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They’d been walking, sharing a memory, laughing; a simple thing, a lovely moment, before it all went to shit...
Sherlock glanced up and stopped mid-sentence, his eyes glued to the stranger leant against their front door. There was a pause in his step, John noted, and they slowed their approach; John mirroring Sherlock’s steps, not yet understanding the reason.
John studied the stranger as they moved closer to 221b - a man, approximately their age, of Indian heritage most likely, with a neat queue of dark chestnut waves at his neck. It should have looked unnecessarily dramatic but instead gave the man an air of seriousness. His shoulders were broad, capping a still trim waist and slim hips. He was nearly a perfect match to Sherlock, if a bit taller, John noted as they stepped abreast.
Sherlock pointed his chin at the stranger’s cigarette and quipped, “Filthy habit.”
The man’s eyes met Sherlock’s and John’s heart started mourning before his brain caught up in understanding.
Before John could parse the ache in his chest, the pair were shaking hands, nearly hugging if John read their body language right.
“John,” Sherlock turned back to his flatmate, “this is Victor Trevor. My…”
His words trailed off, uncharacteristically hesitant. Something in John died that very moment.
Victor stuck out his hand and finished the lame attempt with, “An old friend from Uni. It’s an honor to meet you, John.”
They shook, firm and understanding. “Ah, yes, likewise,” he managed.
Sherlock gave Victor a soft smile, which John read as ‘Thank you for saving the awkward situation.’
“Are you in town for long?”
The man's gaze flickered to John briefly before answering. “Indefinitely, it seems.”
“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed, “American engineering isn’t what it used to be.”
Victor gave a slow smile. “Did you read that or have you been spying on me?”
Before Sherlock could answer, John pushed the door open and muttered an invitation for Victor to come upstairs. They filed into the sitting room, Sherlock rushing to make tea, leaving John and Victor to stare awkwardly about the room rather than at each other. John found himself vacillating between taking his chair and forcing Victor onto the couch or taking the high road and letting Sherlock and Victor sit together. What he truly wanted was to leave altogether but the curiosity was too much. Where had this man come from and why? Who was he really? And what was it about him that made Sherlock fidget like a man out of his element?
“Victor, have a seat,” Sherlock commanded. “I’m sure John would have offered if he wasn’t so distracted by last Sunday’s paper.”
John glanced away from the coffee table to catch Sherlock scowling at him. He scrunched his nose at that, as if John were the rude one.
The decision to sit was taken out of his hands when Sherlock brought the tea tray in and motioned for Victor to take John’s chair. The sight put John off the entire idea of staying to gather information in its entirety. So much for rising curiosity. This wasn’t like the horror show that was Janine as ‘The Girlfriend’. That had been wrong from the very beginning. This was different, it was Sherlock’s past come to the present, making John the outsider, the true interloper.
They were talking now, catching up, a light in Sherlock’s eyes speaking volumes. John had seen him sham before, this was genuine emotion. The words didn’t even matter, all that mattered was Sherlock laughing into his cup as Victor sat across, smiling shyly into his own.
John cleared his throat, terribly awkward but necessary considering neither had spared him a glance in minutes. “I’m, I, uh, forgot to do the shopping. I’ll just… uh, pop down. Leave you two to catch up. Be back in a bit.”
Sherlock waved a flippant hand without looking. “Fine. Bring back nibs.”
It was simple, walking out the door, making his way down to the street. What was harder was knowing anything could happen now that he wasn’t there to supervise. Sherlock had made it perfectly clear that he wasn’t needed to supervise, that he was more than alright with John leaving them alone.
Something John had always wondered - had Sherlock ever deduced the reason why he left the nails of his left hand a bit longer than the right? What it was to do with the tremor that wracked him in certain situations? It had started after his first deployment. There was a clarity in pain, something that he needed when outside the adrenaline of the theater of war. It was a simple thing, just the bite of his nails into the flesh of his palm to let him know he was there, to clear away the fog that obscured his vision when the world pressed in.
It was his first crutch. It wouldn’t be the last, but it was the only one that had stayed after all these years.
His nails left half-moon impressions in his palm as he strode away from the flat, his mind whirring at near Sherlockian speeds as he planned ahead. There were possibilities available, avenues open to him if he were brave enough, fast enough.
He fumbled for his mobile, dialing a number he was loath to call but needs must.
“John,” Mycroft crooned, soft as butter. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose as he moved away from the traffic of Marylebone. “I’m calling in that favour.”
Silence greeted him on the other end. Had he really surprised the great and powerful Mycroft Holmes?
“Mycroft?”
“I’m here. Just...adjusting my train of thought.” John could hear typing in the background. “Ah. Mr. Trevor is back, I see.”
John let his head land heavily against the stone edifice behind him. “Yeah.”
“And what, in particular, would this favour entail?”
His tone spoke volumes and John didn’t miss his meaning. “If I wanted him dead, not even Sherlock would find the body,” he growled. “I want access to the bug in our flat. And don’t pretend there isn’t one, I’m not stupid.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” the blighter drawled. “I assume you mean the one in the sitting room?”
John sighed. “I’m going to have to sweep my bedroom again, aren’t I?”
“Of course not. Your business is your own,” he said nice enough, but they both knew he really meant ‘I can live without knowing for the last three months you’ve groaned my brother’s name when you’ve climaxed.’ “Are you sure this is what you want? It’s not exactly on par with-”
“I know what I did. You know what I did. There’s no need to remind me.”
“I’m sensing some resentment, John. Do you want to talk about it?”
He chuckled. “Not with you. And even if I were allowed to talk about it with a therapist, I can’t trust a single one. No thanks to you either.”
“Well that’s just not true. You went back to Dr. Thompson prior your wedding to tell her you were having second thoughts-”
“Can you patch me in or not,” John snapped.
“Doing it now,” Mycroft informed him as he typed away. “And John, before I do,” John braced himself for unasked for advice, “when Victor Trevor entered Sherlock’s life, Sherlock briefly deleted rope tying.”
He blinked at the roadway. “What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”
It was Mycroft’s turn to sigh. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
John began to retort but suddenly Victor’s voice came through his speaker, tinny but understandable. He made sure his sound was as high as it could go and pressed the phone as tightly to his ear as possible regardless.
“It ended badly. He doesn’t like to talk about it but I think he’s on the mend.” Sherlock’s voice came in louder, clearer, telling John the bug was directly under his chair. Mycroft hadn’t even tried to hide it, the prat. Maybe that was the point; too obvious.
“Well, that’s good.”
“Oh?”
“What, oh?”
“What do you care if my flatmate moves on from his deceased wife?”
John flinched, realising they were talking about Mary. About his marriage ending. As far as John knew, Sherlock thought Mary had fled capture and been killed by one of Mycroft's men - the official story being that she and the baby had been killed in a drunk driving accident - but it was possible he knew the truth. John hoped not.
“Don’t be like that. I’m sympathising,” Victor said.
“Are you?”
John could just picture Sherlock sat in his chair, fingers at his temple, trying to work out Victor’s motives. At least he hoped so. For all John knew from listening in Sherlock could be flirting.
“Go on,” Victor snapped suddenly, “I know you can see it. Tell me about how my engagement fell apart when my company did. How he left as soon as the bank account hit six zeros instead of seven. Go on.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sherlock drawled. John longed to tell him how very much like his older brother he sounded.
“I don’t know what I thought I was doing, coming here. You obviously haven’t forgiven me, not really.”
“I said it was behind us, I meant that.” Sherlock went quiet, and John wished he’d called Mycroft sooner. It was obvious he’d missed something important. It stayed quiet for a long moment before Victor spoke up again.
“Do you know what my mother said right before she died? ‘You should go see Sherlock.’”
“She hated me.”
“Yes, she did. And that’s the bloody wisdom she chose to impart to me just as the cancer ate the last of her brain. Do you know what thinking you had died did to me? She did. She saw. Years had gone by and you still held sway, you bastard.”
“I… I am sorry, Victor.”
John had heard the words enough, but hearing them spoken to another nearly undid him. He’d have to choose to believe they were so easy to say now because Sherlock had had a hell of a lot of practice.
“Eh, you came back,” Victor said easily. “Of course you did.”
“So why come now? Why not then? Or before?”
“I had Aaron. You had John.”
A splinter wedged further into John’s chest.
“No,” Sherlock whispered, barely audible. “I never did.”
“No?” Victor asked, hope obvious in his voice.
John shook his head, not sure what he was denying anymore, to whom.
“No. Does that surprise you? Did you think we had been shagging the whole time he was married and living in Ealing?”
“I thought before… Or if I was too late, perhaps now.”
Nausea threatened to send John to his knees but he wouldn’t falter. He knew now that Sherlock had a past with this man, he needed to know if they had a future as well.
“Never,” Sherlock answered. “Not even once. Not even close.”
John stared off at the park in the distance. Not even close?
“Why not?”
It was a testament to the manufacturer's ingenuity that John’s phone didn’t shatter in his hand as he waited for Sherlock to answer. When none was forthcoming he very nearly launched it into traffic. He wanted to scream, to rend, to tear into Sherlock. Why not?! Why! Why him and not me?
Something had shifted in the silence, something John couldn’t see, because the next thing he heard, from startlingly near Sherlock’s seat, was Victor’s voice.
“Would it be the same, do you think, after all this time?” Sherlock didn’t answer Victor’s question. His next was even softer. “What do you say? Up for an experim-” The rest of the word was swallowed up in a moan, and John did throw his phone then, long and hard, into traffic.
He didn’t register anything again until he was well away, cradling his left hand to his chest and nearly tripping down the steps to the tube. It wasn’t the first time he’d lashed out in anger, possibly broken his hand. He flexed it as he pulled his wallet out to get at his Oyster Card. Maybe just a fracture. He was already mentally calculating how much money he had for a brace at Boots. He’d have to budget again, best get used to it now.
He sat as far away from the already light mid-afternoon traffic would allow and thought about how he’d have to pick up hours at the clinic again. Bloody mucus and boils. Beige walls and fighting neighbors. Empty blog posts and uneaten breakfasts. There was no where to go, no where that wouldn’t require him to explain, and since he couldn’t even bring himself to think about it, a rented room would have to do. At least until he could find something more permanent. Eventually he’d have to go back for his things. If he could stomach it for even a second.
I shouldn’t have been so happy today, he thought. I know the price by now.
He stayed on the tube, riding the same line back and forth, for a long time, possibly hours. Thoughts ran themselves ragged, back and forth as well. Planning for the near future, where to move, who to tell first, the friends he’d lose all over again. But more insidious, intrusive thoughts would work their way in. We’ve killed for each other, died for each other. He stole me an ashtray, taught me to dance, wrote me songs, said he loved me once.
I should have tried harder.
The line would be closing soon. The carriage had been empty for some time when a lone passenger got on and sat directly across from John. He knew who it was before he even sat, before the Yves Saint Laurent shoes slid out to nearly touch with John’s brown brogues.
“It took less than two minutes to track you down. Having trouble getting to the shop?”
John snorted. He didn’t glance up, couldn’t. “You could say that. How did you find me then?”
“Easy. Your mobile is in pieces on the corner, blood trail leading away from the starting trajectory, you dripped all the way onto the carriage. Unsanitary, Doctor.”
John smiled softly at their shoes but didn’t dignify that with a response.
“Come home. I’ll help you clean that up.”
Come home. Come home. Come home.
He did look up then. “Why?”
Sherlock stared right back, reading John like he’d always done. He settled back against the padded seat, an arm stretched out casually, a small, knowing smile curving one side of his lips. John wanted to knock it clean off.
“You fancy yourself clever, using Mycroft to spy on me. Did you never hear that old adage?”
“Eavesdroppers never hear well of themselves?”
“Mmm, I was going to say ‘Curiosity killed the cat’ but,” he shrugged casually, “you obviously didn’t like what you heard.”
“And you obviously don’t care what I think. What on Earth would lead you to believe I’d want to come back with you after that?”
If possible, Sherlock’s smile became even more smug. “Why would you care about anything you might have heard, John?”
John snapped, anger twisting his face and his words. “Stop it. You know perfectly well why. You’ve known all along. You must have done. You’re a bloody genius and I’m just a fool who leaves messes for you to follow. We’re past pretending you haven’t a clue about how I feel.”
For whatever reason, Sherlock seemed to think that was the height of hilarious. John nodded and stood, where he thought he was going to go he hadn’t a clue, he just needed to be away. A much larger hand than his own landed and held him down onto the stability bar above his head. John hadn’t even seen him move but suddenly Sherlock was looming over him, his breath puffing right into John’s face.
“You should have listened longer, you missed the best part.”
John blinked back angry tears as he attempted to pull his hand away.
“I kissed him. Did you get that far?”
“Stop this,” John begged, no longer caring how pathetic he sounded.
“I kissed him and then I told him he was an idiot for trying to use me and get away with it. Pathetic. And a bit morbid too really. Did you hear the part where he tried to use his dead mother to get into my pants? That’s got to be a new low, even for him.”
That certainly wasn’t the first time Sherlock had lost John, but it was possibly the surrealist.
“What?” He responded, a Watson Classic.
“He thought dating me would garner attention here in London, get his name back on the map as it were, to rebuild his empire here at home. A futile hope, since I’d ruined his family name nearly twenty years ago. And since he’d never have enough to entice me away...”
“Away from…” John blinked at Sherlock’s chin, unable to meet his eyes, afraid of what he’d see. “But why did you- You seemed so happy to see him.”
“I was.”
“Oh,” John frowned, “I see.”
“No, you don’t. You never have.” He lifted John’s chin with a finger, forcing him to meet his eyes. They were soft with affection, just as John was terrified they would be. “John Watson, making you jealous is very nearly one of my favourite things in the entire world. It ranks up on my list with ritualistic murder and tobacco ash.”
John knew his mouth had dropped open unattractively but he couldn’t seem to pull it shut.
“I never expected you to maim yourself and ponder moving out,” Sherlock admitted, pulling John’s injured hand to his own chest. “Bravo. One for the books.”
He stared at their clasped hands, Sherlock’s larger one cradling his smaller one, his thumb gently rubbing away the dried blood from his knuckles.
“I don’t understand,” he croaked out. “You, you… never said. You never…”
Sherlock mouth quirked again. “You would like me to explain? This all seems sudden to you?”
John nodded, feeling like an idiot all over again.
“John,” he started but stopped to move them down to the bench again, this time side by side, hands still clamped together. “Before you I was barely human and I didn’t care. After you, without you, I wasn’t human… and I did care. Very much.”
“You hate to care,” John pointed out.
“I used to,” he agreed. “I used to think I did. But you showed me a better way. Through you, I could see the point of it all. Being human, being kind, thoughtful, caring, selfless, brave. You did that, John. And instead of resenting you for making me care, all I could do was love you more. How is it that you don’t know? It should be as obvious as you are to me.”
John was shaking his head before Sherlock was even finished. In fact, it seemed his whole frame was shaking, each part of his body was vibrating or shivering or fidgeting.
“You can’t say things like that. You’ll crash the bloody train into a dead end. Or poisonous gas will disperse for no reason. Or the conductor will decide today is the day he wants to enact revenge on you for sending his wife to prison. Something.”
“Sounds like fun. What’s the wife done?”
He sounded so serious, as if he truly wanted John to play a game with him of make believe crime scene right then and there. John couldn’t take it, he burst out laughing and couldn’t stop.
The tension seemed to bleed out of his body and he was left with a smiling Sherlock, patiently waiting for the next step. John had seen that smile before. On the tarmac as they’d waited to say goodbye. Just before everything had gone tits up with Mary, and then Mycroft’s scheming.
“Oh, my god,” John breathed to himself. “You’re completely serious. This whole time?”
Sherlock nodded, looking thoughtful. “Very nearly. I wasn’t sure what it was at first. You’ve always been valuable to me, John, in one way or another.” He smiled at John’s less than thrilled frown. “But it wasn’t until I came back that I knew I’d lost the most valuable thing I’d ever been fortunate enough to find. That you still want me, want this, after all these years, all the mistakes I’ve made…” He shook his head in seeming amazement. “You are a miracle, John Watson.”
By god, the man was serious. “You are absurd. This is all completely absurd.”
“Calmus would say that may be true but it doesn’t mean we can’t still appreciate the beauty of it.”
“What?”
Sherlock grinned and then scared the ever living hell out of John by leaning in close. To his relief, possible dismay, he merely rested his forehead against John’s.
He then completed the reign of terror by saying, “What terrible thing would happen, do you think, if I kissed you right now?”
John started shaking again. “You remember that night I got pissed and tried to make you watch that American film with the sharks in the tornados? That, probably.” Sherlock came in close and John started babbling. “Or why stop there? Could cause bears to descend en masse from the upper troposphere. The Plague will take out more of Europe than it did the last time, this time with zombies. Giant bats could mmmmffffff-”
The rest of John’s what-if’s blended into a moan and he completely lost what was left of his mind, let alone his train of thought. The only thought left that survived the razing of his brain was, ‘Hell no, Sherlock Holmes does not get to be the one who seduces me.’ With that thought hanging on by a thread, he lunged, broken hand gripping Sherlock by his ridiculous coat collar to push him back, supine, onto the tube bench.
It was messy, their noses bumped more often than not, and it was incredibly wet for some reason, but John didn’t care. He hoped Sherlock didn’t care either. When he’d allowed himself to imagine it, he’d assumed Sherlock had never been truly kissed in his life, not like this. Now that he knew different he couldn’t help but worry, just a bit in the back of his mind. Mostly he just tried not to grind down on top of Sherlock like a sixth former.
“Are you crying?” Sherlock asked against John’s mouth.
“No,” he answered, “it must be you.”
They opened their eyes and blinked at each other. Apparently they were both crying. As two British men they silently agreed not to discuss it further and just continued to snog.
“Did you picture it happening like this?” Sherlock asked, nuzzling John’s cheek with his nose, moving to sniff and lick at his neck. It should have been weird but it wasn’t, it was Sherlock.
John shifted his weight to the side, off Sherlock’s chest, and breathed in the dark, herbal scent of his cologne. “No, of course not,” he finally answered. “It was going to be after a case.”
“In the sitting room, over a cup of tea.” Sherlock’s eyes glittered.
“You, in some ridiculous costume, seducing me in a dark pub somewhere.”
“In hospital after an injury, you berating me for getting myself hurt.”
“In Mrs Hudson’s kitchen, tied to her chairs until we agree to kiss and make-up.”
Sherlock laughed at that. “More likely than the rest.”
The carriage slowed, the end of the line. They stood, hand in hand, as the train slid to a stop and the doors opened.
“Ready?” Sherlock asked.
John smiled. “Oh, god yes.”