Chapter Text
After toweling each other off, they'd gone into their room and they'd stolen kisses as they settled in to bed. John sat with his back pressed against the headboard, the paperback novel he'd been slowly but surely working his way through in his hands. And Sherlock had stared at him calculatingly for a long moment before curling up on his side his with his head in John's lap. John hummed and stroked his finger through his curls. Eventually Sherlock pulled out his phone and started typing away at his blog.
John's eyes skimmed over the pages of his book and he reread the same sentences over and over, but he just couldn't focus. He was so happy. He tilted his book off to the side and looked down at Sherlock. After a moment, Sherlock twisted his neck to look up at John. “What?” he asked, a smile playing at the corner of his lips.
He wanted this for the rest of his life, wanted this man, this happiness, this completeness, for the rest of his life. John took Sherlock's hand in his and brought it to his lips. “Marry me,” he said. And it wasn’t a question, it was just a statement, casual as anything.
“What?” Sherlock asked, clearly taken off guard. He looked up at John his nose scrunching.
“Marry me,” John said again, equally calmly as though it were the most logical thing in the world because it was. “I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you,” he confessed softly. “I can’t imagine I ever will.”
“You said that once before,” Sherlock said with a goofy smile that John couldn’t help but return, “And then you went and got married to a woman.”
And it took a moment for the words to sink in, it took a moment for John to realize what Sherlock was saying, to place the time he’d said those words. It appeared Sherlock had realized at the same moment what he’d just let slip, his face drained of colour and his eyes got huge.
John had never said those words to the real Sherlock; he'd said them to a ghost.
John pulled back out of Sherlock’s arms and out of bed, his heart slammed against his rib cage and his brain screamed about lies.
“John,” Sherlock said pleadingly, sitting up and reaching toward him.
“What?” John said, his voice coming out sharp. “What can you possibly say to me? How long Sherlock? How many times did you come back to see me and pretend to be a ghost? How long did you watch me suffer and struggle?” John scooped up a pair of pajama trousers off the floor and pulled them over his hips. The betrayal was hot in his veins, his blood felt thick, pounding and rushing in his ears.
“I didn’t have a choice,” Sherlock said, his eyes huge, begging John to understand.
“You always have a choice,” John spat.
Sherlock looked wounded by that and John flashed back to the words Sherlock had said twice already this evening; there had never been any choice for him to make, there had only been John. “I came back five times over the course of nine months,” he confessed.
“Five times?” John asked incredulously. “Bloody hell. And you thought what? You just wanted to come back and fuck me to mess me up a little more about all of this? Those were the times you came back, right? You fucked me while you were here?”
Sherlock recoiled from him, from the volatility of his words, “That was never the intention with which I came back.” Sherlock looked away, “It hadn’t even occurred to me that it would be something you’d want until you kissed me.”
John bit the inside of his lip hard enough that he tasted blood, “Were you ever going to tell me?”
“Yes,” Sherlock said, his eyes widening. He wrapped the sheet around himself and climbed out of bed reaching out to touch John. John jerked back from him and Sherlock winced. He drew his hand back and tucked it under his sheet. “I’d wanted to tell you everything, the night I came back. I’d planned it all out,” he’d whispered. “I was going to tell you that I’d been real, that I’d come back to you to stay. I was going to tell you I hadn’t been able to live without seeing you when I was out in the world fighting. I came back to tell you I loved you,” he whispered, his eyes full of tears.
But tears didn’t phase John, this was complete insanity. How had this even happened? Why was he surprised? “So then what happened? The mustache threw you off and you forgot because you were too busy mocking my face?”
“You were getting engaged,” Sherlock said desperately. “You were getting married to a woman and I wondered if maybe I’d misjudged the situation. I wondered if maybe you’d only said and done those things because you thought it was all happening in your head. And honestly after how furious you were with me, even your friendship was a surprise. I was legitimately shocked that you saw me as your best friend and wanted me to be your best man.”
“So this is my fault?” John spat. “How is it that when the people I love lie to me I get blamed?”
“No,” Sherlock said in exasperation, “It’s not your fault. You had every right to be furious, every right to move on, I told you it was okay. This is all my fault, I just want you to understand why I didn’t tell you. I couldn’t. What could I have hoped to achieve by telling you I’d been real? You were in love with an amazing woman, a far better person than I am. All I wanted was your happiness, all I wanted was to know that you were okay, that you were loved.
“And maybe I would have told you after I’d been shot,” he continued, “Maybe then you were so unhappy that I thought maybe I could have made you as happy as she could. But you were going to have a child and how could I be that selfish? How could I make you choose between me and your wife and child? I didn't want to make you choose.”
John didn’t want to admit it, but it didn’t seem entirely irrational. “And once Mary died?” he prompted.
“Once Mary died,” Sherlock said and then broke off, he looked away at the corner of the room and swallowed, “Once Mary died I didn’t deserve you. Not that I ever have, really, but especially after that. I never thought we’d have that sort of future together. I never imagined that you might love me again. And after that, I was selfish and afraid,” Sherlock said earnestly. “I was afraid that if I told you the truth you would hate me. You’ve been lied to over and over by people who love you. I’d already told the lie, so what did it matter if I never confessed it, what was done was done it wouldn’t have changed anything.”
“I’m furious with you,” John said evenly.
“I know,” Sherlock replied.
“So, what exactly was the thought process here? Explain it to me,” John said coldly. “You’re a genius, Sherlock, an actual genius and you’ve made the study of human beings your entire life. You know what sex does to the brain, the bonding hormones it releases in the brain. How did you think coming back was actually going to help me?”
“I came when Mycroft told me you were struggling,” Sherlock said. “When something traumatic happened or when you hadn’t left the house for too long. We had a burner phone system in place just to monitor and communicate about you.”
“Great, so big brother was watching me,” John said, glaring at the other man.
“I only came when things were really bad. And after the first time, I knew you thought you were seeing my ghost anyways. If you were already seeing hallucinations what were a few more?” Sherlock asked. “I couldn’t stand seeing you struggle and do nothing.”
“How did you erase all evidence that you’d been here?” John asked, genuinely perplexed by that. “I’m a light sleeper and I always woke up with the flat exactly the same, in my pajamas just like I had been the night before, nothing was different. You would have had to clean up and you would have had to redress me, how could you possibly manage that while I was sleeping.”
Sherlock looked away and wrapped the sheet tighter around his body, he chewed on his lower lip and John braced himself. That look did not bode well. “You’re not going to like it,” Sherlock whispered.
“I don’t like any of this,” John spat. “It won’t change anything.”
“The water,” Sherlock whispered. “I drugged it.”
“You did what?” John asked, pursing his lips and clenching his hands into fists at his sides.
“Remember at your wedding, I told your guests that I would poison you if I ever decided to kill you? That’s what I did every time I came. I drugged you enough to knock you out so I could clean up the flat and erase all traces of myself.” He looked back at John, “You missed an entire Wednesday once,” he shook his head, “You didn’t even notice.”
“Yes, you said that at my wedding, too. But I wouldn’t have noticed then, would I? I was too busy grieving from the depth of my being for the man I’d loved more than life itself,” he spat.
“It gave your body time to recover and heal after I’d penetrated you,” Sherlock whispered. “It couldn’t feel like it had been more than your own fingers inside of you. You couldn’t know.”
“Why?” John snapped. “Why was it so bloody important to trick me?”
“I wasn’t trying to trick you, I was trying to protect you, I was trying to help you,” Sherlock said, his voice and face pleading with John to understand. “They would have killed you if they knew I was alive, I couldn’t put you at risk that way,”
“It was too much risk for me to know,” John said incredulously, “So you just thought, what the hell, I’ll go back and fuck him even though they, whoever the fuck they are, were probably watching me and Mrs. Hudson.”
“I was exceedingly careful,” Sherlock said. “I would never have come if I thought someone would see me. I would never have let them hurt you.”
“Right,” John said, his voice short and tight. He felt hot, and his chest felt too tight, too small. “How long? How many times did you come to see me?”
“Five,” Sherlock confessed softly. “The first time was three days after I fell, the last time was the night you told me you were letting me go.”
“How am I supposed to just let this go?” John asked in a clipped tone.
“I don’t know,” he whispered. Sherlock paused, unconsciously wrapping the sheet tighter around his body, "I couldn't tell you the truth at the time because they were watching you and they would have killed you if they'd known I was alive. But I hated seeing what I'd done to you and I couldn't leave you to struggle through it alone. And clearly I miscalculated. I thought your forgiveness granted during your mourning would have extended when I was alive."
"I forgave you for killing yourself," John clarified, his voice coming out like steel. "I had to forgive you for lying about it, for letting me mourn so you could have an adventure." John shook his head, "Now you expect me to forgive you for watching me mourn and suffer and struggle and doing nothing about it."
"I couldn't!" Sherlock exclaimed, his own frustration finally boiling over the surface. "What would you have had me do? Tell you and sentence you to death? Sentence Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade to death?"
"You should have told me," John said bluntly. "Taken your chances that I could have acted like I was grieving. You could have faked my death too. No one would even have been surprised if I killed myself. It's not as though I didn't think about it."
Sherlock visibly winced like John had hit him, "I know," he said, and then he looked at John. "Do you think it was easy for me?"
John threw his hands in the air, "How should I know? You seemed pretty nonchalant when you flounced into that restaurant."
“I came ‘flouncing,’ as you put it, into the restaurant because I thought I was coming to meet my best friend and the love of my life, I thought I was coming to tell the person who had prayed for just one more miracle that it had been granted. I thought you were going to be happy, I thought I was finally getting my life back. I thought that my dreams, everything I’d ever wanted, were going to come true. Of course I was happy.”
Before John could speak, Sherlock continued, "But if you think that didn't haunt me, if you think that didn't terrify me and break my heart; you're wrong. If you think lying to you wasn't the hardest thing I have ever had to do, you're wrong. If you think I didn't want you by my side every single moment of every single day you're wrong. If you think," Sherlock paused his voice catching and breaking. He took a shuddering breath, "If you think it didn't feel like I was tearing a piece of myself out every time I got out of this bed and left you here, you're wrong."
"But not enough to convince you to tell me the truth," John said stubbornly. "You could have brought me with you."
"Ugh," Sherlock groaned and a hand came up to tug at his curls in frustration. “No I couldn’t,” he said bluntly, all pretense that he was begging for forgiveness gone. “We’re talking in circles. You knowing would have put you and everyone I love in danger. I couldn't risk it, I couldn't put you in danger like that. It was hard enough to get myself over the borders I had to and to get myself in and out of the facilities. And the places I had to go, the things I had to do,” Sherlock paused, his eyes far away for a moment before he shook his head, “It was dangerous. I wasn't even sure my death would have been a lie by the time it was over."
"You came back pretty unscathed for how dangerous you're making it out to be. I've been in dangerous places and I came back with a bullet wound and a limp," John said.
"Unscathed?" Sherlock said incredulously. Then he turned around and let the sheet drop, showing John the raised scars that ran in jagged patterns across this back. "Is this what you called unscarred? Where do you think these came from? Did you think my parents beat me as a child? Did you think I whipped myself like some pious monk? These scars are for you. I was hunted and I was beaten, I was in danger every day. And honestly, I would do it again; I would face the danger, and the pain, and the terror in a heartbeat if it meant I could keep you safe.”
"I-" John started and stopped himself. "What?"
Sherlock pulled the sheet back up and covered himself as he turned around, "Did you think I just went skipping off and waltzed my way through Moriarty's web?” he spat. “Did you think it was easy for me? Did you think me leaving you here knowing what I did to you, knowing how I’d” he paused, clearly searching for the right word, “Broken you was easy for me? What must you think of me, John Watson?"
John said nothing, he wasn’t really sure how to respond when Sherlock framed it this way.
“You said you loved me,” Sherlock said softly. “But how can you when you think I’m such a monster? How can you possibly love someone who would put you through that without a thought? Who could drag you through horrific loss without guilt and shame and grief? How can you love someone who you think would do all of these things to you?” He shook his head and took a deep breath, "I know what I did was terrible," he said, his voice soft. "I don't know how you found it in your heart to forgive me. I know I hurt you and I know you suffered. But I don't know how you can imagine that it was easy for me."
"Come here," John murmured, realizing for the first time how hard this must have been for the other man.
"No," Sherlock said, crossing his arms over his chest.
"No?" John said incredulously. "Why not?"
"Because if I come over there you're going to hit me," Sherlock replied stubbornly.
John laughed and the sound surprised even him, “I can’t even blame you for thinking that.” John moved toward him and Sherlock watched him warily. John took the edges of the sheet in his fingers and drew Sherlock toward him until he could wrap his arms around the other man. “I’m still mad at you,” he murmured. “But I’m sorry for reacting the way I did, I’m sorry for never thinking about you.”
Sherlock leaned his head on John’s shoulder and leaned his body against John’s, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he whispered.
“So the first time you came back was when I was sleeping in your bed, real or not real?” John asked.
“Real,” Sherlock said.
John slipped his fingers under the sheet and stroked his hands along Sherlock’s arms. “The time you gave me a handjob in the loo at the yard, real or not real?”
Sherlock snorted, “Not real. Although that is a fantasy we could live to see happen.”
John thought back trying to remember the other times Sherlock had visited him, “The day that I went around digging into your death; I talked to Molly and countless numbers of your homeless network. You came and made me admit that you weren’t there. Not real, right?”
Sherlock shook his head against John’s shoulder, “Real,” he whispered.
“You lied to me outright,” John said, feeling his heart twist in his chest. “More than that, you made me doubt everything. You made me say it, you made me tell you that I knew you were dead.”
“Mycroft called me in a panic because you were bound and determined to find someone who knew something. He thought you could buy the members of the homeless network.”
“That was awful,” John murmured.
“I know,” Sherlock replied equally softly. “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t let you figure it out.”
“You were terrible to me that day,” John remembered. “I cried until I felt sick.”
“I know,” he whispered. “I had to protect you.”
He took a deep breath and forced himself to move on, “What about the time you showed up in the doctor’s office I work for, told me you liked Mary? You wanted me to be happy?” John murmured.
“Not real,” Sherlock said. “Although I do in fact want you to be happy and I do like Mary.”
“Were you in the flat before or after my interview? Did you tell me when I was ready to move on that it would be okay?”
Sherlock shook his head, “Not real.”
“What about the time I had the gun in my hand and was thinking very seriously about killing myself?” John murmured and Sherlock shuddered against him. “Real or not real?”
“Real,” Sherlock whispered. “Mycroft called to tell me you hadn’t left the flat in weeks, you weren’t eating according to what Mrs. Hudson told a bridge club. When I got there I almost told you, it was the closest I ever came to telling you I was alive. There would have been no point in anything if you were gone when I got back. I saw the gun in your hand and I’ve never been so afraid as I was in that moment.”
“Did you drop a flower pot on that human trash can?” John asked, remembering that night in the alley.
“Yes,” Sherlock said. “You’re damn lucky I was dismantling an arm in London that night and not Belgium or something. Mycroft had said they brought you in to interview you about me. It hadn’t gone well.”
“I was bloody furious with Lestrade,” John muttered. “Logically it makes sense now but at the time he seemed so complacent.”
“You were furious with everyone,” Sherlock replied softly even as he nuzzled his nose against John’s neck like a cat. John loved it when he did that.
He scratched his fingers through his curls but froze when he realized that if Sherlock had been real then, he’d also probably been real that night in his bed, John groaned in mortification. “You let me tie you up and hit you; real or not real? Please tell me it wasn’t real.”
Sherlock hummed low in his throat, “Oh, that was definitely real,” he murmured silkily. “We could revisit that any time you’d like.” Sherlock rubbed his face against John’s neck and collarbone, “How angry are you right now?”
“Really?” John asked incredulously, “That did it for you?”
Sherlock groaned and nodded, “You didn’t hurt me, not really. And you were worried every second that you were, how many times did you ask me if it hurt?” Sherlock asked curiously. “Half a dozen at least.”
“I was asking because I wanted it to hurt you,” John confessed, feeling a great sense of shame wash over him.
“No you didn’t,” Sherlock said softly. “ You would have backed off the moment I said you were actually hurting me you and we both know it. You wanted me to be in pain but you wanted it to be the kind of pain that goes hand in hand with pleasure.”
John sighed and stroked his hands along Sherlock’s back, “You let me stick my cock in you with nothing but lotion.”
Sherlock shrugged, “It was fine, you inspected my body yourself afterward. You know I was fine.”
John shook his head, “I never would have done those things if I’d known you were real.”
“Well, don’t preclude them from our future. As I recall, you also offered to get dressed up in your old army uniform and order me about.”
“I didn't say anything about my old army uniform,” John said with a laugh and a rueful shake of the head.
“Pity, my mind must have supplied that part,” Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. “I’d be more than willing to give that a go too.”
“You’re incorrigible,” John said.
Sherlock hummed, “It’s entirely your fault.”
“The time you came and told me my hair was sexy because it was greying before you sucked my cock, real or not real?" John asked. "Though we've already gotten to five so it mustn't be real. Pity."
Sherlock pulled back to look at John then, quirking an eyebrow in amusement. “Not real. Although I do love what you’ve done with your hair the past few years, you parted it to the other side, use a little extra product.”
“You told me to part it to the other side, ironically,” John said. “Before my interview.”
“Yes, well it’s good to know I’m always right, even inside of your head.” Sherlock hummed and slipped a hand out of his blanket to stroke his fingers through John’s hair. “I do like the grey, I think,” he murmured softly.
John laughed, “You look the same as the day we met,” he murmured brushing his fingers through Sherlock’s curls.
“That’s not true,” Sherlock said. “Every time I live with you, I get fat.”
John burst into giggles, “No you don’t. You’re ridiculously scrawny.”
“I’m not, I’ve gained anywhere from ten to twenty pounds when you move in again,” Sherlock said.
“Good,” John said. “I’m still pissed at you.”
“I know,” Sherlock said. “I don’t blame you.”
“How recent were those scars when you came home?” John asked suddenly, remembering how Sherlock had winced when he put on his coat the night he’d come back. He’d thought at the time that John had been the one to injure him.
“Ah, quite recent,” Sherlock replied, glancing away then. “The day prior, it was the last leg. I’d gotten a bit careless. I wanted to come home,” he looked up at John, “I’d missed you terribly, believe it or not. And after I’d told you letting go of me was alright visiting you wouldn’t have been fair. And I knew you were alright, I knew you’d gotten through the worst of it.”
“Sherlock I beat the hell out of you that night,” John remembered.
“Yes,” Sherlock said easily and without any trace of grief at the fact.
“I probably split open those wounds on your back,” John said, feeling slightly nauseous.
“Ah, yes,” Sherlock replied. “But it’s alright. I deserved so much worse.”
“No, you didn’t. I’m such a monster,” John murmured his chest feeling tight.
“Look at me,” Sherlock said, reaching out and taking John’s hands. “It’s alright. I forgive you, I never held it against you, any of it. I’m fine, it’s all fine.”
“We’re so ridiculously fucked up,” John murmured.
“Yes,” Sherlock agreed gently. “But I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Come back to bed,” Sherlock whispered, looking insecure but hopeful. “Just stay,” he begged. “Don’t run from this, from us, and I’ll spend the rest of our lives making it up to you.”
“No more lies,” John said softly.
“No more lies,” Sherlock agreed. “Never again.”
“Not so much as a surprise birthday party,” John said, stepping in close to Sherlock and wrapping his arms around the other man’s waist.
Sherlock laughed, “Alright,” he agreed.
“Now,” John said as he unwrapped Sherlock from the sheet and stripped himself out of his pajama bottoms once again. “I do believe I asked you a question.” He pressed Sherlock into bed and then climbed in himself, covering their bodies with the sheet before straddling Sherlock’s hips and pressing his lips to the other man’s. “I’m quite keen on an answer.
Sherlock stared up at him, “I’ve answered all your questions,” he said. “It was only those times-” he started.
John cut him off, “No,” he said, not that question. “I asked you to marry me.”
Sherlock stopped breathing and stared up at John, “I,” he started, then broke off, “What?”
“Marry me,” John said. “All of this from the man who hates repeating himself. This is the fourth time you’ve made me ask you tonight.”
“Well, technically the only time you asked was the third, the rest were just a statement,” he said.
“Do you need roses?” John asked. “Did you want me to take you to dinner at a fancy restaurant? Get down on one knee?”
“Maybe,” Sherlock replied, grinning up at John.
“We could make it a game,” John suggested. “See how many places I can propose in to you before people start catching on. I bet loads of places give you free cake when you get engaged in their restaurant.”
Sherlock laughed, “Yes, I’ll marry you.” He cupped John’s cheek in one hand, “Of course I will.” He leaned up and pressed his lips to John’s. “I don’t need anything but you.”
And Sherlock was true to his word, he never kept another secret from John; not even the ones Rosie begged him to as she got older. It wasn’t always perfect, but it was honest and it was all either of them would ever need.