this year. Office romance and all that.”
“Are they hitting it off?”
“I think so.”
“Brilliant work, you.”
“Thank you. It was just as easy as you said it’d be. They had a ridiculous amount in common.”
“Yet another wedding we’ll have to go to.”
“I was thinking about that.”
“Oh?”
“About us, getting married.”
“And, what do you think?”
“Well, I abhor repetition.”
“…”
“You soggy old romantic.”
“I love you.”
“Dear god, I know.”
“Time’s up.”
He doesn’t know what he feels when he looks at Victor. If he never met John, he would call it attraction. The boy moves in carefully calculated steps, graceful to the point of an art. He’s like Sherlock, not as brilliant but just as sharp, just as cutting.
They spend long nights in his room, pouring over old books and experimenting. He’s not blind to the looks Victor gives him, when he thinks he’s not looking. It feels like cheating.
“How do you know you love him?” Victor asks him once when they’re lying in Sherlock’s bed. Victor’s lounging against the pillow, stretched out, and Sherlock’s hanging over the side, letting his hair graze the carpet.
“I display all the scientific signs,” Sherlock offers. “Elevated heart rate, increased pulse, dilated pupils.”
“Yeah, but he’s your first, right?” Victor asks, fingers drawing patterns on Sherlock’s ankle. “Your first everything?”
Sherlock nods, the motion making him sick as he swings upside down.
“Then you have nothing to compare it to,” Victor says. “No control group. What kind of experiment only uses one test subject?”
“I would never bother with something as useless as love unless I was sure,” Sherlock says dryly, scared of where this is going.
“But you were a kid,” Victor reminds him and his voice is soothing, like butter. “You were still doing heroin. You were an idiot. Granted, the smartest idiot that ever lived, but an idiot. You couldn’t know.”
“What are you proposing?” Sherlock asks bluntly.
Victor grins down at him, all soft charm and easy grace. The very opposite of John. “Come here,” he whispers and Sherlock swings himself up.
Kissing Victor is nothing like kissing John. Victor’s hands are gentle, his tongue is kind as it slides against his own, his fingers brush back his hair softly instead of pulling. Victor doesn’t back him into walls. Victor doesn’t throw him down on the bed. Victor doesn’t rub against him mercilessly until he cries for release.
Victor doesn’t make his heart feel whole.
Sherlock pushes him back gently, for all the world a satisfied man. Victor grins at him triumphantly and Sherlock feels disgusted at himself.
“Get out,” he says and Victor starts. “Don’t ever speak to me again.”
That night it takes him a half hour, as opposed to his usual ten minutes, to put the gun down.
5.
Sherlock almost doesn’t meet him at the airport. But he does, because he’s a coward and he can’t leave John like he should. Like John deserves.
John doesn’t say anything about his silence in the cab and when they get back to the flat he lets Sherlock carry his bags in taciturnity. But when John makes him tea and Sherlock flinches away, he gives up.
“For god’s sake, Sherlock. What’s going on?” he cries, slamming the cup down.
Sherlock can’t look at him. “I kissed Victor.”
John’s quiet. He sits down in the chair across form Sherlock, leagues away across a kitchen table. “Okay,” he says softly, broken.
“I’ve cut all ties with him, I swear. John- I don’t know why I-“ Sherlock stutters, distraught. This is beyond a bit not good. This is true sociopathy, to take a trust as whole and valuable as John’s and to shatter it into pieces.
“Okay,” John says again and gets up. “It’s okay.”
Sherlock stares at him. “John-“ he says carefully, wanting to reach out. He’s not allowed now, is he?
“We’ll get through it. Couples do all the time. We’ll get through it,” John says, mostly to himself than to Sherlock.
“John, please-“ Sherlock asks but he has no idea what he’s asking.
“It’s alright, Sherlock,” John says as he opens his bags, and Sherlock has never felt so alone. “We have lunch with Clara and Harry tomorrow. Go to sleep.”
John sleeps on the couch. Sherlock curls up in bed and holds John-the-Bear, desperately willing himself not to cry.
They meet Harry and Clara in a little Indian restaurant. They’re tanned and smiling and holding hands. Sherlock and John don’t touch, not even in the cab.
“How was the honeymoon?” John asks, even though they’ve been back months.
“Wonderful,” Clara gushes, squeezing Harry’s hand. “Harry taught me snorkeling.”
“Since when do you know snorkeling?” he asks his older sister, smiling, and she winks at him.
They eat, conversation flowing easily between the three. Sherlock is silent, picking carefully at his food and holding back unpleasant comments.
“John tells me you can deduce anything about anyone,” Clara says suddenly, startling him. “Is that true?”
“It’s not particularly hard,” he shrugs. “I just observe.”
“Tell me about that woman over there,” she asks, pointing to a woman in red.
Sherlock studies her a moment. “Single, recently divorced, mild drinking problem. Works with ink, either a secretary or a journalist. Secretary more likely, based on the price-range of her clothes. Two cats. Abhors Classical music.”
Clara smiles at him, wide eyed. “That’s amazing,” she admits, awed.
Sherlock looks at John. “I like her,” he whispers and John smiles back. Baby steps.
Harry takes them paintballing. John laughs that even on his days off, he has to use a gun. They play free-for-all, hunting each other mercilessly.
John finds him, hiding in the underbrush, and they raise their guns to meet each other. Sherlock knows he can’t shoot, knows John wants to shoot. Cocks his gun. John fires, a splash of yellow paint across Sherlock’s chest, covering his skin. And then John is on top of him and they’re kissing and Sherlock’s murmuring sorry’s into his mouth.
They separate and head home, running to the shower at the same time. They pause at the door, staring each other down.
“Terrible idea,” John says, reading it in Sherlock’s eyes.
“You do remember what happened last time,” Sherlock reminds him, hand on the doorknob.
“We’ll just wash,” John compromises and Sherlock grins.
They wash each other under the hot water, scrubbing paint out of each other’s hair. John spends a minute too long on Sherlock’s face, rubbing his cheekbone with his thumb for long after the yellow swirls into the drain. And then John kisses him, strong and sure, backing him up against the tile wall and they’re desperate, sweating in the steam.
Sherlock grabs both their erections, wet and lubed in the warm water, and groans into John’s mouth. John joins him, linking hands, and they come against each other, Sherlock’s nipple in John’s teeth as he arches into the older man.
“I rather like shower sex,” Sherlock tells him as they’re toweling each other off.
John grins at him lewdly. “Shut up,” he advises and kisses him. They sleep in Sherlock’s bed, a tangle of limbs, sweating and screaming each other’s names in their dreams.
“Congratulate me.”
“On having an attractive cock?”
“I love you.”
“Obviously.”
“No, I’m officially a doctor.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, kinda unbelievable.”
“You’ve been there five fucking years.”
“Yeah, I have.”
“Feels like ten.”
“Feels like longer.”
“I miss you in this space between my lungs. It’s not my heart. I don’t know what it is.”
“I miss you all over.”
“I miss you in those seconds before I fall asleep.”
“I miss you in my dreams.”
“Molly and Mike are getting married.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“They invited us. Wanted me to be best man since I set them up, but I declined.”
“When is it?”
“December.”
“I don’t think I have leave in December.”
“…”
“You can still go.”
“I wouldn’t go without you.”
“One of us should go, to represent us and all.”
“I don’t want to go without you.”
“Okay, love.”
“I was looking at the present you got me two years ago.”
“The clay pipe?”
“It has stars engraved on the side.”
“I know, that’s why I liked it.”
“They only have four points.”
“I’m sorry. If you’d like, you can make five.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, I was only stating a point.”
“Of course.”
“…”
“Was that a pun?”
“…No.”
“You are beautiful.”
“I found us a flat.”
“Do I get an opinion here?”
“You’ll love it. Baker Street, very un-posh.”
“You sold Mycroft your share of the flat?”
“I will soon.”
“Sounds lovely.”
“Has two bedrooms.”
“Whatever will we do with the second one?”
“I have some ideas.”
“God, save us all.”
“Time’s up.”
He doesn’t see the sniper. He doesn’t see him and that should make him feel like a failure of a soldier, but he’s too busy bleeding out on the Afghan sand.
James is dead, a warm wall of flesh underneath him, and he groans as the pain swims in his vision. He was supposed to save James. He had one fucking job and now-
His fingers scramble at the wound. He can feel the shell, lodged in his shoulder. Same fucking shoulder. He steadies his breathing as his fingers scrape inside, pulling at the shell. Tears blur his eyes and he can’t see, can’t feel, needs to puke, needs to die.
“Sherlock!” he screams and it disappears into the cold, unforgiving night. He feels the cold metal in his hands, pulls it out, looks at it.
“Fuck you,” he whispers quietly and passes out, deaf to the shouts that surround him.
Dear John,
There is this philosopher, I shant bore you with the details. But he says,” sola tuetur me.” It means “Alone protects me.” Basically, no man is above threats, as long as he has friends and family. They can hurt you, hurt you all they want, but it’s the leverage that makes people crack. Good men kill for their daughters, mothers blackmail for their sons. But alone protects you.
I understand that you are the most dangerous thing I have. If anyone were to even think of threatening you, I would give them anything. I would give them the moon, to protect you. That scares me. It scares me more than I can explain. It shakes me to my core. There are times when I regret that, regret how vulnerable I’ve made myself. Regret that I’m not alone.
I never regret you, though. It’s like that Bond you like so much says, “Our asylums are full of people who think they're Napoleon. Or god.” See, I do pay attention. I’m not god. I’m hardly a napoleon. I can deserve not to be alone. I can deserve you. I don’t deserve you. But no one does, and I’m as close as they come.
The bed feels smaller when you’re not here. That makes no scientific sense. Experimentation pending.
All my love,
Sherlock
He’s at a crime scene when they tell him. Sherlock is hunched over a body, examining fingerprints, when the black car pulls up and he rights.
Mycroft strides out, like he own the crime scene. Perhaps he does, umbrella twirling obnoxiously in his hand.
“Mycroft,” Greg sighs happily, smiling at him, but Sherlock knows better.
“He’s not here for you,” he brushes off, from posture, demeanor, eye patterns.
“He’s right, I’m afraid,” Mycroft tells Greg with a half-smile and turns on Sherlock.
Sherlock studies him, finds nothing. “What do you want?” he asks and Mycroft is silent a second too long.
Sherlock’s knees collapse as his world closes in. He can’t breathe, he can’t see, dear god I’ve shut down.
“When?” he begs, helpless.
“Last night, or this morning if you will,” Mycroft says and then, gently, “He’s still alive.”
It all rushes back in, but muted. “Where is he?”
“Afghanistan, they had to start en route,” Mycroft tells him, no emotion. “Bullet wound to the shoulder.”
“Which shoulder?” Sherlock asks.
“Left,” Mycroft says and he charts the space between the left shoulder and the heart. Too little god damn too little space. “They’re flying him in tonight.”
“Take me to the hospital.”
“Sherlock, he won’t be there for hours.”
“I’ll wait.”
“You’re coming home with me,” Mycroft orders and Sherlock riots. He’s been living at Baker Street, turning it into something for John to come home to. “Sherlock-“
“I’d rather sleep on the street.”
“Sherlock, I’ll be the first to know when he lands. You’ll want to stay with me,” Mycroft tells him, but that’s not why he wants him to stay, danger night.
“As if I was stupid enough to get high when John needs me,” Sherlock says angrily and Mycroft doesn’t respond. He gets in the car anyway. It was never really an argument.
He falls asleep on the sofa, pacing himself to death. He cries in his sleep, sharp, sniffling sounds that tears Mycroft’s heart apart as he sits in the kitchen waiting for a phone call. He wakes him at four am with a soft nudge and they’re en route to the hospital, Sherlock no more than a bundle of nerves.
He flies in, like hell on wings, coat billowing out behind him. They’re told John’s in surgery. They’re told he’s doing well. They’re not told much else.
Harry comes at five. Cynthia arrives closer to eight, traffic. They huddle in a mess by the trauma unit door, not talking, not breathing. Mycroft holds Harry, her small hand disappearing in his large one. Sherlock tries to comfort Cynthia. Fails.
At nine a doctor comes out and they flock to him like vultures on a carcass. He smiles at them and tells them. Stable. Should make a full recovery and air rushes into their lungs. Cynthia bursts into tears. Harry lets Mycroft pet her head, shaking into his shoulder. Sherlock lets the rope inside him unfurl.
“He’ll need care, especially the first few weeks,” the doctor tells them. “Who will he be living with?”
“Me,” Sherlock and Cynthia say at the same time and turn to each other.
“Sherlock, he’s my son,” she says carefully.
“We were going to live together when he got home,” Sherlock tells her, logically. “Besides, he needs London.”
“Sherlock,” she’s hesitant. “I love you like a son, you understand. But he’ll need care, attention on him constantly. And with your lifestyle-“
“You don’t think I’ll make time for him?” Sherlock demands, angry.
“You’re busy,” she reminds him. “And you forget what we mere mortals need sometimes.”
“We’ll let him decide, Sherlock says, not wanting to argue with the closest thing he has to a mother right now.
He sneaks into John’s room when the doctors aren’t looking and finds him hooked up to machines, like a robot. It scares him so badly, he can’t breathe again. And then John blinks and he rushes to him, holding his hand. Wanting to crawl inside him. Wanting to hide within the warmth that is John until this is all over.
“Hey,” John says, voice no more than a whisper, lips chapped.
“She wants to take you to live with her in the country house but you can’t leave me, please, please, tells her you’ll stay with me,” Sherlock begs and John squeezes his hand.
“Of course,” he promises and Sherlock kisses his forehead, gently. Hesitantly. John is broken.
John laughs, little more than a puff. “Same damn shoulder,” he groans, trying to sit up, and Sherlock helps him, hands cold against John’s body. “Same fucking shoulder.”
“They told us you dug the bullet out yourself,” Sherlock asks, the image haunting him. John, crumbled and broken, hands deep inside himself as he tries to stop an inevitable progression to his heart.
“I was never the smartest of men,” John excuses and Sherlock could cry. He does.
Cynthia and Harry come in properly, and hug John properly, and cry properly. Sherlock doesn’t let go of his hand, claiming, owning. Cynthia doesn’t comment.
“Mum, I’ll be okay in London,” John promises, kissing her. “I couldn’t leave this city.”
Cynthia cries but nods. John is John. And John will do whatever he bloody pleases, that much has always been known.
John stays ten days in hospital. Sherlock doesn’t know how Mycroft manages it, but he’s never asked to leave. So he doesn’t, curling up in the spaces John leaves him, holding him closer. Sharing his food. Feeding him gently, fingers brushing lips. Carding through his hair, watching rubbish telly with him on the TV they pinned to a wall. Kissing his fingers.
They give John a cane when he leaves and Sherlock hates it. Viscerally. John has a patch of bandage over his shoulder and a metal cane and hair too short. He smells of antiseptic. Sherlock wants him to smell like John.
They take a cab home and John pauses on the steps to 221B Baker Street. “This is it,” he says, eying the flat.
“Yes,” Sherlock says, suddenly nervous.
John beams at him, still his sunshine. “I love it.”
He loves Ms. Hudson. He loves the stairs, all too many of them. He loves the living room, already a mess. He loves the skull on the mantle. He loves the kitchen. And he loves the downstairs bedroom, already made up. Sherlock tucks him in and hopes for the end of it. It’s only starting.
-0-
John heals slowly. Sherlock reads books about PTSD, about trauma, about psychosomatic injuries. John goes to therapy. They both hate Ella, it unites them.
The first time John has a panic attack, Sherlock feels helpless. He watches him go under, screaming John’s name until his lungs go out and it doesn’t work. None of it works. And so he holds him till the shaking stops and lets go when John limps to the bathroom to wash his face.
John’s nightmares drive rifts down the center of their bed. They don’t cuddle. Cuddling is dangerous. They don’t even fuck, most days. John is still healing, a mess of scar tissue and mind wounds. Sherlock misses him, inches away. It feels like miles.
The first time John has a nightmare, Sherlock wakes up to screaming. It takes him two seconds to right himself, and four to shake John awake. John starts with a scream halfway out that turns into a gasp, that turns into strangled sobs.
“John,” he says softly, unsure of himself. He wants to hold him. He’s scared to touch him.
“Please,” John begs, holding the duvet for dear life. “Please, just leave me alone for a minute.”
Sherlock leaves, closing the door behind him and John falls apart, unseen and unheard.
“We could start running again,” Sherlock suggests over breakfast. He cooks, John still can’t move well. Cooking is just science, he reminds himself. But it’s harder- he never had to feed his experiments to John.
John sighs, defeated. He doesn’t look 23. He looks eighty. “You can’t just exercise PTSD dreams away, Sherlock. Besides, my leg-“
Sherlock’s silent, just feeds him his eggs. John doesn’t look at him as he eats and he wonders how broken they have to feel before they splinter.
Sherlock goes back to work, he has to. There’s rent, and bills and they need to be paid. John waves him goodbye, makes him bagged lunches like a housewife. Looks for locum work in the wanted ads. Cleans the flat. Cooks. Sherlock pretends he doesn’t love it, doesn’t love having John home and safe and his because John is miserable.
They fuck slowly, most nights, rolling their hips against each other in a soft wave of hitched breath and moans. Sherlock kisses John. Kisses his forehead, kisses his cheek. Kisses his fingers and his hands, his chest and his hair. Doesn’t kiss his scar, even though he wants to.
The second time John has a nightmare, Sherlock moves to hold him again and feels pain bloom across his right cheek as John punches him straight in the jaw. He feels it dislocate and spends two frantic minutes on the floor putting it back. John wakes up, bleary eyed and angry.
“What the fuck are you doing down there?” he asks, edges of fury in his tone and Sherlock is scared. He crouches on the ground like an abused woman, one hand holding his face.
John registers the pain in his hand, puts two and two together. “Shit,” he curses, dropping down next to Sherlock. “Shit, please, let me see-“
There’s a bruise forming, still just red, and John curses again.
“You didn’t mean to,” Sherlock tells him, reaching out.
“Course I did,” John says and walks out. He sleeps on the couch. Sherlock doesn’t sleep at all.
They have breakfast in utter silence. The bruise on Sherlock’s cheek is a livid purple, angry and accusing, and it stares John down.
“I think I’ll clean out the second bedroom today,” John tells him over toast.
“For who?” Sherlock asks, even though he’s too smart for that.
“For me,” John says, gently. “I need somewhere to sleep.”
Sherlock feels like he’s drowning. “It wasn’t your fault,” he says again, like that matters to John. Like that changes anything.
“Yes, it was,” he sighs, defeated. “I’ll sleep there for now, till they… stop.”
They’re never going to stop. Never.
“We can still-“ John tries and doesn’t finish, but the message is clear. We can still fuck, but then I go upstairs and you sleep alone. Like always.
“Yeah, okay,” Sherlock says and it sits bitterly in his mouth. He has never hated himself as passionately as he does now.
Sally and Anderson can’t get enough of his bruise. “You piss someone off enough?” Sally asks, all laughter, but Lestrade shuts them up.
He calls Sherlock into his office after they wrap, after a man’s gone home in chains. “I might not be as smart as you,” he says, sitting down, “but I know a domestic abuse case when I see one.”
Sherlock can’t meet his eye. “He doesn’t mean to.”
“I’m sure to hell he doesn’t.”
“He doesn’t,” Sherlock promises, desperate. “He has these… nightmares. PTSD dreams. He lashes out-“
Lestrade’s face softens. “I’m sorry,” he says honestly. “Is there something I can do?”
Sherlock shakes his head. “No,” he says and leaves, walks out of the DI’s office and back to the flat called home. It feels like hell.
John finds an advertisement for work at a surgery and goes in, taking his cane along. He needs something to do, anything at all. Anything to escape his prison.
The interviewer walks in and freezes. “Bless my soul, John Watson?”
He’s on his feet before he knows it. “Sarah,” he hugs her, bone crushing. “What are you doing topside?”
“What are you doing looking for locum work?” she laughs, hugging him back, just as tight.
“Need a job,” he excuses and she grins, overjoyed.
“Finished my service a couple of months ago,” she explains, sitting down. “Lasted two months on pension before I wanted to tear my hair out. Figured I’d start my own clinic.”
He sits down too. “Wow, good for you,” he smiles, squeezing her hand.
She squeezes back, closing her folder. “We don’t need an interview. You start Monday. Now buy me a coffee.”
He comes home, grinning madly, and Sherlock gets up to take his coat. He does that now, acts more thoughtful than he used to. More considerate.
“I saw one of my army buddies today,” John smiles at him, kissing his cheek. “I invited her for dinner Sunday. Will you help me clean up?”
Sarah comes over for dinner and John cooks. They laugh, telling old stories. Sherlock feels rather like a third wheel, or an unnecessary chair. He watches them, the way they smile at each other over lasagna, and he feels wrong.
“John always told me he was taken, and I see why he was so faithful,” Sarah smiles when she first meets him, at the door as he lets her in. Sherlock doesn’t say anything, just shows her upstairs. It kills him.
“The boys were a wreck after they carted your ass out,” Sarah tells him, drinking her wine. “Came in to see me every day, ask how you were doing. Like any of us knew.”
“How are the boys?” John asks, leaning forward.
“Bill’s a mess after James,” Sarah confesses. “Those two were close as brothers. Riley’s good. Sam finished his tour last week, got home just fine. Who else was in your unit?”
“Um, Carl. And Harris, “John tries to recall, but he’s been home for a year, it’s slipping. “Maybe Dane, he was always hanging around with us for pity’s sake at least.”
“Last I heard, all had eight quarts, nice and intact,” she tells him and he visibly relaxes. Sherlock gets them more wine.
Sarah leaves at one am, kissing John goodbye. “See you Monday morning,” she smiles and he hugs her, letting her leave.
“Great girl, Sarah,” John smiles, coming up. “We worked together two years, if you’ll believe it. Felt like centuries.”
“You kissed,” Sherlock says from the armchair, looking out the window. “Back in Afghanistan, you kissed.”
John sighs. “Picked up on that, did you?” he says, sitting on the couch, not asking how, not denying. Sherlock wanted him to deny it so badly, he would have believed it. John runs a hand through his hair, breathing out through his nose.
“It was after one of our boys died, just a kid. Named Nikolas. She kissed me, I didn’t kiss her back. I didn’t tell you cause it wasn’t sexual. It was just desperate. We were both very broken people, Sherlock.”
Sherlock can’t look at him, won’t look at him. “Would you mind if I invited Victor over for dinner?” he says, harsher than he means.
John stares at him. “That’s different and you know it. You kissed him.”
“I told you about it.”
“Because you cheated, Sherlock!” John’s furious now, and Sherlock can’t help how happy that makes him. “I didn’t.”
“Oh really? As far as I can tell, you did just as much as I did. How were your boys back in Afghanistan, John? Tight asses, good fucks?”
“Fuck you,” John says, dangerously, standing up. “You bastard, you have no idea how bad it was out there. How hard we had to cling to anything, any damn thing to prove we were human.”
“Of course I don’t know, you won’t fucking tell me,” Sherlock yells and John’s face thrills him in a sick way, terrified and angry.
“I can’t tell you,” John sighs, sitting back down. “I can’t talk about it, you need to understand-“
“I don’t need to understand anything,” Sherlock growls and John turns to him.
“Please,” he begs, face open and vulnerable, and Sherlock wants to hit him, wants to give them matching bruises. “Please Sherlock, you’re all I have.”
Sherlock laughs, and it’s meant to be bruising. “No, you’re all I have,” he says. “And you’re still over there.”
Sherlock curls up in his bed, all alone, and even John-the-Bear can’t hold him. He throws it across the room as John begins to scream upstairs, shattering his lamp. The soundtrack of their fucking lives.
Lestrade calls him one morning, as John’s leaving for the surgery. “Take this number down,” he orders but Sherlock’s already memorized it.
“Who is it?” Sherlock asks and John leaves, kissing his cheek like they’re okay.
“Friend of mine, army buddy,” Lestrade says. “Talk to his wife.”
Sherlock waits till John’s long gone before he calls, tea gone cold. He goes to the house in Norwich, a house that screams 2.5 kids. A woman answers the door, tall with long black hair swept back in a braid. She smiles at him.
“Sherlock, was it?” she asks, shaking his hand. “I’m Jane. Brendan’s at work, do you want to wait?”
“Not necessary, I’m here to see you,” he smiles his best smile and she smiles back. “Lestrade recommended you, said Brendan had PTSD.”
She nods at him, all knowing. “Your wife?”
“Partner,” he explains as she lets him in. “He’s been back almost a year, and he’s still having-“ he struggles to quantify.
“Panic attacks, nightmares, rages?” she supplies and he nods, dumbly. “Oh love, let me make you some tea.”
They sit on her couch, pale white leather, and eat biscuits she made. The living room is the very picture of a happy family; photographs hang on the walls showing Jane with a smiling man, kissing, swimming, standing on beaches. Happy.
“When Brendan first got back, he was terrible,” she confesses. “Used to sleep on the couch like a martyr.”
“He hit me once, in a nightmare,” Sherlock confesses and she nods.
“Once, in a panic attack, he pulled a gun on me. I had to talk him down, scariest ten minutes of my life,” she admits and Sherlock likes her instantly.
“You have to be very patient,” she instructs, sipping her tea. “It’s never going to disappear, just ease up a bit.”
“Do you sleep together?” Sherlock asks, no shame and she nods.
“Now, yes. Took a while,” she tells him. “You have to learn what to do during a nightmare. Never touch them, you learned that the hard way. I get up and say his name softly from the corner till he wakes up. Doesn’t take too long.”
She puts her tea cup down. “Then I get a glass of water so he has a minute to pull himself together. He doesn’t want me to see him like that, I understand. It’s not that he doesn’t trust me. He’s more vulnerable in that moment than he’ll ever be. He needs a minute. By the time I come back, he’s better. He drinks. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we go right back to bed. Depends how bad it was.”
“And panic attacks?” he asks and she gets up.
She teaches him breathing techniques. She teaches him how to roll out of a hold if John tries to strangle Sherlock in a nightmare. She teaches him how to hug without overpowering, how to silently call across the ocean. How to not push. He kisses her goodbye and tries not to cry on her shoulder. She gives him her cell-phone number and he promises to call.
He meets Brendan on the way out and the man studies him carefully before shaking his hand.
“You’re a very lucky man,” he says,” with a wife like that.”
“I know,” Brendan says and moves to ask who he is, but Sherlock is already gone, leaving Jane to explain.
After dinner, John climbs the stairs to his bedroom. Sherlock waits a minute before following him upstairs, toeing into bed. John stirs in his arms, not yet asleep.
“Not tonight Sherlock,” he says blearily, brushing black curls back. “I’m too tired.”
“I just want to hold you,” Sherlock says softly, just a whisper in the London silence.
John looks at him warningly. “Sherlock-“
“No,” Sherlock says with all the force Jane gave him. “I’m done sleeping in separate bedrooms. Now, teach me your favorite strongholds and we’ll figure out how I can get out of them.”
They don’t sleep but spend the night tussling in bed, Sherlock shrugging out of a chokehold, a tackle, a body slam, until John’s satisfied. Sherlock tries a kiss in one hold and John kisses him back and they snog as they wrestle, desperately hopeful.
Sherlock thinks to bring John on a case during a stream of suicides that hide as murders. John is better than Anderson, better than anyone, and they grin as they run from scene to scene. A Study in Pink, John calls it and Sherlock loves him.
John forgets his cane. John kills for him, for the first time but not the last. They shag on the living room floor in a haze of adrenaline and success, John’s mouth hot on his. John doesn’t dream.
He calls Sarah the next day to reduce his hours.
Sherlock tells him he has a talent with words. John tells him he has a wonderful muse. Sherlock lets himself hope.
“Come on, Sherlock,” John urges, pulling on a coat. “We should get going.”
Sherlock groans, putting on shoes. “Why do we have to visit in person? I’ve seen enough pictures of this baby to make a spreadsheet.”
John laughs. “Because, they made you godfather. You should see the baby.”
“That was their mistake,” Sherlock grumbles but he follows John into the cab and down to Molly’s flat.
Mike answers the door, grinning tiredly. “Hullo,” he says, hugging them both. “Molly’s inside with Lily. Come in; let me get your coats.”
Molly lies on the couch in a bundle of exhaustion and joy, a tiny creature in her arms. “Hey boys,” she smiles up at them. “So glad you could come say hi.”
“Bart’s is dismal without you,” Sherlock tells her and it’s the nicest thing he’s ever said to her. She grins.
John comes over and gazes down. “May I?” he asks and Molly gets up.
“Of course,” she says, gently sliding Lily into his arms and John cradles her, absolutely perfect. John turns around to face Sherlock, baby in his arms, and Sherlock knows he’s done.
“She’s adorable,” John coos, petting her head gently as she sleeps in his arms, all soft and warm.
“And a terror,” Mike laughs, squeezing Molly’s hand. “Cries like nobody’s business.”
Molly kisses Mike, heading down the hall to the bathroom, and Mike comes over to stand with John, watching his daughter in awe.
“Come see the baby’s room,” Mike gestures and John nods.
“Sherlock,” he calls and Sherlock freezes.
“I don’t think this is a good idea, John,” he says awkwardly, but John’s already placing Lily in his arms.
“Nonsense, it’s easy. Just make sure to cradle her head,” John instructs and follows Mike down the hall, leaving Sherlock and the baby alone.
He gazes down at this soft thing, the most vulnerable creature he’s ever seen. She lies hot against his chest, breathing out little puffs of air that tickle his face and make him unbearably happy for no reason.
“It’s only natural I should find you precious,” he whispers to her as he paces unthinkingly. “It’s your only survival technique.”
Lily snuffles like she’s agreeing and Sherlock suddenly wants more than he ever has in his life. And then Lily opens her eyes and bursts into tears, bawling loud enough to wake the neighborhood and Sherlock screams for John.
The rest of the adults coming running back in and Mike takes Lily, rocking her against his chest as she sobs. “She’s still not sleeping well,” he explains and John laughs at Sherlock’s horrified face.
“We’ll leave you to it, yeah?” John smiles, clapping his best friend on the arm.
Mike nods, smiling back. “Thanks for coming. We’d love to have you round for dinner once she’s a little less fussy and Molly’s back on her feet.”
“We’d love that,” John says and they hail a cab as Molly, Mike and baby Lily wave, or wail, goodbye.
In the cab, Sherlock plays with John’s fingers, running them through his own. “Would you ever want a baby?” he asks, unsure.
John laughs. “Bit biologically impossible, isn’t it? For us?”
Sherlock scoffs. “We’d adopt. Or use a surrogate.”
John leans against him, resting his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “We’re a bit broken to be parents, don’t you think? Me with my PTSD, you with your lack of understand of human emotions.”
“I think we’d be great parents,” Sherlock says into John’s hair and John squeezes his thigh, tracing patterns across the thin cotton.
“Maybe,” John says and Sherlock keeps it, giving it space in the memory palace. He keeps the memory of Lily’s soft breaths, like clouds, across his face. And he keeps the picture of John with Lily in his arms, holding her like he was complete.
John’s in the kitchen when he crumples to the floor, gasping for air. Sherlock doesn’t touch him, even though his body is screaming at him to. He directs John from across the room, instructing him in breaths, fast through the noise, slow out the mouth. He waits till John’s breathing steadies before he goes to the bathroom to get him water, giving him space.
When he comes back, he hands John the cup and John takes it gratefully, like a starving man. He drinks and slowly takes Sherlock’s hand, holding. It’s a start.
Sherlock takes him apart slowly. He kisses the fold of his elbow, runs his tongue up his forearm, bruised and marred even though it’s been four years. He kisses down his chest, licking at dusty nipples until their hard under his tongue, until John’s arching up into him, making soft begging noises.
He oils his hands and lets himself inside, stroking and stretching and smiling contently as John’s breath hitches, as he pushes himself onto Sherlock’s fingers, begging for more. Sherlock kisses his knee, kisses the inside of his thighs, memorizes him. Over and over again. He can draw John with his tongue, with his mouth. He doesn’t need to when he has his own John, live flesh and blood, in a pool of need beneath him, whimpering as he rubs his prostate.
“Want you-“ John gasps, “Inside me.”
“I am inside you,” Sherlock teases, leaning up to kiss John slow, tongue-fucking him into the pillow.
“Fuck- Sherlock-“ John groans, moans around Sherlock’s mouth. “Fuck me.”
“Ask nicely,” Sherlock laughs and John kisses him.
“Please fuck me, Sherlock,” he begs, eyelashes down, for a minute the same innocent teenager he once was, dirty words so wrong on his lips.
Sherlock loves it. “With pleasure.”
His teeth close on John’s shoulder as he slides inside and John mewls, like a kitten. “I love you,” he whispers against his open mouth and John mouths it back. He strokes John off in between them and watches as John’s eyes roll back and he comes, breathless against him.
Sherlock rides out John’s orgasm until he comes inside him, sobbing and letting John’s name tumble from his lips. A prayer, of sorts. The only prayer he’s ever believed him.
John holds him, gathering him in his arms, and they find their positions with ease, Sherlock’s head on John’s chest, arm around him, and John’s hand in his hair. He could be happy with this, he thinks, for a very long time.
“It’s our ten year anniversary,” John tells him over eggs. “On Wednesday. We should do something.”
Sherlock looks up. “God, we’ve been dating ten years?” he smiles, holding John’s hand across the table.
John laughs. “I know. I don’t feel 27.”
“You certainly don’t look it,” Sherlock growls, licking his lips, and John smiles. They have a few minutes.
“But yeah, we will do something right?” John asks as Sherlock slams him against the counter, working at his neck, giving something for the women at the clinic to stare at.
“Of course,” Sherlock promises, sucking at tanned flesh, and John moans against him, hips digging deeper.
That day, they take a case from none other than Sebastian, because Sherlock wants to relish the irony of the cold bully asking him for help.
“This is my friend, John Watson,” he introduces, shaking Sebastian’s hand.
“Partner,” John corrects with a smile and if Sebastian gazes too long at the hickey on John’s neck, he doesn’t say it.
And then they’re lost in a web of conspiracy and intrigue and John forgets about their anniversary plans until the morning of.
Sherlock kisses him awake. “Happy anniversary,” he smiles, arms wrapped around his sleeping solider.
John stretches. “Shite, we were supposed to do something nice,” he groans, kissing Sherlock back.
Sherlock grins, unbearably happy. “I invited some of our friends over tonight. I already cooked, last night while you slept.”
John blinks at him. “You mad bastard,” he grins, petting his cheek. “I adore you.”
“And I you,” Sherlock smiles, bounding out of bed. “Now get up so we can have shower sex and I can give you your present before our guests arrive.”
They come downstairs shagged out and dewy, dressed in comfortable and tight clothes respectively. John settles on the couch, holding a box in his hands.
“It’s not much,” he says and Sherlock takes the box, opening it. Inside sits a ring, white and worn, with a date scrawled in gold lettering.
“It’s a promise ring,” John explains. “I know you talked about getting married, and I want to. One day, when I’m a little less falling apart. But for now, that’s pretty close.”
Sherlock slips it on, the first piece of real jewelry he’s ever owned. “It’s perfect,” he promises, kissing John senseless. John moans happily into his mouth and dislodges him.
“I want to see my gift,” he orders and Sherlock nods, bounding upstairs and coming down with a canvas.
“I wasn’t sure what to get, you’re not very materialistic,” he excused, handing it over. “And you have enough jumpers to make a flock.”
“Oh, Sherlock,” John says, a tiny breath, as he holds the canvas.
There’s a pause as John stares at it, mouth open in surprise, and Sherlock watches him, unsure of what to do with his hands.
“I remembered you asked me once, when we were still kids, to draw the pictures I trace on your skin when we kiss,” Sherlock explained, suddenly nervous. “It’s not much-“
“Come here,” John says, voice hoarse, and he sets the canvas down. Sherlock comes, straddling him into the couch, and up close he realizes John has tears in his eyes, glistening traitorously.
“You are the most wonderful thing I have ever had,” he says, eyes earnest, and Sherlock wants to cry too.
“You’re the only thing I’ve ever had worth having,” Sherlock confesses, kissing him, and that’s enough. It’s more than enough.
They have the party at seven, and people clog their house. All these people Sherlock never remembered collecting. Sarah in the corner, holding a beer. Ms. Hudson bearing biscuits, followed by a helpful Cynthia. Greg and Mycroft, arms around each other’s shoulders, by the sofa. Mike and Molly, with Lily, now toddling along, between them. Sally and Anderson standing awkwardly in the kitchen, trying to be kind. Harry and Clara, rubbing Clara’s pregnant stomach in an armchair. Sherlock spots Jane, arm around Brendan, standing by the door and he waves. She blows him a kiss.
“Thank you all for coming,” John smiles at them, arm around Sherlock’s waist. “You are all the most important people in our lives and we’re so happy you’re here.
“We’re not going to gross you out with soppy love speeches,” he promises and the room laughs. “But if you’ll all permit me, I would just like to say I was a very broken teenager, and an even more broken man,” he smiles up at Sherlock, utterly earnest. “And this man loved me anyway.”
Sherlock kisses him, in view of everyone, and Lily claps her chubby hands, giggling madly. “You were never broken,” Sherlock whispers in his ear, “just interesting.”
“I am yours,” John promised, squeezing his hand.
“And I am yours,” Sherlock promised back, promise ring hot around his finger.
“Till death do us part.”
“Amen,” Sherlock grinned against John’s mouth and Lestrade coughed.
“Oi, but is there any cake?” he asked and Mycroft slapped his arm. And John laughed, leaning against Sherlock, and neither one felt much like letting go.